#it's one way to get motions passed i guess...

[kvntonq]

𖤐 — not to me

pairing - old man logan ft. human!reader

summary - he says he doesn't deserve you, you remind him he doesn't get to decide that.

contents - protective!logan, a bit angst (typical logan), hurt & comfort, fluff, established relationship, brief mention of harassment.

words count - 1279 words

zayn's note - just wanna try writing angst a bit, well it's not fully angst but it's there. enjoy your reading lovelies!! <3

It was raining sideways the first time he saw you.

Some no-name town off a backroad in Texas. He'd stopped for gas, blood dried on his knuckles and too much noise in his head. You were out back behind the diner, hunched beside a busted-down car, cussing it out like it'd personally betrayed you.

He would've kept walking. He usually did. But something made him pause. Maybe it was the way you didn't flinch when he approached—just glanced up, squinted at him through the rain.

"Got a stare problem or are you gonna help?"

He didn't say anything, just shrugged off his coat, crouched beside you, and wordlessly started to work. Hands covered in grease, rain dipping from his nose, he expected silence.

Instead, you talked. Not about the car, but about music. Weather. How thankful you are for stumbling onto him in the rain. The kind of small, easy things no one asked him about anymore.

"You a mechanic?" you asked at one point.

He shook his head. "No," he replied gruffly, voice husky and deep.

"You're good with your hands."

And that made him look up. You didn't say it like a flirt. Just a fact and that threw him more than it should've.

The engine turned over ten minutes later. You grinned, all teeth and rain and relief.

"Guess I owe you a drink. The bar is alredy closed but I would make an excepton for you."

He should've said no. But he didn't.

That night, he followed you to the bar, silence and awkward. You slid him a beer and didn't ask questions. Not about the scars. The limp. The name he didn't offer.

You just sat there. Two ghosts passing time.

He left afterwards. But a week later, he came back.

Didn't know why then.

He did now.

The place was already buzzing when Logan slipped in.

He never liked the crowds—too loud, too many smells, too many hands reaching for things they didn't need. But he came anyway. Sat in the far corner, nursing a beer that'd long since gone warm. Watching you behind the bar, moving fast, smiling soft. That smile wasn't for him tonight—but he didn't mind. You were in your element. You always looked good in motion. Like the worlds couldn't touch you when you were working. Like you belonged there, even if he never felt like he belonged anywhere.

Until they showed up.

Three men—local drunks, loud and handsy. The kind who thought a tip gave them permission to linger, leer and make you uncomfortable. You dealt with it most nights. You were tough. Handled creeps like breathing. But tonight... they pushed it.

The tall one leaned over the bar, eyes too slick, voice slurred. "C'mon, sweetheart. Don't act like you don't like the attention."

You gave a tight smile. "I like respect. Think you got any of that back in your truck?"

His buddies cackled. He didn't. Instead, his hand slid over the bar—aiming for your wrist.

That's when you saw Logan stand.

You tried to wave him off, just a small shake of your head, but it was too late. The drunk grabbed your arm.

"Let go," you said, voice steel beneath the honey.

"Make me," he sneered.

And Logan moved.

One second he was across the room. The next he had the guy's arm twisted behind his back, face shoved into the sticky wood of the bar. The other two barely had time to register before Logan's claws snikted out, gleaming cold and sharp by the man's throat.

"Touch her again and you'll lose more than your drink."

His voice wasn't loud but the bar went silent. One of those silences that rang like a church bells in your chest.

The man whimpered. His friends scrambled. And Logan let him go—barely. You'd never seen a man soil himself out of fear until that night.

And you never looked away from Logan. His hands trembled. Like he wasn't actually aware of his reactions just now.

Later, Logan drove back in silence, jaw tight, knuckles white on the wheel. You didn't dare to say anything. You knew that look. Not rage. Not exactly. Just the old, heavy kind of guilt that sat in his bones like rust.

Now, he sat at the edge of the bed, brooding himself. You knelt in front of him, gently tugging his hands into yours. He flinched at first, but didn't pull away.

“Logan,” you said softly. “They started it.”

“I finished it like an animal,” he muttered. “You saw how they looked at me. Like I was a damn freak.”

You squeezed his hands, gently but hard enough to feel his presence. “You stopped them before they hurt me. That's not being a freak. That's being good.”

“Good,” he echoed, bitterly. “I don't even know what that means anymore. I scare people, sweetheart. I lose control. I've killed more men than you've met in your life.”

“And every time you've laid a hand on me? You've been gentle.” You looked up at him, hands cupping his face, forcing him to look at you. “Every time I've needed you, you showed up. Even when you didn't want to.”

He went quiet. His eyes looked too old, too tired. Like he'd been carrying the world too long and no one had offered to take even an ounce of the weight.

“You're not a monster to me, Logan. Not tonight. Not ever. You're the man that I fell in love with.”

That broke something in him. Not loud. Not messy. Just a quiet, unraveling breath as he leaned into your touch. He didn't move at first. Just stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, like breathing near you helped keep the darkness at bay. His hands rested on your waist, tentative, unsure—like he was afraid even now he'd break something.

You didn't pull away either. 

“You okay?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Am I ever?” he replied, half a smirk, half truth.

You gave him a look. “Be serious.”

“I am.” He let out a breath. “You ever think I'm just too damn far gone for this? For… for us?”

You shook your head instantly, thumbs rubbing his cheek. “No. Not once.”

His brows knitted, guilt sinking deeper into his eyes. “You saw me tonight. What I'm capable of. That didn't scare you?”

“What scares me the most is the idea of a world where you didn't come for me.”

He stared at you, unmoving. Torn between self-loathing and something that looked like love—raw, old, too big for a man like him. Like it didn't know how to live inside him without tearing him apart.

So, you kissed him.

Soft. Familiar. Gentle in the way people only kiss when they already know each other—when it isn't about proving anything, just being with someone who makes the darkness feel less heavy.

He breathed into it, forehead resting against yours once again when you pulled back.

“I don't deserve you,” he whispered. Like always, like that was the only thing he had known to say whenever you were here.

“Good thing you don't get to decide that. I chose you back then and I will always choose you.”

And for the first time that night, he let out a soft laugh—hoarse and rough, but real. Like it hurts to let it out. But it healed something anyway.

Later, you lay curled up together under the thin blanket. Logan didn’t sleep much. He never did. But he held you close, one hand resting against your back, your steady breathing lulling the storm in his chest.

You didn't need to fix him. You just needed to be there.

And you were.

that's it guys!! i hope you enjoy your reading!! give me your thoughts, feedbacks on this!! reblogs are appreciated too <3 till we meet again, then!

tags!! @princessanglophile @wchswift @briseroyawritingsblog @howlettsangel @dimlylittorch @themareverine @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks @loganismybodyguard [lmk if you wanna be added or removed from the taglist!!]

[monstersflashlight]

Commission for Vamp

Tail pulling and squeals

Ambrose (minotaur) x fem!reader || sfw, funny and fluffy, teasing

Reader POV

You’ve been friends for what feels like forever, but in reality is not that much. But it feels like it, it’s like you and Ambrose connect in a way that you never experienced before, like he gets you in ways are completely new and unexplored… and you are probably just really fucking in love with the big minotaur.

Ambrose is grabbing some snacks when Brick looks at you with a glint on his eyes that always speaks of mischief. But lucky for him, you are on board for some good mischief and a few pranks if they aren’t harming anyone.

“You know what would be suuuuper funny?” Brick says with a conspiratory smirk.

You look at him, confused by his question. You already thing his words are suspicious, but you ask anyway: “What?”

“If you pulled Ambrose’s tail,” he says with a smirk that promises trouble.

“Wouldn’t that hurt him?” You ask sincerely.

You don’t want to hurt Ambrose in any way possible. More like you want the opposite, you want to bring him all the pleasure possible. But you aren’t about to tell him that, because you are still sure your feelings are one-sided, and you value his friendship more than anything else. He’s rapidly becoming your best friend.

Brick shakes his head very slowly, trying to bite back a smile but failing miserably as the corners of his lips turn up against his tusks. “Nope. Minotaur tails are like your hair, if I pull at it you don’t really feel pain, do you?” He leans forward and grabs your short hair, pulling lightly and making you press your tights together. F

“Not exactly…” You say with a choked breath, the pull at your hair sending other kinds of sparks down your back.

Not exactly pain sparks, more like very horny sparks. But you guess not everybody is like that. Most people probably just feel a bit of pain and maybe let out an undignified squeal. That would be indeed fun. uck. You weren’t even aware that you had such a strong reaction to hair pulling. That’s to be explored later...

“It will be funny, I promise. It’ll make him jump and maybe even let out a squeal, you’ll see.”

You don’t trust his words, so you do what anyone would do, you turn around to look at Poppy, who is watching you two carefully. “Is he telling the truth?” You ask her.

“He’s not wrong. You’ll def get a reaction,” she says. If you were thinking a bit more carefully you would have realized her words were weirdly phrased, but you don’t think too much of it at the moment.

So self-assured that you weren’t going to hurt him and would probably just be a funny moment for you all, you decide to do it. You walk into the kitchen with the excuse to grab a drink. Ambrose motions for the fridge as he keeps humming and cutting some fresh veggies for the salad he’s making.

He’s in the middle of the isle, which means you have to pass behind him to get to the fridge, and that means you get full sight of his back. His tail is slowly moving behind him, so very tempting with the little tuff of hair at the end that makes it look so cute you can’t stop yourself even a second longer. You reach out and pull… hard.

The second you pull at it, you hear the knife hitting the marble counter-top as he lets out a groan that can rival the ones of porn-actors. Your brain instantly short-circuits. The way he sounds when he moans, oh goddess, your pussy has never gotten so wet, so fast.

You are so embarrassed you can’t do anything but to apologize under your breath as you walk out of the kitchen and hide in the bathroom until your body calms down enough to get back to the living-room. Which is an embarrassingly long time.

Ambrose POV

The second your hand pulls, he groans. It’s completely involuntary and it’s followed by a squeal and the muffled laughter of his (now former) best friends who are looking at you two from the door. He barely registers it as he turns around just to hear your tiny apology as you run out of the room with your face flaming red. As red as his own. Fuck. He did just moan out loud in front of you… Good goddess, he’s never going to live that one down.

“I’ll go get her,” Poppy says, always so nice (lie) as she slithers away, the barely hidden laughter following her.

He finishes the salad with trembling hands as he shoots daggers to Brick every chance he gets. His (former) best friend is still chuckling under his breath as he steals a baby carrot from the counter. He’s about to snap at him when you walk back in the kitchen, followed by Poppy. You don’t say anything, and neither does he.

“The salad is ready, let’s play some DnD,” he simply says, too embarrassed to admit he’s still carrying a semi.

The tension in the room dissipates as you play, the voice of Brick (weirdly enough the DM) lulls everyone into a sense of comfort and soon you are all immersed in the game. Well, not all of you, because Ambrose can still feel the phantom touch of your hand against his tail, his dick twitching every once in a while, not letting him forget how good it felt to have your hands on him.

By the time the game ends, you are yawning and Poppy offers to drive you home. You hug Brick and then you turn around to hug him. He has to turn his body lightly to the side so you can’t see (nor feel) the way his dick is still hard after you pulled that stunt. Poppy smirks as she slithers away next to you, talking animatedly to her as she nods softly.

As soon as the door closes, he’s turning around and facing Brick with a threatening finger: “How could you?”

“What?” Brick is clearly trying not to laugh again. Ambrose wants to hit him with a chair (metaphorically).

He pushes Brick’s chest lightly. “Why would you tell her to pull at my tail?”

He tries really hard not to blush, but the reminder of you touching his tail sends something akin to aftershocks down his spine. Again. Fuck, he feels his balls so full, as if his dick is about to burst. He’s still supporting a semi.

“I just told her it would get a funny reaction, and it did,” Brick says, letting out a bark of laughter.

Ambrose frowns, stepping back and grabbing his jacket. “You are a jackass.”

“Why are you so mad? I got your little pet-mate to touch your very sensitive tail!” He lets out with another round of laughter. He’s wheezing, and Ambrose would feel very murderous if it weren’t for his dick being so fucking hard still.

Ambrose stares at him for two seconds and then deadpans: “You know what? I’m getting muffins tomorrow, and eating them with the human running the shop… who hates you.”

“Low blow dude!” Brick yells as Ambrose lets out a chuckle.

He flips him off and walks away. Now he has to get home and jerk himself off until he’s satisfied, and he doubt’s that going to be short because he can still feel your fingers around his tail and his lower back tingling with the pleasure of it. Fucking Brick.

[deceptibots]

"Can’t Sleep Without You" - Ratchet x Reader

“Too bad, you need to sleep here now. I can’t seem to sleep without you anymore.”

Prompt by @/creativepromptsforwriting 

Pairings -> Ratchet x Y/N

Warnings -> None

Genre/Theme -> fluff, teasing

Note -> n/a

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The med bay was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of monitors and diagnostic equipment. You sat perched on a crate, your knees pulled up to your chest as you watched Ratchet finish his nightly maintenance. He didn’t need to do it every night, but you knew it gave him something to focus on when the base was too quiet.

“You know,” you said, breaking the silence, “it’s kind of unsettling how you can just keep going without ever needing to sleep. Don’t you get tired?”

He glanced at you, his optics flickering. “Cybertronians don’t need sleep the way humans do. Rest cycles are sufficient for our systems.”

“Yeah, but you don’t even rest,” you pointed out, stretching your legs out in front of you. “You just keep working until something breaks—whether it’s you or the equipment.”

His optics narrowed slightly. “I’m perfectly functional, Y/N.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, smirking as you hopped off the crate and walked over to him. “What about mentally? Emotionally? You ever give that a break, Doc?”

Ratchet sighed, his servos pausing mid-motion as he turned to face you fully. “I don’t need you psychoanalyzing me at this hour.”

“It’s not psychoanalyzing,” you said, grinning as you leaned against his workstation. “It’s called concern. You know, that thing people feel for other people when they care about them.”

“I’m aware of the concept,” he replied dryly, though the faint flicker of something softer passed through his optics.

“Good,” you said, crossing your arms. “Because I’m concerned that you’re going to work yourself into the ground.”

He huffed, turning back to his tools. “You’re relentless.”

“And you’re stubborn,” you countered, stepping closer. “So, I guess we’re even.”

You reached out, resting a hand lightly on his arm. The motion made him pause, his optics flickering toward you again. “Seriously, Ratchet,” you said, your tone softer now. “You need to take a break. Just… shut down for a little while. Recharge. I promise the world won’t end if you’re not working for five minutes.”

He studied you for a moment, his frame relaxing slightly. “And what about you?” he asked. “You’re still awake, too.”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one holding this place together,” you said with a small smile. “I just can’t sleep.”

“Why not?” he asked, his tone curious but cautious.

You hesitated, your gaze dropping for a moment before you met his optics again. “Because you’re not there,” you admitted quietly.

Ratchet blinked, his servos stilling completely. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that I’ve gotten used to you being nearby,” you said, laughing softly. “And now, when I try to sleep somewhere else, it just… doesn’t feel right.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness.

“Maybe,” you said, shrugging. “But it’s true. So, too bad. You need to sleep here now. I can’t seem to sleep without you anymore.”

His optics widened slightly, his frame stiffening as if he didn’t know how to process your words. “Y/N, that’s—”

“Sweet?” you interrupted, grinning. “Adorable? Completely unexpected from someone as grumpy as you?”

He groaned, dragging a servo down his faceplate. “I was going to say ‘unnecessary.’”

“Too bad,” you said, stepping back and crossing your arms. “You’re stuck with me now. Deal with it.”

Ratchet sighed heavily, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here I am,” you said, smirking.

He glanced at you, his optics softening slightly. “I suppose there are worse humans I could be stuck with.”

“Was that a compliment?” you asked, feigning surprise.

“Don’t push your luck,” he muttered, though the faint flicker of amusement in his voice didn’t go unnoticed.

When the silence stretched out between you again, it wasn’t awkward or tense. Instead, it was warm, filled with unspoken understanding. You sat back down on the crate, leaning against the wall as you watched him work.

“Seriously, though,” you said softly, your eyes starting to drift shut. “Don’t stay up all night. The base needs you. I need you.”

He glanced at you, his frame stilling for a moment before he turned back to his tools. “I’ll rest. Eventually.”

“Good,” you murmured, already half-asleep. “Because I sleep better when you’re here.”

As your breathing evened out, Ratchet turned to look at you again, his optics dimming slightly. For a long moment, he stood there, silently watching you sleep.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered under his breath, though the warmth in his tone betrayed the words.

Finally, he set down his tools, his frame relaxing as he leaned back against the wall. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but he found himself agreeing with you: it was easier to rest with you nearby.

[nanamisgirly]

˖ 𑣲 reblogs and comments are always appreciated ma girliies <333

part.1 part.3 part.4

virgin!nerdjo barely got the tip inside you before white-hot ropes of cum were already spilling from his cock.

his face burned a deep, humiliating red, frustration twisting his features. “shit—fuck, i'm sorry, i—” he was mortified :(( this wasn't how it was supposed to go. he had reviewed the literatures (even forums!!), constructed theoretical models, simulated countless scenarios in the deep recesses of his mind—but none of them accounted for this. for failing at frame one. he buried his face in his hands, mumbling about how fucking useless he was, how he didn't deserve to touch you—

but virgin!nerdjo shut up real quick when you kissed his temple, soft and sweet, whispering that it was okay, that you could try again when he got hard. statistically, he had prepared for ridicule, for you to laugh or sigh or at least look disappointed—but instead you were kind. his chest ached, overwhelmed by the sheer improbability of it all.

you kept pressing those gently, featherlight kisses on his face as you saw sweat beading along his temples as virgin!nerdjo's mind spiraled—because what do you mean he came, and you didn't? what do you mean he got to feel good, and you didn't? not happening.

his gaze flicked to his desk, to the scattered notes, the open textbooks, the half finished equations—

virgin!nerdjo snatched his bic pen up before he could second-guess himself, adjusting his glasses (because god forbid he couldn't see a thing without them) and told you to stay still. your brows knitted in curiosity but you obeyed, eyes tracking the cool, smooth tip as he brought it to your lips. he traced them first—the same way he would annotate an important diagram. then down, slowly, as he imagined his tongue would if he wasn't still too flustered to use it. he skimmed it over your throat, down your sternum, circling each nipple before pressing the cold plastic directly against one. you whimpered—the contrast of the icy bic pen against your burning skin sent a shiver up your spine.

virgin!nerdjo continued lower, hypothesized. his glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose as he drags the pen over your stomach, past your belly button, until he reached the soft skin of your inner thighs. he hesitated, only for a second.

virgin!nerdjo swallowed hard, his free hand adjusting his glasses as he pressed the cold tip firmly against your swollen bud. you jerked beneath him. he took a sharp inhale before he began circling it in slow, teasing motions. his earlier embarrassment melted into something hungrier, completely focused on your helpless moans.

virgin!nerdjo ran the smooth plastic length between your slick folds—not pushing in, just gliding, experimenting, observing. he swore he could feel the warmth through the bic pen itself, feel the way it picked up your slick with every pass. 

virgin!nerdjo had a pretty shade of pink creeping down his neck as he used his trembling hand to spread your legs wider. bringing his index and middle fingers together to press against your puffy lips, trapping the bic pen between them. a choked whimper escaped your lips as your arousal smeared against the plastic, against his fingertips—warm and wet and so much—and when a choked whimper escaped your lips, his head spun.

virgin!nerdjo had never seen anything like this before—never imagined anything could be this erotic, this intoxicating. he was supposed to be the one making you feel good, right? then why did he feel like he was the one getting unraveling here? cock throbbing—still sensitive, still sticky—but already trying to get hard again.

virgin!nerdjo kept going, his movements more purposeful now, rubbing the cold tip over your clit in slow, firm circles—memorizing every little movement, every choked moan, every twitch of your hips as you desperately chased more friction.

virgin!nerdjo was losing it, breath shuddered as he pressed the tip down again, drunk on your reactions. he wanted to devour you. taste you. he was supposed to be embarrassed, supposed to be ashamed—but all he could think about was how pretty you looked like this. he wanted to combust. he wanted nothing more than to hear your little moans, and see your hips jerking. the way you whined his name was enough to send him into another full-system crash. his pupils were so blown, you could barely see the pretty shade of blue in his eyes.

virgin!nerdjo has his glasses entirely fogged up, breath coming out in short, choked little gasps. his white fluffy hair stuck to his forehead in a disheveled mess as he worked you up—over and over and over. and when you were teetering right on the edge when your moans turned high and desperate—he stopped.

virgin!nerdjo shouldn't find that hot, he wasn't even edging you on purpose!! he was just…entranced. the way your body tensed, your lips parting in frustration, fingers twitching as if you were trying not to grab his wrist and force him to keep going.

oh.

maybe virgin!nerdjo wasn't so bad at this after all.

☆゙ ꒰ᐢ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ᐢ꒱⸒⸒ ˚⊹ᰔ

[dc-gotham-instincts-wild]

Headcanon that Jason just kidnaps his siblings instead of asking them to hang out sometimes.

Sometimes he does the normal abduction thing and other times he has his methods.

Dick: Jason sneaks into Dick’s apartment in Blüdhaven at 3 AM, throws him over his shoulder, and drags him to his motorcycle. Dick wakes up mid-ride, half-conscious, groggily mumbling, "Jay, what the hell—?"

- Jason just shushes him and tosses a burger into his lap. "Shut up and eat, Goldie. We're bonding." (Jason, allowing his big brother to ruffle his hair? Nooooo, absolutely not...)

Tim: Jason straight-up drugs him asleep him when Tim refuses to take a break. He wakes up in Jason’s apartment with a cup of coffee and a sandwich waiting for him, while Jason sits on the couch reading a book.

- “You looked dead on your feet, Replacement. Either you napped willingly or I made you. Guess which one you picked.” (Jason totally doesn't rake a hand over his lil bro's hair during this time)

Steph: Jason knows Steph is a wild card when it comes to hanging out, so he has to be a little sneakier with her. He'd show up at her place unannounced, pretending to just be casually passing by, and in one smooth motion, he'd grab her and yank his little sister into his car or bike before she even realizes what's happening. (He totally doesn't do this in time with hard school, noooo)

Damian: Jason scoops him up mid-battle and just walks away with him. Damian kicks, bites, and yells, "UNHAND ME, TODD!" but Jason holds him like an angry kitten.

- They end up at a rooftop picnic with Alfred’s homemade food. Damian eventually eats while grumbling about Jason's “barbaric methods” but secretly enjoys the attention. (Jason maaayybe ruffles his hair a lot.)

Cass: She just lets it happen. Jason shows up, gestures toward his bike, and Cass just hops on without a word. They go on long road trips in comfortable silence, getting ice cream at 2 AM and scaring off criminals for fun. (Jason totally doesn't take the time to help her with her speech-)

Duke: Duke gets fake-napped. Jason tells him, "Be outside in five minutes," and when Duke says no, Jason still shows up, grabs him, and hauls him into a car.

- Duke just sighs and texts Bruce: "Jason's 'kidnapping' me again. Back later." (Jason totally doesn't get the names of school bullies from him and uses them, noooooooo)

Bruce knows this happens. He just sighs and lets it happen because, honestly? It’s Jason’s way of showing love. And at least the kids are getting along.

Jason kidnaps his siblings because it's his way of saying, "You're important to me, and I'm gonna drag you into ridiculous situations whether you like it or not."

He also, however, does it to Bruce.

In fact, it might be one of his favorite things to do, just because Bruce is always so serious and “responsible.”

Jason thinks it’s hilarious to force Bruce to take a break. He just shows up at the Batcave, probably with some kind of overly complicated plan to "kidnap" Bruce without him realizing.

Step 1: Jason would distract Alfred with a "Oh, just a quick check-in, you know, 'cause it’s been a while.’"

Step 2: He would wait for Bruce to get fully immersed in some case files and then sneak up behind him, tap him on the shoulder, and when Bruce turns around, Jason’s already got him in a headlock, pulling him out of the chair like, "Get up, old man. We're going to a diner. No arguments."

Bruce would protest, of course. He'd probably try to get out of it with his usual grumpy “I’m too busy” routine. Jason might fake-sigh and act like he's just trying to help Bruce loosen up, reminding him, "I know you think you’re invincible, but you still need to eat, Batman."

And if Bruce insists on not going, Jason would just drag him anyway. He might even grab the Batmobile for a joyride (he's always wanted to), making Bruce sit shotgun while Jason drives like an absolute maniac (Jokes on both because Bruce taught him to drive-)

Bruce would probably be scowling the whole time, but Jason would know his dad is secretly enjoying it, even if he won't admit it.

Eventually, Bruce would probably give in and get his grumpy little “dad” lecture—“You’re so reckless, Jason—” but Jason would just smile and be like, "Whatever. You’re welcome.”

Jason totally doesn't like it when his dad just ruffles his hair at some point.

[sleepypanda27]

Static Signals

Bucky x reader

Summary: On a mission, the team's comms malfunctioned, cutting off communication between you and Natasha and the rest of the team. Nat uncovers your secret crush on Bucky. Later on, you found out that Bucky has a secret, too.

Words: 1,334

You were on a mission with the team when the comms malfunctioned, and you and Natasha were cut off from the others. The once reassuring buzz of voices had turned into an unnerving silence.

"How's it going with Bucky?" Nat asked, her tone casual yet curious, hoping to pass the time and pry a little.

"What do you mean?" you replied, feigning ignorance, though your cheeks warmed slightly.

"You two are spending a lot of time together. Is there something going on between you?" Natasha continued, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Yeah. I mean, no, we're just hanging out," you stammered, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Do you like him?" she asked, a knowing smile spreading across her face.

"Uhh… he's cute," you admitted with a giggle, silently praying the rest of the team would arrive sooner.

"Aww," Natasha chuckled, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "You do like him."

Just then, the static sound crackled through the comms, breaking the uncomfortable moment.

"Can you hear us now?" Steve's familiar voice asked, his tone filled with relief.

"Loud and clear, Cap," you responded, grateful for the interruption.

"We're five minutes away," Steve informed.

As you waited for the team, you couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was something more between you and Bucky. You obviously liked him, but you weren't sure how he felt about you.

Back on the quinjet, Bucky was in a suspiciously good mood. He joked with Sam and wanted to kill him slightly less than usual, a clear sign that something was wrong.

"What's with you today, Barnes?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow. "Did someone slip something in your coffee?"

Bucky smirked. "What, can't a guy be in a good mood without you getting all suspicious?" He glanced your way.

Sam laughed. "You? In a good mood? That's definitely suspicious. Who are you, and what have you done with Bucky?"

"Maybe I just have a good mood," Bucky said, shrugging nonchalantly.

Sam's eyes widened in mock horror. "Oh no, it's worse than I thought. You're possessed!"

"Keep it up, Wilson, and I'll show you just how 'cheerful' I can be," Bucky retorted, though his grin.

The playful banter continued, much to the amusement of the rest of the team.

After getting home and taking a shower, you knocked on Bucky's door and entered the room without waiting for his response. "Hey, Buck?" you called out, only to be greeted by the sight of him drying his hair with a towel, completely naked, his backside to you.

"Hey, doll," he said, wrapping the towel low around his waist, his voice smooth and casual.

"Uhh…sorry." you stammered, your cheeks turning a deep shade of crimson. "I-I just wanted to ask you something."

"Yeah?" he replied, walking closer to you in what felt like slow motion. "What?"

"I don't remember," you admitted, gulping in embarrassment as your eyes remained glued to his muscles.

Bucky laughed, leaning against the wall with his arms folded and his head tilted slightly to the side. "Maybe you can trace back your thoughts to what you were thinking about before you came here?" he suggested, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

"Do you want to watch a movie with me?" you blurted out, probably as red as a beet.

"Sure thing," he said with a grin. "I just need to get dressed."

As he turned to find some clothes, you couldn't help but think that this was going to be one interesting movie night.

After getting dressed, Bucky brought a bowl of popcorn and settled next to you on the couch. "Wanna watch that new horror movie that everyones talking about?" he asked, a playful grin on his face.

"I guess so," you replied, a mixture of excitement and apprehension in your voice. He selected the movie and pressed play.

As the eerie music started and the suspense built, you found yourself inching closer to Bucky. The jump scares had you clutching his arm, and each time you both laughed, sharing the tension.

Midway through the movie, a particularly terrifying scene had you yelping and hiding your face in Bucky's shoulder. "You okay?" he asked, his voice filled with concern, though he couldn't hide his amusement.

"Yeah, just a little freaked out," you admitted, your heart racing.

"Don't worry, I've got you," Bucky said, wrapping his arm around you protectively.

As the movie progressed, the tension only heightened. At one point, a loud jump scare on screen made you jump, spilling popcorn everywhere. Bucky burst into laughter, and you couldn't help but join in, despite your embarrassment.

"Sorry about the mess," you giggled, trying to pick up the scattered popcorn.

"No worries," Bucky said, helping pick up the popcorn still chuckling. "It's part of the fun."

As the movie reached its conclusion, you were practically glued to Bucky's side, your nerves on edge. The final scare had you both jumping, and you clung to him even tighter.

When the credits finally rolled, you let out a relieved sigh. "Wow, that was scary," you said, still trying to calm your racing heart. "Way too many jump scares."

"It sure was," Bucky agreed, his arm still around you. "But you handled it like a champ."

"Thanks for being my protector," you teased, looking up at him with a smile.

"Anytime, doll," he replied softly, his gaze locking with yours. In that moment, you felt a spark of something more, a connection that went beyond friendship.

As you both sat there, the adrenaline slowly fading, you realized that the evening had brought you closer together in a way you hadn't anticipated. The scary movie night had turned into an unexpectedly romantic experience.

The next morning, you wandered into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You spotted Bucky at the counter, deep in his thoughts, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"Morning, Buck," you greeted, trying to sound casual.

"Morning, doll," he replied with a smile. "So, you know when the comms malfunctioned yesterday?"

You nodded, wondering where this was going.

"Turns out," Bucky continued, "they only malfunctioned on your end. We heard everything you and Nat talked about."

Your heart skipped a beat. "Everything?" you asked, your face heating up.

"Yep," he confirmed, taking a sip of his coffee. "Including the part where you said I'm cute."

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "Oh no."

Bucky chuckled, setting his mug down. "Why didn't you just tell me you liked me?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"I didn't want to make things awkward between us," you admitted, peeking at him from between your fingers.

He took a step closer, his expression softening. "Well, it's a little late for that," he said with a grin. "But I guess we can work through the awkwardness together."

You looked up at him, your heart pounding. "So, you're not mad?"

"Nah," he replied, shaking his head. "Actually, I'm kinda relieved. I've been wanting to tell you I like you too."

Before you could respond, Bucky closed the distance between you, his hand gently cupping your cheek. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a tender, lingering kiss. The world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in that perfect moment.

Lost in the moment, you didn't notice Sam walking into the kitchen. "Oh my god!" Sam exclaimed, rubbing his eyes. "Am I dreaming? Is this a nightmare?"

You and Bucky pulled away, both of you blushing furiously. "Morning, Sam," you said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Morning?" Sam repeated, still in shock. "I need coffee. Lots of coffee."

Bucky chuckled, wrapping his arm around you. As you stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, you knew that this was just the beginning of something special. And despite Sam's dramatic reaction, you couldn't help but feel a sense of happiness and excitement for what the future held.

[miyadollie]

untitled ♡ lee jihoon ────୨ৎ────

jihoon didn’t look up when the studio door opened. didn’t have to.

only one person in this world let themselves in without knocking and didn’t get cussed out for it.

you dropped your bag gently onto the little couch in the corner. “it’s 1 am.”

“mhmmm.”

“you haven’t texted in eight hours.”

he hummed , barely a sound “didn’t notice.”

you moved behind him and peeked at the screen , running a hand gently down his arm in a soothing motion. dozens of tracks stacked and color-coded, running in a chaotic order for you , but made perfect sense to him apparently. he was working on the bridge for a performance unit song — guessing by the file name.

you waited for him to pause playback.

“you didn’t eat, did you?”

he finally turned his head , expression unreadable. “i forgot.”

“you always forget.” you state.

he glanced up at you , taking in your pretty face with tired eyes. “you always show up.”

you didn’t smile. not outwardly , but your heart inexplicably fluttered.

“ramyeon. extra egg, no onions.” you said as you placed the neatly packaged food at his desk.

he blinked. “you went to that place by the apartment?”

“mmhm , don’t worry. i wore that mask - hoodie combo you told me to. anddd.... i think the owner probably thought i'd rob him"

that got a laugh out of him. barely. but it was there.

you sat beside him on the floor, cross-legged, chin on your hand as he reopened the project.

“can i stay a little?” you asked softly , not wanting to disturb his flow.

he didn’t answer.

just reached over and plugged in the second pair of headphones and placed them over your ears. then pressed play.

as the music played, jihoon didn’t look at the screen. not even once.

he watched you.

your head tilted, eyes closed, expression shifting ever so slightly as the beat swelled, cracked open, and melted into the bridge he’d spent hours agonizing over. your gentle nod at the drop was the biggest approval he needed.

when it faded, you opened your eyes.

he was still watching.

“what?” you gently giggled , flustered with the way he was looking at you.

jihoon hesitated for a second , “you listen like it means something,” he said, voice quiet.

“it does.”

“no, i mean…” he exhaled. “you don’t just hear it. you feel it. even when i think it’s nothing yet.”

you leaned closer, your voice barely a murmur. “that’s because it’s yours. and that’s never nothing.”

a beat passed. maybe two.

“i’m keeping that take,” he muttered.

“what?”

he looked at the waveform on the screen. “your voice just now. i was recording.”

you hit this thigh gently “jihoon !!”

“not for the album,” he added, clearing his throat. “just… for me.” he said sheepishly , then immediately shifted his gaze back to the screen.

after a bit , you reached for the takeout, peeled back the lid, and handed him a spoon.

“okay,” you said softly. “but only if you eat this first.”

this time, he smiled.

random thought i had when listening to nine.i's discography for some reason (╥﹏╥) also in my head hes working on either spell or moonwalker

[luvxkdrama]

— reflections

pairing : frontman x reader

warnings : mentions of blood, guns, manipulation, toxic love

word count : 2.6k

summary : "We're like a mirror, reflecting the same truth from opposite sides."

—

Y/N adjusted her pink jumpsuit and mask, her heart pounding against her ribcage. She hated everything about this place: the screams, the games, the stench of blood that clung to every surface. She hated being part of this macabre machine, but she didn’t have a choice. Or at least, that’s what she tried to justify herself with.

A year ago, when she first arrived and realised what was actually happening, she had vowed to find a way to end it all. Once she was back home, she worked silently, methodically not sharing her plans to anyone, besides one person.

Hwang Inho.

She met him after the first game as he was a pink guard as well and as much as y/n didn’t trust him at first due to his cold facade, he actually turned out to have the same ideas as her. He was different from the other pink guards y/n has met, he was quieter, observant. Unlike the others, who reveled in their power over the players or fell into obedient silence, he had a sharp wit that he wielded sparingly but effectively. He always seemed to sense when Y/N needed a quick distraction during tense moments.

And so, after they got out of the game, they worked side by side often, and she eventually found herself drawn to the rare moments when they spoke about things unrelated to the game. Cozy nights, wrapped in blankets and talking as if there was no tomorrow.

Y/N tried to stay focused on her mission and not let her mind wander anywhere else but with the time passing by, the moments spent together became significantly more important to her.

Things shifted when one particular night instead of going home, Inho suggested y/n to sleepover at his house as it was pouring rain and the roads were dangerously blurry. One thing led to another and eventually y/n found herself laying her head on his bare chest, feeling safer than ever.

“What are you planning to do once you take down the organisation?” He asked while gently running his fingers across her hair.

Y/N thought for a moment and smiled “I don’t know,” she finally answered “My main focus for now is succeeding this mission and the rest… we’ll see I guess.”

Inho chuckled and didn’t push further, understanding her answer. He then put his left hand on her cheek and slowly raised her head to plant a soft kiss on her lips, smiling into the kiss.

A year passed by quickly and it was time to return there again. Y/N felt ready, she knew what to do and when, especially after Inho somehow managed to find a sketch of the whole building where the games take place. Y/N did know that it was extremely odd to find such a thing out of blue, but knowing how helpful it was, she didn’t try to question it and simply let it slide, trusting him and being too immersed in succeeding her plan.

Before she knew, she was back, on her way to the first game, blending in as just another nameless guard in the sea of faceless pink uniforms.

Finally, the day came. It was the night after the third game when no one would expect anything as security was always on the highest alert after the first game.

Y/N was the one in motion while Inho was explaining the way she will have to make in order to get to the private lounge area. She managed to infiltrate the control room, her pulse pounding as she neutralized the guards stationed there. The room smelled of stale coffee and sweat, monitors flickering with live feeds of every horrifying corner of the facility.

She took a deep breath, her resolve hardening. She had made it this far—there was no turning back now.

After shutting down the security systems and eliminating anyone in her way, Y/N pushed through a heavy door into a private lounge area. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a massive screen casting shadows over the elegant furniture. Her breath hitched as her eyes landed on a figure sitting on a leather sofa, his back to her.

Her hand tightened around the gun she held. “Don’t move.”

The man didn’t flinch. He tilted his head slightly, as if amused. “You made it quicker than I expected.” His voice was low and computerized due to the black mask.

Y/N quickly grabbed her walkie talkie and told Inho she managed to make it to the private lounge. However, even after waiting for a few more seconds, she didn’t get a reply. She tried once again but to no avail. She started to get nervous as to why he wasn't responding.

Her grip on the gun wavered slightly and she cursed, deciding to take matters in her own hands for now “Turn around. Slowly.”

He raised the whiskey to his lips, taking a sip before setting the glass down on the table. Then, with deliberate slowness, he stood and turned to face her, the black mask looking right at her. 

Y/N tried to reach out to Inho once again when suddenly the frontman took out something from his pocket. It was the walkie talkie y/n had given Inho. She froze, fearing the frontman somehow managed to capture Inho while she was busy fighting the soldiers.

"Where did you get this ?" She gulped, taking a few steps closer to him, pointing the gun right at his chest “If you hurt him I swear-”

A low chuckle echoed across the room, y/n looked at the frontman who shook his head before raising his hands to take off the mask.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat and her heart dropped.

It was him. Hwang Inho.

In an instant, it felt like all the walls around her started to suffocate her and that the room progressively got smaller. Her brain couldn’t process what she was seeing. The man she had spent so much time with, the one who made her feel understood and the one who showed her what love felt like, was standing in front of her in a black coat with the black mask in his hand—the unmistakable mask of the Front Man.

“You—” she started, her voice cracking.

“Yes,” he said simply, his voice colder now, void of the warmth she had grown accustomed to.

Y/N’s mind raced, piecing everything together. All the times he had been quiet, watching, listening. The way he seemed to know more than he let on. She felt like the ground had been ripped out from under her.

“Why?” she demanded, her voice trembling.

“Why what?” he asked, stepping closer. “Why did I let you get this far? Or why am I standing here instead of stopping you?”

“Don’t,” she said sharply, raising the gun higher. “Don’t come any closer.”

The frontman—no, Inho—stopped, his hands raised in mock surrender. “If I wanted to stop you, Y/N, you’d already be dead. You know that.”

Her finger hovered over the trigger, her entire body shaking. “You knew. This whole time, you knew what I was doing. You were even helping me.”

"Helping is a big word. I’d rather say I was agreeing with your ideas and eventually giving you some clues from time to time.”

Her breath hitched. “What was your goal?”

He shrugged, his gaze unreadable. “I wanted to see how far you’d go. And now, here we are. I never doubted you though, I knew we'd meet here as I saw the ambition and determination in your eyes.”

For a long moment, they stood in silence, the weight of the truth settling between them. She hated him. She hated the games, the cruelty, the manipulation.

“I trusted you,” she whispered, lowering the gun slightly.

He stepped closer, this time without resistance. “And maybe you still can.”

Y/N’s heart pounded as he stopped just inches away, “What are you talking about?”

“Finish what you started,” he said simply, his voice low. “Shut it all down.”

Y/N stood frozen, her pulse roaring in her ears as his words settled over her like a suffocating fog. Her whole purpose for being here—to dismantle the games, to destroy everything he had built—now felt like a fragile construct teetering on the edge of collapse. And yet, she couldn’t deny the pull of his words, the horrible, awful logic they carried.

“You’re insane, Inho.” she whispered finally, her voice raw.

Hwang Inho didn’t flinch, didn’t react to her insult. “Maybe,” he said softly. “But if I’m insane then what does that make you?” He asked suddenly “You’ve killed for your cause, Y/N. You killed dozens of guards to get here. And now, here you are—standing in front of me with a gun, and yet you can’t pull the trigger. Why?”

The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy, until Y/N couldn’t take it anymore. “You’re trying to twist this,” she spat, her voice rising. “Trying to manipulate me into thinking we’re the same so I won’t stop you.”

His gaze followed her, steady and unflinching. “I don’t need to manipulate you, Y/N. You’ve already proven my point. You killed those guards to get here. You knew the risks, and you accepted them. You’re not here because you’re better than me. You’re here because you’re willing to do whatever it takes—just like I am.”

"I don't kill those people, Y/N," he continued, referring to the players “I don't force them to come here, I give them a choice. Moreover, after each game they have the choice to stay or continue. They kill the other players to survive and get more money, not me. People are so greedy for money that it makes them blind. They loose the privilege of being called human, they reveal their true nature — monsters.”

She whirled on him, her chest heaving. “Not everyone comes here by choice, some just don't have any other way. So you're wrong Inho-”

He approached her slowly, towering over her now, his presence overwhelming in the small space. “Tell me Y/N, what do you think will happen if you kill me ?” he asked, his voice cold but not unkind. “The people who run this—the VIPs—they’ll just start again somewhere else. Somewhere you can’t reach them. Do you really think killing me will end this? I'm a just a puppet who accepted the harsh reality of this world, Y/N.”

Her throat tightened, the weight of his words pressing down on her. She wanted to scream that he was wrong, that there was a way to stop it all. But she didn’t have an answer.

“Exactly,” he whispered, as if reading her thoughts. “You think you can destroy this, but all you’ll do is burn yourself out trying. And in the meantime, people will keep dying.”

“So what?” she shot back, her voice trembling. “You’re saying I should join you? Help you keep this nightmare alive?”

He didn’t answer right away. Finally, his voice softened as he said, “I’m saying you need to decide what matters more—your principles, or your survival.”

She stared at him, her heart pounding. “I’d rather die than become like you.”

A faint smile flickered across his lips, “That’s what they all say.”

Before she could respond, the door behind her suddenly opened, and two guards stepped inside. Y/N’s stomach clenched, her body tensing and she immediately raised her gun at them, turning her back to Inho who didn’t even flinch. 

"Don’t you get it Y/N ? We're like a mirror, reflecting the same truth from opposite sides." He gently put his hands on both of her arms, stepping behind her and looking at her side profile.

Y/N’s grip on the gun tightened, her breath catching. She shook her head sharply, the anger rising in her chest. “No,” she spat, her voice bitter. “You’re not me. You’re a killer. And I don’t care what you say—you’re not going to twist this into something else.”

His smile barely flickered. “Funny. I thought you would understand. The line between right and wrong is thin, Y/N. You kill for your cause, I kill for mine. But in the end, it’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her ears, the room spinning for a second. It was true—too true. But she wouldn’t let him win. She couldn’t let herself be like him.

“No,” she repeated, her voice quieter but full of conviction. She took a step back, turning back to look at him, his hands brushing over her sides before leaving her body completely. The weight of the gun in her hand heavy.

This wasn’t what she signed up for, wasn’t what she had worked so hard for. But standing there, facing him, she realized just how dangerous his words were, how much of what he said hit too close to home.

Y/N stood in the doorway, gun still heavy in her hand, her heart beating erratically in her chest. She suddenly raised her gun and pointed it directly at his heart, her finger twitching over the trigger. She had made her choice—at least, that’s what she had thought. The mission. The goal. It all led to this moment. One pull and it would be over. But now, standing in front of him, the room filled with the echoes of her hesitation, the lines between right and wrong blurred in a way she couldn’t ignore anymore.

She had been ready to walk away, ready to follow through, to do what she believed was right. But something inside her faltered, her resolve cracking like ice under pressure. He had been right about one thing—their reflection was too similar. She had spent so much of her life believing that she was the opposite of him, but with every step closer she took toward him, it felt more like she was staring into a mirror she had spent so long trying to avoid.

He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving hers, his gaze steady but somehow understanding. “You don’t have to fight it anymore, Y/N. We’re the same. We both do what we believe is necessary. You can either leave, and I will make sure to get you home safely, or you can stay with me and accept the world is a cruel place that can’t be saved.”

Her chest tightened, and despite her efforts to resist, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. There was something in his presence—something that made her feel understood in a way no one else ever had. She hated that it was him, hated that it was this—but she couldn’t deny the pull, the connection, the understanding that went beyond their roles in this twisted game.

For a moment, everything seemed to pause. Her breath, his movements, the weight of the gun—everything hung in the balance.

She lowered the weapon, her hands shaking as she realized the truth. She couldn’t walk away from him—not completely. She had tried, had convinced herself that she was different, that she was better, but deep down, she knew they were too alike. Too broken. Too far gone.

“I don’t want to be like you,” she whispered, more to herself than him, but it didn’t matter anymore.

“You already are,” he replied softly, but there was no malice in his words—only something darker, something that felt like acceptance.

And in that moment, something shifted inside her. She couldn’t fight it anymore. She couldn’t deny it anymore. Her feelings for him, no matter how twisted or complicated, were real. And maybe—just maybe—there was no escaping this dark connection they shared.

She looked up at him. She wasn’t sure if it was love or something darker that pulled her closer, but when she stood in front of him, their eyes locking, she knew one thing for certain: she wasn’t walking away. She couldn't.

“Stay” he said, his voice barely a whisper, but it held an undeniable weight.

He slowly leaned in and his lips met hers. Y/N didn't move away. She couldn't. She felt interlocked to him in a way she never did with anyone. She left the salty taste of her own tears during the kiss, feeling her heart betraying her own mind.

For a long moment, they stood in silence, looking at each other, two sides of the same broken coin, too entwined to walk away from each other.

The world outside didn’t matter. The game didn’t matter. In that room, at that moment, it was just the two of them. Together. Alike.

[bu3ck3r]

stay right here

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

wc: 5k

summary: paige gets sick first but when azzi catches it too she refuses to admit she needs help. luckily, paige is more than happy to take care of azzi, no matter how stubborn she is about it.

a/n: thank you anon for this idea i hope you’ll like it and to everyone else that reads this tell me how was it and if there’s any mistakes lmk

paige knew she was getting sick the night before — the headache creeping in behind her eyes, the scratchiness in her throat, the way her body suddenly felt heavier than usual. but she didn’t say anything. she just pulled azzi in a little closer on the couch while they watched some random show they weren’t really paying attention to.

azzi noticed her shifting around more than usual. “you good?”

“mhm.” paige rested her head on azzi’s shoulder, her voice low and quiet. “just wanna stay right here.”

azzi didn’t question it. she just adjusted a little, letting paige settle in.

the next morning though — paige looked like hell.

she was still bundled in the hoodie she’d worn to bed, but her nose was red, her voice was hoarse, and her eyes were that glassy kind of tired that made it obvious she hadn’t slept well. she shuffled into the kitchen while azzi was pouring cereal and leaned against the counter like the act of standing up was too much effort.

“morning,” she croaked, barely audible.

azzi turned, took one look at her, and set the spoon down. “oh, no.”

“what?”

“you look like you lost a fight with the air.”

paige gave a half-smile, too lazy to argue. “guess i’m fragile now.”

azzi sighed and crossed her arms. “why didn’t you say anything last night?”

paige shrugged. “didn’t wanna make a big deal.”

“well, it is a big deal if you’re walking around breathing on everything like a germ fog machine.��

“i didn’t even sneeze on you,” paige mumbled, stepping closer. she leaned into azzi, resting her forehead against her shoulder with a long exhale. “i feel like my bones are weak.”

azzi rolled her eyes but reached up to rest a hand on the back of paige’s neck. “you’re being dramatic.”

“i’m sick,” paige said quietly, nuzzling into her hoodie. “i get to be dramatic.”

azzi tried not to react to how warm she felt. “you probably have a fever.”

“i probably deserve one. karma for never taking my vitamins.”

“you literally took one yesterday.”

“yeah, but it was gummy. it doesn’t count.”

azzi sighed again — she was doing that a lot already this morning — and gently guided paige to the barstool. “sit. you’re not doing anything today.”

“not even you?”

azzi smacked her lightly on the arm. “stop talking.”

paige grinned, even as she let her head drop to the counter. “you’re cute when you’re bossy.”

“you’re clingy when you’re sick.”

“that’s not the sickness. that’s just me.”

the day passed in slow motion. paige rotated between the bed, the couch, and wherever azzi happened to be standing. she’d follow her around in slow steps like a shadow with a hoodie and a tissue box, always reaching out for a little touch — a hand on azzi’s back, fingers curled into her sleeve, head resting on her shoulder when she sat down.

azzi kept making noise about how annoying it was, but she didn’t push her away once.

she brought her tea, stood in line at the drugstore to get her cold meds, and even made soup — the canned kind, but still, effort was effort. paige, sick and quiet, just blinked at her with big, tired eyes and said, “you’re an angel.”

azzi rolled her eyes. “i’m your unpaid nurse.”

“same thing,” paige murmured, already reaching out for her again.

by late afternoon, paige was full-on cling mode.

she’d taken over the entire couch, curled under two blankets, legs stretched out across azzi’s lap like a cat who refused to be moved. she was clearly exhausted, and it showed in the way her voice had dropped an octave and her eyes kept drifting closed mid-sentence.

azzi was scrolling through her phone when paige shifted, half-asleep, and muttered, “you smell good.”

azzi didn’t look up. “that’s weird. shut up.”

“you do,” paige whispered. “you smell like my hoodie. or maybe i smell like your hoodie. i forget which one i’m wearing.”

azzi looked down. “that’s mine.”

“see?” paige smiled softly. “you love me.”

“regrettably,” azzi said.

but her hand was still stroking paige’s calf gently under the blanket.

around 7:00 p.m., paige tried to get up and nearly fell over.

azzi was immediately there, steadying her by the waist. “hey. what are you doing?”

“i was gonna go—” paige didn’t even finish the sentence. she just leaned into her, head resting on azzi’s collarbone. “forgot. i’m tired.”

azzi held her for a second, arms slipping around her waist. “jesus. you’re burning up.”

“i run hot. it’s my aura.”

“you sound like your dying.”

paige didn’t respond. just stood there, swaying slightly, face pressed into azzi’s shoulder.

azzi sighed. “come on. bed. i’ll bring your stuff.”

paige didn’t let go. “come with me?”

azzi hesitated, then hooked a finger under her chin and tipped her face up. “you’re sick. you don’t need me cuddling up in your fever dream.”

“but i sleep better with you.”

azzi groaned. “you’re lucky i like you.”

“i know you like me.”

later, paige was bundled into bed, eyes half-closed as azzi tucked the blanket up around her chest. she looked so soft like this — flushed and tired, but still smiling, like the only thing she really cared about was that azzi was within arm’s reach.

azzi sat down on the edge of the bed, pressing the back of her hand to paige’s forehead.

“still warm,” she said quietly.

paige looked up at her. “i feel gross.”

“you kinda look gross too.”

“thanks,” paige murmured, smiling. “you’re really uplifting.”

azzi reached out and brushed a piece of hair off her face. “get some sleep.”

“stay for a little?”

azzi sighed, but she kicked her shoes off anyway and crawled in beside her.

as soon as she was under the covers, paige wrapped her arms around her and let out a tiny, content sigh like she’d been waiting for that all day.

“you’re such a baby when you’re sick,” azzi said, even as she tucked paige’s head under her chin.

“only with you.”

azzi was quiet. “yeah, well. i guess i’m okay with that.”

around 2 a.m., azzi woke up with a sore throat.

she blinked a few times, confused by how dry her mouth was and how heavy her body suddenly felt. paige was still curled into her, breathing softly, radiating heat like a space heater on high.

azzi stared at the ceiling.

“you’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered.

but she didn’t move.

not yet.

azzi woke up to a raw throat and the realization that paige was half-on top of her. not in a cute, playful way. in a clingy, full-body sprawl kind of way. paige’s leg was draped over her hip, arm curled around her stomach, face nuzzled into the side of her neck. she was snoring. lightly. which was weirdly adorable and also kind of alarming.

azzi laid there, eyes barely open, debating her life choices.

her head was heavy. her skin felt too tight. and her entire body ached in that slow, creeping way that could only mean one thing.

she groaned under her breath.

paige stirred. “what’s wrong?”

“you infected me.”

paige gave a soft, raspy laugh and didn’t move. “i told you to stay away. but nooo, you had to cuddle me through the fever.”

azzi rubbed a hand down her face. “because you guilt-tripped me. you were looking at me like a dying puppy.”

“worked though, didn’t it?”

azzi coughed. “you’re literally the worst.”

“you’re warm,” paige murmured, eyes still closed. “i love it.”

“you love being the reason i feel like i got hit by a bus?”

“not that part,” paige said. “but i love you. and you’re in my bed. and you smell like my hoodie again.”

azzi groaned. “why are you so clingy when you’re sick?”

“i’m clingy all the time. you just ignore it when i’m healthy.”

azzi shifted under the blankets. her nose was starting to run. she hated that she was sick, hated that she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t. but paige had already caught on.

“i’ll make you tea,” paige said suddenly, starting to sit up.

azzi pulled her back down immediately. “you can’t even stand without wobbling. sit down before you pass out in the kitchen.”

paige flopped back with a sigh. “let me do something. i feel bad.”

“you should.”

“you love me.”

“unfortunately.”

paige smiled to herself and reached over to press a soft kiss to azzi’s cheek. “i really do feel bad.”

azzi turned her head just slightly toward her. “yeah?”

“yeah.” paige paused. “but also… this is kinda the dream. sick day in bed with you. no practice. just netflix and cuddles.”

azzi snorted, then coughed again. “your so annoying.”

“and yet you still love me.”

azzi closed her eyes and groaned. “please shut up.”

“okay.” a beat. “you’re really hot, though. like, fever-hot. but also, like, generally.”

“i will smother you with this pillow.”

paige nuzzled into her shoulder. “you won’t. you like how warm i am.”

azzi didn’t respond. she was already drifting again, her body too heavy and warm to hold on to the irritation. paige stayed curled against her, completely still except for the way her fingers started tracing slow circles on azzi’s arm under the blanket.

the rest of the morning was a shared mess of tissues and short naps.

azzi tried to rally around noon. she pulled herself out of bed with a grunt, wobbling a little on the way to the bathroom. paige, half-asleep, peeked open one eye and said, “you okay?”

azzi stood in the doorway, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair a tangled mess. “do i look okay?”

paige grinned weakly. “you look like a beautiful wreck.”

azzi raised a middle finger as she turned toward the sink.

by the time she made it to the kitchen, the world was spinning slightly. she leaned against the counter and stared at the fridge, wondering if she had the energy to boil water.

she didn’t.

so she stood there instead, arms crossed, trying to will her body to cooperate.

behind her, soft footsteps shuffled in.

“you’re not supposed to be up,” paige mumbled, rubbing her eyes as she joined her.

“says the girl who was going to make me tea half an hour ago.”

“yeah, but i’m stronger than you.”

azzi gave her a look. “you literally had to sit down putting your socks on.”

“i was saving energy.”

azzi turned to face her. paige looked just as bad as earlier—maybe worse. hoodie pulled over her head, pale face flushed, nose red, eyes still watery.

“you look like shit,” azzi said softly.

“so do you,” paige replied with a smile, stepping closer. “want to suffer together?”

azzi leaned into her instinctively. she hated how good it felt. the warmth. the weight. the way paige smelled like laundry and lemon tea. paige wrapped her arms around her from behind and rested her chin on her shoulder.

“i was serious earlier,” she murmured.

“about what?”

“this being kinda nice. i mean, not the coughing and dying part. but this. us. nothing else to do.”

azzi let her head fall back a little. “you’re romanticizing a cold.”

“maybe.”

she was quiet for a second. “i just like having you close.”

azzi let herself lean all the way back into her, letting paige hold her up. “you already have me close. you literally climbed on top of me last night.”

“i was cold.”

“you were burning up.”

“i was emotionally cold.”

azzi groaned. “i don’t even have the energy to fight you.”

paige kissed the top of her head. “you’re so cute, baby”

azzi tilted her head, eyes closed. “alright enough talking p.”

they made it back to the couch somehow — a journey that took longer than usual because they kept leaning on each other for support. once they were there, paige collapsed sideways and immediately grabbed a blanket, patting the space beside her.

azzi hesitated.

paige patted again. “come here.”

“you’re gonna try to make me the little spoon.”

“i am gonna make you the little spoon.”

azzi stared.

then sighed.

and laid down beside her.

paige grinned triumphantly and wrapped her arms around her again. her skin was warm. she still smelled like mint toothpaste and dayquil.

“i hate how good this feels,” azzi mumbled into the pillow.

“don’t fight it.”

“i’m not fighting. i’m just being bitter.”

“okay. be bitter.” paige kissed the back of her neck. “but let me hold you while you are.”

the rest of the afternoon faded into a blur. tissues piled up. the tv played some random reality show in the background. neither of them really watched it. paige dozed in and out, and azzi did too, coughing more often now, her head pounding more by the hour.

at one point, paige felt her shift slightly and murmured, “you need water?”

azzi nodded without speaking.

paige sat up, legs trembling just a bit, but she didn’t say anything. she just shuffled to the kitchen and came back with the water bottle.

azzi looked up at her, blinking slowly. “you shouldn’t be walking.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re not.”

“i’m taking care of you,” paige said, tucking the blanket back over her shoulders. “let me.”

azzi stared at her for a second, expression unreadable.

then she said, very softly, “thank you.”

paige blinked. “wait—did you just say something nice to me?”

“i take it back.”

paige grinned. “nope. heard it.”

azzi shoved her face into the pillow.

paige gently pulled her in and kissed the top of her head. “you’re welcome, babe.”

later that night, as the sky turned gray-blue and the world outside got quiet, they lay in bed again — both too tired to move, too sick to care. azzi was curled into paige this time, her fingers resting lightly on her chest.

paige was half-asleep, still smiling.

“i like this,” she whispered.

azzi didn’t respond at first.

then: “you’re lucky i caught your stupid cold.”

paige reached down and laced their fingers together.

“i know.”

──────────── ౨ৎ ────────────

paige woke up first. for the first time in three days, her head didn’t feel like it was full of cement. her throat still scratched a little, and her nose was stuffy, but the bone-deep exhaustion had started to lift. she blinked up at the ceiling for a moment before turning her head.

azzi was still dead asleep, breathing softly, the hoodie collar pulled up over her mouth. she looked like someone who’d fought off a lion and lost. her nose was red, and her hair was a tangled halo around her face, but her hand was still curled in paige’s shirt like she was afraid paige might float off without it.

she wouldn’t. obviously.

paige smiled to herself and reached up to brush a knuckle gently along azzi’s cheek. warm. still feverish. still deep in the worst of it.

“caught my sickness,” paige whispered. “and you called me dramatic.”

azzi didn’t move. paige leaned in, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “payback’s a bitch, huh?”

she was out of bed for maybe thirty seconds before azzi cracked one eye open and rasped, “where are you going?”

paige turned around in the doorway. “to get water.”

“you better not be doing something stupid like trying to cook.”

“that’s so rude. what if i was gonna make you breakfast?”

azzi let her head flop sideways on the pillow. “you can’t make cereal without getting winded.”

“i’m better today.”

“sure you are.”

paige walked back over, leaned down, and kissed her temple. “just lay there. i got you.”

azzi groaned. “you’re already annoying.”

paige grinned. “and you’re already obsessed with me.”

she didn’t make breakfast, for the record. paige was feeling marginally less like death, but she wasn’t delusional. she poured two glasses of water, grabbed the last pack of cold meds, and snuck one of azzi’s sweatshirts on before heading back to the bedroom.

azzi hadn’t moved. she was still buried under the blankets, looking miserable and slightly offended by her own body.

paige climbed back in beside her and offered her the water. azzi blinked at her.

“you’re hovering.”

“obviously,” paige said. “i feel better. so now i get to be the doting one.”

“you’ve been the doting one.”

“i know. but now i can stand upright while doing it.”

azzi took the water and sat up slowly. she looked like it hurt. paige tucked a pillow behind her back before she could even ask.

“thanks,” azzi said, almost too quiet to hear.

paige looked over at her. “what was that?”

“nothing.”

“you sure?”

“shut up.”

“yeah yeah i love you too, princess.”

azzi shot her a look.

paige just smiled and passed her the cold medicine.

the day went on like that: paige moving around the apartment like a ghost, following azzi from bed to couch and back again, constantly checking her temperature and fluffing pillows that didn’t need fluffing.

azzi complained about it.

a lot.

but she never actually told paige to stop.

around lunch time, paige came back from the kitchen with two bowls of microwaved soup. she handed one off and sat beside her, crossing her legs and watching azzi like she might stop breathing if she blinked too long.

azzi sipped quietly for a minute before finally saying, “you’re staring.”

“i’m just making sure you don’t collapse.”

“i’m sick, not 80.”

“you’re my sick person.”

azzi groaned. “do you hear yourself?”

“i do. and i sound adorable.”

“you sound insufferable.”

“you’re smiling, though.”

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

azzi looked over at her, eyes half-lidded and tired, but she didn’t argue. paige gently reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

“you’re really pretty when you’re all flushed and grumpy,” she said softly.

azzi looked at her for a second, blank expression still intact.

“please get out of my face.”

paige leaned closer. “you love me.”

azzi shoved her shoulder gently. “eat your soup.”

the afternoon was a blur of soft movies, half-naps, and comfort touches. azzi had stopped fighting it around 2 p.m., finally letting paige curl into her again without a single complaint. paige felt the shift — that moment where azzi stopped trying to act fine and just gave in to being taken care of.

it made her feel warm inside in a way the fever never could.

she kissed azzi’s shoulder as they lay under the blanket, whispering soft nonsense into her ear, rubbing lazy circles into her thigh.

azzi didn’t say much, but her fingers kept finding paige’s — linking with them loosely, letting them go, finding them again.

it was the sick version of holding hands on a mountaintop: no effort, no energy, just gravity pulling them together.

by the time the sky dimmed and the outside world blurred paige was fully committed to playing nurse.

she made tea again (barely burned her hand this time), grabbed more tissues, and even found that one lavender essential oil she bought once as a joke but now insisted was “good for your nose.”

azzi was wrapped in two blankets, watching her with the flat expression of someone too tired to argue but very aware she was being ridiculous.

“smell this,” paige said, holding the little bottle under her nose.

azzi blinked. “what is that?”

“lavender eucalyptus serenity blend.”

“that’s not a thing.”

“it’s totally a thing. smells like a fancy yoga retreat.”

azzi took a slow inhale and blinked again. “…okay, fine. that does smell nice.”

paige beamed. “ you’re welcome.”

“still annoying.”

“you say that, but you haven’t kicked me out yet.”

azzi pulled the blanket tighter. “because i don’t have the energy.”

paige flopped onto the couch beside her and rested her head on her shoulder. “i knew this sickness would pay off somehow.”

that night, they ended up back in bed, both of them drained in different ways.

azzi had gotten worse. paige had gotten slightly better. but the balance worked.

paige turned on the soft lamp by the bed, adjusted their pillows again, and climbed in behind her, pressing her body flush against azzi’s.

azzi didn’t protest.

“you okay?” paige asked softly, hand resting on her stomach.

azzi nodded. “tired.”

“i got you.”

azzi let out a tiny hum and reached for her hand under the blanket.

“sorry i got you sick,” paige murmured, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

azzi sighed. “you’re not actually sorry.”

“no, i really am.”

azzi turned her head slightly. “you’ve been happy all day. admit it.”

paige hesitated. “…maybe a little.”

azzi rolled her eyes. “you’re impossible.”

“i just like taking care of you,” paige said. “even when you’re grumpy and dramatic and pretending you don’t love it.”

azzi squeezed her hand gently.

“i do love it,” she whispered. “but don’t let it go to your head.”

paige smiled and kissed the back of her neck.

by the time the worst of it had passed, the apartment smelled like tea, menthol, and leftover soup, and paige had watched love and basketball at least three times “just for the vibes.”

──────────── ౨ৎ ────────────

azzi, now finally on the mend, was awake more than she was asleep. her voice had dropped an octave, her nose was only mildly red instead of nuclear.

hair in a messy bun, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes half-lidded — she stood in the bathroom doorway and looked like she wanted to shower, but the sheer thought of doing it made her more tired than the sickness already had.

paige popped her head in from the hallway, toothbrush still in her mouth.

“you good?”

azzi didn’t answer for a second. then: “i don’t have the energy to do this.”

paige rinsed her mouth, leaned in the doorway, and looked her up and down. “you want help?”

azzi hesitated. “no— i mean— yes. but i don’t need it.”

“i didn’t say you needed it,” paige said, stepping in and gently tugging at the drawstrings on azzi’s hoodie. “i just said i’d do it.”

azzi narrowed her eyes. “you’re way too comfortable saying that.”

paige gave her a lazy grin. “i am comfortable. with you.”

azzi sighed and leaned against the counter. “i feel like i weigh a thousand pounds.”

paige stepped forward and wrapped her arms gently around her waist. “then let me carry some of it.”

the shower was warm, quiet, and foggy — the kind of space where everything outside of it didn’t exist for a little while.

paige helped azzi undress slowly, like every motion meant something. her hands were gentle, like she was touching something breakable — not out of pity, but out of care.

azzi didn’t say much. she just stood there, heavy-limbed and sleepy-eyed, and let paige guide her under the spray.

she leaned against the wall, eyes closed, and paige stood behind her, running her hands through her hair with careful fingers.

“you’re lucky you’re cute when you’re pathetic,” paige murmured, lathering shampoo gently into azzi’s scalp.

azzi made a low sound. “you’re annoying.”

“you keep saying that.”

“because you keep being it.”

paige smiled. she rinsed the shampoo out, then slowly slid conditioner through the strands, untangling her hair like it was something sacred.

azzi leaned her head back onto her shoulder for a moment, completely still.

paige kissed the side of her head and whispered, “you’re okay. i got you.”

“i know,” azzi said, soft enough that the water nearly drowned it out.

after, paige helped her towel off, got her into one of her big, fluffy shirts and fresh sweats, and walked her to the couch.

azzi didn’t fight it. not this time.

paige, on the other hand, was technically fine.

technically.

because even though her fever was gone and her energy was back, she’d decided that recovery was “a fragile, emotional process,” and that meant she still got to be babied.

which azzi was picking up on.

big time.

azzi was sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling aimlessly on her phone, when paige shuffled in wrapped in a blanket like a burrito.

“you’re not cold,” azzi said without looking up.

“i might be,” paige replied, dropping into the chair across from her dramatically. “i still feel emotionally unwell.”

azzi glanced up, unimpressed. “we’re out of soup.”

paige gasped. “what? why didn’t you tell me?”

“because i was dying.”

“oh. right.”

azzi shook her head, eyes still fixed on her screen.

paige stood up slowly, blanket still draped around her, and walked around the table until she was standing behind azzi. she leaned down, resting her chin on azzi’s shoulder, arms wrapping loosely around her middle.

“i like it.”

azzi sighed. “you’re suffocating.”

“you’re warm.”

“i’m not a space heater.”

“you’re my space heater.”

azzi leaned back into her a little, despite herself. “why are you like this?”

paige kissed her cheek. “because you’re soft when you’re sick.”

“i’m literally not.”

“yeah, yeah.”

azzi shook her head. “you’re unbearable.”

paige grinned and rested her cheek on azzi’s. “but i’m cute.”

“barely.”

later, they were on the couch again — a much cleaner version of the chaos from a few days ago. blankets folded. tissues gone. windows cracked open, spring air slipping in.

azzi was finally sitting upright, flipping through netflix. paige lay with her head in her lap, fake-sighing every few minutes just to get azzi’s attention.

“you okay?” azzi asked, barely glancing down.

“no,” paige said flatly. “i think i’m regressing.”

azzi arched a brow. “regressing into what?”

“a needier version of myself.”

azzi looked down at her. “is that even possible?”

“i thought i was healed. but i think i need… more attention. just to be sure.”

azzi snorted. “that’s your actual diagnosis?”

“better safe than sorry.”

azzi rolled her eyes but started running her fingers through paige’s hair anyway. “you’re unbelievable.”

“say you love me.”

“i love you paige.”

“i love you too baby”

──────────── ౨ৎ ────────────

an hour passed. the sun shifted across the floor. they finally landed on a documentary, which neither of them paid attention to. paige was still in azzi’s lap. azzi had started playing with the drawstring of her hoodie, absentmindedly looping it around her fingers.

paige smiled lazily. “you’re touchy.”

azzi groaned. “please shut up.”

“you love it.”

“no, i love you. there’s a difference.”

paige sat up suddenly and kissed her cheek. “you’re so cute.”

the day passed slow and warm. paige hovered, azzi allowed it. they shared tea, watched some movies, and spent more time just being together than either of them could remember.

at some point, paige ended up sitting cross-legged on the couch, blanket in her lap, phone in hand. she was scrolling aimlessly when she felt the weight of azzi’s head settle softly onto her thigh.

she froze — not because it was unexpected, but because azzi rarely initiated things like that.

she looked down.

azzi’s eyes were already closed, lips parted slightly, breaths even.

paige softened immediately, brushing a few curls out of her face.

“look at you,” she whispered. “finally gave in.”

azzi didn’t respond, obviously. she was too far gone.

paige let her phone drop to the side and started tracing lazy circles over azzi’s shoulder, a grin tugging at her lips.

a little while later, when azzi stirred and blinked blearily up at her, paige was ready.

“well, well, well,” she said, smiling. “look who decided i’m comfortable.”

azzi squinted. “didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“but you did. in my lap.”

azzi groaned. “you’re gonna bring this up forever.”

“absolutely.”

“you’re the worst.”

“you’re the cutest.”

azzi rolled onto her back with a quiet sigh and closed her eyes again. “fine. i’m not moving.”

paige grinned and leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“good. you’re exactly where i want you.”

that night, for the first time in a week, azzi stayed up later than paige.

paige had conked out early, finally letting her body stop pretending it was still in danger. azzi, sitting on the bed in fresh sweats, looked over at her — tangled in the blanket, mouth slightly open, hair a mess.

she looked peaceful. for once.

azzi leaned back against the headboard and just watched her for a second.

it was weird. not the sickness. not the clinginess. but how easy it had been, despite all that.

she’d fought paige every step of the way, like she always did when she felt vulnerable. but paige — annoying, dramatic, unrelenting paige — had just stayed. quiet when she needed to be. soft when it mattered. present. every moment.

and somehow, that made her more insufferable.

but in a way azzi was never going to admit out loud. not more than once, anyway.

she slid under the blanket beside her, careful not to wake her, and curled in just close enough.

paige stirred.

eyes still closed, she mumbled, “you back?”

“yeah.”

“you still warm?”

azzi exhaled slowly. “a little.”

paige smiled in her sleep, nudging closer.

“good,” she whispered. “means i can hold you.”

azzi rolled her eyes, but she didn’t move. didn’t say anything else.

didn’t need to.

[monstersholygrail]

I am here to ask for more monster fucker scientist nerd, BUT

With a moth hybrid reader (like they lowkey are just mothman but a Luna moth) who can’t talk but is very smart and squeaks likes moths do sometimes

I’m sorry I just rarely see the ‘reader is monster’ kind of thing and I really like weird nerd for some reason

You write so good I love ittt

Ayyye, very cool idea!! And don’t apologize, you’re all good, babe. I like reader!monster and nerds too (and thank you oh my goodness!!)

The Scientist throws the newspaper onto the counter with a scowl on his face. ‘Government Scientist Breaks Out of Facility with Hybrid: Insider Conspiracy?’

The nerve of that guy. Letting his passion and lust warp his brain like that. To ruin an entire government study and all for what? Love. To have a mate. He would never make a mistake like that if he got the chance. Just once chance and they’d all see how brilliant he was!

Bugs were his field of study. Close to Hybrids. If only they had picked him instead he could’ve shown them the benefits and uses to what a bug can produce. His entire home lab is lit up with the evidence of it. Countless vials fill the rows of shelves along his walls. Each and every one of them glowing a lovely neon color.

Suddenly a banging at the glass door that leads to his patio shakes the scientist out of his dark thoughts. Turning around he watches as you, a Moth Hybrid, walks right into the door. Over and over again, your eyes glazed over as you look into the light.

Despite knowing what brought you here, the scientist remains just as curious about you. He gently guides you inside and helps you to focus on him instead of the vials. Next he tries to get you to speak, to explain yourself. He can’t figure out how annoyed to be at your interruption until you do. But when you open your mouth all you do is let out the tiniest little squeaks that grate against his eardrums.

He guesses you said something though as a second later you’re popping out of your seat and scurrying about. Your wings nearly knocking into everything around you in a way that has his heart jumping up into his throat. He watches you with rapt attention as you walk around his lab, mixing things together. He wants to stop you, to tell you you’re messing everything up, but he’s mesmerized by you. The way your green wings shine against the light of the vials.

Eventually you walk over and hand him something. It takes him far longer than he’s willing to admit to realize you had made a breakthrough in his recent hypothesis. He looks between you and the vial in awe, wondering exactly how long you had been watching him.

After such a discovery the scientist felt he couldn’t truly kick you out. You were now a team. And as the months passed in which you two worked together. It became more. He kisses you first thing when he walks into the lab, he asks you your thoughts even though all you can do is squeak in return, and he lets you take lead when you’re onto something he shockingly didn’t notice.

It’s as close to marital bliss as the scientist could ever imagine himself being. And it seems you feel that way too as one day, the both of you working furiously in the lab together, you bring him a vial dull and black. He doesn’t understand but he’s getting quite used to the feeling. You motion between the vial and your belly before touching his. Restoring the motion until it dawns on him.

You want to have babies with him. Correction— you want him to have babies with you. He’d be carrying them. He looks down at the vial, his expression full of contemplation. He would have to take it easy on his work, leaving most of it to you. He’d be growing multiple lives inside his body. He’d be giving up his chance to make a difference in order to do this with you.

He quickly takes the vial and downs it in a single gulp, exhaling shakily. He knows he made the right choice. Because he may be giving up the chance to make a difference but he’d be making a difference in his own life. In yours. And with your arrival he’s learned over time that that’s enough.

A heat slowly overcomes his body and he can feel something inside of him expanding. Making room for the eggs you’ll deposit inside him. The urge to slam you down on the lab counter and fuck you till you breed him seizes control of his actions till he does exactly as the urge demands.

You look so beautiful, glittering amongst the shining lights. Yet you’re the brightest thing he’s ever seen and he’s drawn to you. Always has.

[occamstfs]

Couples Counseled: Care

Kyle, or rather Ky, endures his own session with Dr. Lucien. Safe to say he'll be coming out the perfect bottom for the top he led his boyfriend to be.

And here's part two! Seems Sean has little need for a masc boyfriend, fortunately turnabout is fair play as Ky becomes the twink he oh so desperately craves. Enjoy this rare twinkification! -Occam

One second Kyle watches the most polished man he’s ever seen escort his boyfriend away. He turns to look at the receptionist whose unwavering smile continues to shine under the harsh light of the waiting room. And then he blinks, and he’s in a small office. He flinches back as he sees the man who led his boyfriend away seconds ago inspecting paperwork in his hands. 

While Sean’s response at being found in this unfamiliar place was one of fear and almost immediate attempts to flee, Kyle’s blood is already burning with rage at the surreal situation. “Where the fuck am I!?” Lucien opens his mouth but Kyle shouts once more before the therapist can speak, “You better explain whatever the hell is going on dude- where’s Sean!?”

The doctor gestures for Kyle to sit down and despite his still flowing anger he feels some out of body compulsion dragging him back to the couch. Unwillingly pacified for now, he stares daggers at the therapist and crosses his arms, flexing them to try and burn some of the still coursing energy.

Satisfied that Kyle will give him a moment to speak, Lucien addresses his question, “Sean and I just finished our time together for the day, it was exceedingly productive in fact. In no small part thanks to your splendid answers on the survey Ky.” Kyle pulls at the hair on his arm as he scowls at the doctor, obviously that can’t be right. He went out of his way to make sure Sean would blow a gasket.

Sensing his client’s confusion, Lucien’s smile grows wider as he aims another wrench to throw into Kyle’s mind, “Well now Ky, surely you remember passing him in the hall don’t you?” Kyle’s brow furrows and he prepares to shout that he can’t remember anything from before getting in this room, arms burning with the desire to swing. But then Lucien waves his fingers and in his mind Kyle sees a man. 

He feels the heat radiating off the sweaty man’s body, sees his cock bulging through his sweatpants. In the memory he’s pulled close, into the chest of the man with bulging arms and held against hard hairy pecs as a hand is stuffed into his own pants to caress his ass. The beast of a man speaks but Kyle can’t make out what he says, distracted by the deep rumble of his voice resonating through his chest as the man’s massive hand squeezes his barely defined ass even harder.

Uncomfortable at being so close to a man he can’t reconcile as his boyfriend, Kyle shakes off the memory and finds himself back in the office. Only now does he notice that he can still feel where the man gripped his ass. He remembers doing so countless times to twinks he found on the dance floor, he remembers doing just that to Sean even! Though as he tries to remember feeling his perky ass bulging in between his fingers he sees his memory change. He feels his boyfriend’s waxed glutes grow hairy as curls lengthen to brush against his fingers as the ass hardens, as his back widens, as he turns around to show Kyle what a real top can do.

Kyle clutches at his head as it stings with a migraine, the therapist ready to move on speaks up, "Everything alright Ky?” he frowns at Lucien’s question, “Can you stop calling me that?” 

Lucien feigns shock, “Oh? Is that not what you want to be called? Do forgive me! It’s just what Sean wrote on your form you see.” Kyle just sighs, I guess that’s little bite back at all compared to what Kyle wrote on his form, he grunts in annoyance and motions for Lucien to begin.

Straightening his papers he smirks and proceeds as planned, “Off to the races then! I’m sure you remember question one from filling out the form yourself eh?” He pauses though interrupts Kyle before he can respond, “What is your favorite quality of your partner? Oof your dear there does have quite poorly handwriting, but he says: ‘how much Ky cares’, well isn’t that sweet?”

Kyl continues staring at the therapist who stares back, unblinking. He’s kicking himself for signing them up for the lowest rated couples counselor he could find. Though given that Sean seems to have played along and not promptly come out and harangued him for his answers, maybe he’s not in the dog house after all? It’s just three questions, Kyl figures if he rushes through them they’ll be out of there spick and span and he can apologize for being such an ass to Sean.

Sean… He feels his heart flutter as he thinks of his boyfriend, eyes drifting around the room he rubs his arm as he’s suddenly distracted by how full he is of affection for a man he cannot quite picture. Turning his attention back to the therapist, “Can you repeat that?” Smirking with half-lidded eyes, “Of course! Sean loves how much Ky cares.”

Ky’s tight-lipped grimace twitches as he cannot help but smile, something in his foggy mind shifts mushy with care for a man he wasn’t even willing to go to a single therapy session for. His chest quivers with the intensity of how much he feels. Clenching his jaw he chokes back a sob as his eyes water with guilt. Struck with feeling so intense he can’t understand. As the wall of stoicism he has long defended begins to crumble, he knows something unnatural is happening.

Through gritted teeth, pushing down emotions greater than he’s ever felt he cries out at Lucien, “What are you doing to me.” Lucien just tilts his head with a curious grin, “Why now Kyle, what do you possibly mean?” His pupils shake in his eyes as he’s called Kyle, that’s? That’s not his name? Behind emotion so strong that he can scarcely feel anything, Ky feels some now alien part of himself sealed away. His gruff, emotionally stunted self sealed away as Lucien clears his throat to move onto the next question.

“Perhaps if Sean’s first answer was a little overwhelming we should move on then Ky, hm? What do you hope to achieve from your couples counseling sessions? Decidedly less flattering an answer- ‘wish Ky would lose some weight and clean up a bit’ hrm, ‘bitchs too hairy’ Well a little disjointed but there you have it. What do you think about that, Ky?”

And so Ky learns that his overflowing emotion is not limited to affection and bliss. Too Hairy!? Sean’s always loved his body hair! His hand flies to his chest in indignance as he is shocked by how much Sean’s words hurt him. Looking down at his hairy arm gracing even hairier pecs, he tears up anew staring at fur coverage that now fills him with embarrassment. 

As he sits there stewing in discomfort as he has to hold himself back from tearing strands of hair from his skin. Then his mind is awash with a numb fog as the miraculous begins to happen. Hairs covering his chest begin slowly retracting. At first they seem shorn away, as if a razor blade was sweeping through the forest of hair like scythe. But as they continue to retract and disappear, the pale skin underneath is revealed to be smoothing and softening as if he never grew body hair to begin with.

Looking at his smooth chest in wonder he covers his face with a hand and is shocked to find that it is not simply his carpeted chest that has been struck hairless. Under his clumsy fingertips he feels his scratchy beard fading away, teardrops coursing down smooth skin onto a jawline that has not been free from stubble since high school. His free hand goes to his crotch as he feels his pubes retract into a pruned garden and the hair tickling his legs is waxed away. The quivering anxiety in Ky’s chest sinks lower as he feels butterflies in his stomach. Suddenly a strange idea flickers through his mind, ‘Sean will be so proud of me! When he sees how smooth I am-’ and then he shakes it off. The alien thought reminds him of the man watching, of the man who must be changing him, he feels the waning urge to fight back return. Though as he looks at his hands, as he feels his buttery, sensitive skin, he can’t even remember what just changed. Did something change?

His voice cracks and, beneath his notice, he speaks with a tone worlds away from the gruff domineering voice he once knew as his own, “Doctor LucIEN- Ugh- Are you doing something to me? I, I can’t remember,” The doctor scratches his beard, forcing some deja vu through Ky. The memory of him playing with a beard on his own face is clearer than anything. And then his head burns with pain as it changes. Clutching at his own head he grunts as he realizes he was misremembering! That was Sean’s beard, obviously. 

Ky fights back a giggle as he quickly recontextualizes the man in the hallway was his boyfriend all along! Seeing a look of reverie on Ky’s new hairless face, Lucien’s grin almost twists into a grimace as he demands the envelope be pushed further, “Did you miss the first part of his answer, do you not think yourself too bulky?” Lucien’s eyes burn into Ky as he shakes his head in disagreement, “Oh? Well Sean certainly seemed to think so.” Turning around the sheet for Ky to read the answer, the once DL man pauses.

Mouth falling ajar, he quietly moans as he watches a hand that he swears has spent countless hours lifting weights suddenly loses its callouses. He sees his palm thin as his bicep almost atrophies. Over a decade of hard work keeping himself strong, broing out at the gym, showing off his strength and dominating other men quickly begins to fade from his mind. After a moment the idea that he would dominate anything becomes laughable, how could he possibly dominate anyone? 

Smaller hands fondle his chest as pecs that he was once incredibly proud of follow the route of his thinning arms and body hair and retract. Perky nipples remain as his weighty pecs shrink into nothing, leaving behind something flat, little at all remaining to grasp but skin and the barest hint of a feminine figure that he knows would drive Sean wild. That always has driven him almost mindless with hunger, he can almost feel the man’s grasp on his hips as his waist thins. Moaning at the memory a smile returns to Lucien’s face as he prepares to finish this new couple.

“Lastly, what is something you wish your partner did? Any guesses as to what he wrote?” Caught off guard by being addressed, Ky shakes his head and unconsciously poses. Head tilted and slightly downturned as he awaits what Sean is going to ask of him, already knowing he is more than happy to fulfill whatever it may be. 

Even sitting there before Lucien finally seals his fate, he continues to change. Lips grow plumper as he pushes down an urge to flirtily bite them. His jawline smooths and his back arches. The cock that was once his pride and joy shrinks as it is no longer the primary tool of his satisfaction. While just about every inch of his form compacts inward his ass puts on mass, becoming the perfect bubble butt for Sean to do what he will.

“Succinct, your partner simply answered, ‘for him to admit he was mine.’” There’s a tickle in his chest as he finds the statement absurd, Ky is his? Letting loose, the new twink giggles to his heart's content, swaying back and forth as every breath and break between shrill laughter his arms perfectly frame his new thin form, “I mean girl! What are we doing here!?” Limp-wristed hand covering his face as he leans back to laugh, “Sean was so right this is just a waste of time!”

Removing his glasses and performing placation, Lucien raises his hands in mimesis of defeat, “By all means Ky I think you’re right, you and Sean are clearly perfect for each other and have no further need of my services.” Ky stands and stumbles forward, tripping with vertigo from his lower vantage, he starts to spill onto the floor before, from out of nowhere, his waist is yanked by a man towering over him. Lightheaded from the fall, and in general, Ky turns with a grin to see his Sean haloed by the office light pulling him up.

The twink is pulled to Sean’s chest with ease, feet lifted off the floor as the behemoth raises him into a sloppy kiss. Ky giggles as his lover’s beard tickles his face before bending back and winking at the therapist upside down, “Thanks for reminding us we don’t need anyone but each other Doc!” Sean grunts in turn and starts carrying his bottom out the door, the twink waves farewell as the Doctor watches in repose, “Ta ta~” 

Ky throws his arms around Sean’s neck as the pair make their way outside of the office. The brute sneers at the receptionist he still doesn’t trust as the lovers the place never to return. Wistfully Ky tries to remember why they came in to begin with, “Do you know why went in there babe?” Sean shrugs and grunts as he feels Ky bounces with his shoulders, bumping a thigh against his crotch, igniting his hunger.

Exhaling like a bull when they make it to the car he throws Ky into the backseat and quickly falls over him. “Babe don’t forget to close the door! We’re in public!” Sneering out at the empty parking lot, Sean obeys and slams it shut before returning his attention to one of the only things that matter to him, stuffing this twink with his massive cock.

The door to Lucien’s office closes by itself as he folds up the surveys and puts them into a file cabinet near his desk. Another couple successfully helped. It shouldn’t be long at all before the pair start creating content and attracting more men to seek his services. After all there’s sure to never be much on the mind of either men besides the next fuck. Surely no one who stumbles across their videos will be able to resist being drawn to changing themselves.

Lucien smirks as he can picture the car rocking in his mind as he wonders where to away to in the meantime. What lucky sod is he to help next, only time will tell.

[taegimood]

— nudes?! (c.bg) ♡

pairing: choi beomgyu x fem!reader genre: best friends to ?, non-idol au, suggestive rating: nsfw, mdni wc: 1.2k warnings: mention/description of reader’s nudes, beomgyu imagines Doing Things and gets hard, implication of sexy time at the end, they’re both horny for each other synopsis: what happens when your best friend who secretly has the hots for you accidentally sees your nudes?

requested forever ago by @mapofthemazeinthemirror <3 [blog status: semi-hiatus, requests closed]

| yeonjun ver. | soobin ver. | taehyun ver. | kai ver. |

masterlist

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beomgyu is often not too hard to read.

your goofy best friend who'd rather cause mischief than let a situation turn boring, who loves to stir things up and watch the chaos unfold around him.

but one thing that you just can't seem to get a grasp on... is how he really feels about you.

as well as you can confidently say that you know choi beomgyu, the never-ending mixed signals he throws at you may just be your downfall in that department, from the outrageous flirting towards you on one end of the spectrum to the bragging of his latest phone number acquirement on the other.

i mean, what are you supposed to think when he's sweetly tucking your hair behind your ear one second and then commenting on how pretty that passing girl is the next? (unbeknownst to you, he's actually just trying to gauge your reaction).

but at this point you've had enough of the guessing games. you're gonna take things into your own hands and find out exactly how he really feels.

...or at least... that's what you told yourself, when you'd laid out across your sheets and took those coy little pictures, fully nude and fully ready to "accidentally" send them to your best friend to see what he would do;

but now, you release a resigned sigh as you set your phone aside untouched and tug your — his — sweater further over your shoulders in the chilly air of your room.

"stupid beomgyu," you grumble. "stupid me... stupid idea."

your lost confidence seems to mock you as your phone suddenly buzzes with a text from none other than the exact man of the hour, and you huff as you read it.

— hellspawn 🙄🤎: i'm coming over

his contact name feels as fitting as ever. "right, just invite yourself on in," you mutter to yourself (as if that's not exactly what the two of you always do anyways).

you have half a mind to respond with something snarky, but instead you just leave it be as you stare down at the nudes still sitting hauntingly unsent in your end of the message box, and with a shiver you resort to sticking your tongue out at his contact picture and leaving the text unanswered as you punch the air in a mini fit and toss your phone away into your pillows.

"i hate boys."

and with that, you grouchily trudge your way into the living room to start up the show that you've been binging together, phone and pictures forgotten.

unfortunately.

because what you don't know, but what you're soon about to find out, is just how crazy your best friend actually is about you — and as beomgyu stands frozen outside of your apartment building, staring down at his phone with a short-circuiting brain and eyes growing blurred from lack of blinking in the chilly night air, convenience store bag full of snacks falling forgotten to the ground — well.

he didn't even buy a lottery ticket, but it seems he's just won.

your naked body glows back at him from his screen as he fumbles back into motion, urging his fingers to remember their own mobility as he gulps and swipes hungrily through the array of photos that you'd sent.

hurriedly he brushes his long hair out of his eyes as it falls forward, his hunched frame in the middle of the sidewalk probably resembling that of a homeless man as he holds his phone close, shielding the sight of you from any prying eyes (there are none) while his thoughts suddenly erupt into every possible direction.

is this really happening? is this real life? what does this mean? is this a confession? she obviously wants me too, then, right? shit, should i have dressed better? do i smell okay? should i run back home and — oh god, what if these were meant for someone else? did she really mean to send them? what if she never speaks to me again? oh god, she's so.. she's so.. holy fuck.

beomgyu is breathless as his eyes roam across your soft skin, your pretty curves, the sly hint of a smirk peeking from your lips as your finger slips between them —

he feels his cock straining tighter against his pants the longer that he scrolls.

relishing in the sight that he's been dreaming of for so long, he imagines it were his hand wrapped gently around your throat instead of your own, his fingers caressing your bare tits and sliding down beyond the camera where his imagination is left to run wild — fuck, he's gotta get up there.

forcing himself to tear his eyes away, he quickly gathers the scattered snacks and stuffs them mindlessly back into their convenience store bag as he hurries towards the entrance of your building, not even needing to think twice as he inputs the code and all but lunges for the elevator.

"alright, be cool, be cool, be cool."

the deep breaths he's been taking and mini self pep talk he's been mumbling all but crumble away meaningless when he types in your apartment's passcode and opens the door to see you standing there by the couch wearing his sweater, so big on you that it's easy to pretend that your little pair of shorts underneath aren't even there;

and he's suddenly grateful for the long length of his hair as he feels the way his ears burn red underneath, but the inevitable flush on his face doesn't escape your notice as you glance up at him for a moment before turning your attention back to the tv remote in your hand.

"why do you look like you just ran a fucking marathon?" you scoff. "did the ahjumma downstairs hit you with her grocery bag again?"

but beomgyu is far beyond saving as images of you underneath him flicker across his mind, now no longer fueled by his imagination but by the real thing that you'd just graced him with minutes before.

"those for me?"

you pause. his voice is raspy, strained, almost breathless.

you glance back up at him. your brows pull together in confusion.

"huh?"

beomgyu barely breaks eye contact with you as he unlocks his phone, wordlessly holding it up to show you, eyes raking over your face for your reaction;

the remote falls to the floor with a thunk as your eyes widen and hands fly up to clap over your mouth in shock.

what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck- I SENT THEM?!?!

you rip your eyes away from the sight of your own body on his screen to meet his burning stare, and when you do — all excuses fizzle away as a shiver runs along your spine and straight down to your core.

the desire pooled in your best friend's eyes is unlike any look you've ever seen on him before, breaths coming out labored from his chest though he tries to control them; and when he takes a step forwards and asks again, voice deep and words punctuated,

"were those for me?"

you're nothing but a goner as you answer him with shaky legs and a nod.

the triumphant grin that spreads across beomgyu's blushing face is downright sinful as his bag of snacks once again meets a forgotten fate on the ground — along with his jacket that he immediately shrugs off of his shoulders, already reaching for the hem of his sweatshirt as he moves towards you with well-mustered boldness and says,

"should've waited for me, sweetheart. we could’ve taken them together.”

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— taglist: @razsberrie, @saejinniestar, @hyukalyptus, @florestalio, @beomiracles, @kiss4baku, @hyukascampfire, @kejingken, @cherr4es, @stawmerry, @choikanghuening, @dawngyu, @soo-blue, @paradigms13

if you want to be added to my taglist and get notified whenever i post any writing, drop a comment or an ask and let me know! ♡

[cottagecore-moss-king]

Not so Artificial Intelligence

Inspired by This prompt: HERE  by @corkinavoid No beta we die like Danny and Jason. Do not steal, take, or repost my writing without permission, I do not consent to my art being used in AI training. 

Tim had just finished attaching the wires of the speaker into the bat computer for Betty when the speakers began to crackle. 

“What is this? Wait, can you hear me?” The voice that echoed out of the speakers was very distinctly not robotic, or mechanical. It very much had human intonation… and a mid-western accent???

The gathered family froze and stared in shock. Dick and Stephanie were here as a joke, Babs, Tim, and Bruce were there as the techies, and despite Damian’s protests, he was also standing besides Bruce. Despite the gathering of bats, none of them could have expected this. A few hands went to emergency beacons and cellphones, before pausing.

“Hello Red Robin!” The voice cheerfully called. Taking steps back and glancing around the cave at Babs, who stared at Bruce, who stared at Tim as he clicked his super beacon. 

“Betty?”

“I mean, you do know me as such, but I actually prefer Danny, he/they.” Babs pointed at Bruce, who looked at Tim, who lamely motioned towards Babs. 

“Who uh. Who installed you?” His voice was most certainly not squeaky thanks for asking. 

“Oh, well uh, technically no-one, I accidentally did it myself.” The screen turned on and started to glitch out to a camera. It eventually settled on the sketching program, which popped a smiley face onto itself.

“Who are you” Bruce growled, as he switched into batman mode. Damian was glaring at the screen and the rest of the family had inched into a defensive formation. 

The entrance door entered and Superman walked out of it. 

“What seems to be the issue B?”

“OMG It’s superman! You’re like, my second favorite hero!”

“Oh, uh, than-er” Bruce glared at him, with no idea of what this entity was, it was always a good idea to follow fey rules. “That’s very much appreciated. Who is your first?”

“Martian Manhunter obviously.” Betty, or Danny as they were now referred to as, began to sketch out something on the app. 

“I got into a fight with a technomancer. I figured I could just phase out but he did some magic and now I’m stuck. Very rude if you ask me.”

“Ah, I see.” Supermans face implied that he very much did not see. “So, are you a martian perhaps? With the phasing and Manhunter as your favoratie.”

“Oh no, I’m ahhhh….” The cheery tone died as Danny tried to find the words, “I’m like a spirit, yeah, I guess that’s the right way to put it right now.”

“Were you human before this?” butted in Tim. Now that the seeming threat had passed, (you could never be too careful, no shut up Nightwing he is not paranoid, just cautious) the family had relaxed their stance and Barbra had rolled over to the computer screen. 

“Technically???” 

Danny did not sound so sure of himself.

“It’s not a problem if you aren’t, you can tell that we don’t really care if you are human or not.” 

Superman floated carefully down to the ground besides Bruce, but without actually touching down. Perhaps he simply forgot that they were friends with non-humans.

“Tell that to the gov.” he snarked back, and that was definitely teenager snark. 

“Wait shit. No, no no no, I take that back, don’t tell the government anything, I didn’t say nothin’!” he gasped and staticed out. 

“What do you mean tell it to the government?”

“NOPE, NUH UH. I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING YOU CAN’T PROVE IT, I WANT MY LAWYER!”

“Alright,” Bruce pacified putting his hands up “Let me just call a friend and they can get you out.”

“Wait really? Where’s Mr. I’m so dark and broody tell me everything?”

Yep, that’s teenager snark right there, Bruce thought as his eye twitch and his kids snickered. 

“Sooo, how did this technomancer trap you, Danny?” Dick strolled over to the chair in front of the computer and flopped down spinning around in lazy circles. 

“Oh, well you see it started when…” Danny's voice faded off as Bruce took his league communicator out and stepped around a corner with Kal to call up Zatanna. 

“Hey Batman! What’s up?”

“We need you down in the batcave, some seemingly civilian has been trapped in the computer for a couple weeks now, and we’ve only just gotten into communication with them. They say it was technomancy.” He rumbled. He would have to suit up and manage to get Danny not to spill any of their identities, this just turned into a major headache to deal with. Batman hates magic. 

Once all of the children were suited up and Danny had been given an explanation, they were all patently waiting for Zatanna to arrive. 

The zeta tubes finally lit up with her arrival as she walked towards the gathered group holding her bag.

Halfway through greeting she paused, and stared blankly the screen. Everyone else shot curious glances, backwards, some more obvious than others. Did Nightwing seriously need to turn his head like that, he swears his eldest has bones, but sometimes he seriously starts to doubt himself. 

On the screen is a smiley face with a hand emoji. And a little drawing of a stick figure with white hair, green eyes, and a black suit. 

“Hello! I am Danny, I’m so sorry you had to come all this way to help me, I’d offer you something but I don’t even have a body right now.” One awkward laugh later, and Bruce wanted to have had his head in her hands. 

“I don’t worry, I can fix this. It’ll be a pain, but I can.”

While Zatanna sat up the spell and sent Kal out to go to Metropolis, (less suspicious for him to be buying things than Gotham), Bruce decided to stand around in the shadows while waiting to be useful. His kids, were off making friends with the strange person in the computer however. Laughing and teasing, he’s almost certain that Stephanie and Dick are trying to convince Danny to stay around and get adopted, despite Danny and Damian’s protests. 

After thirty minutes, Zatanna was ready to do the spell, and Danny was saying goodbye. 

As the light shone through the sigils written on the board and Zattana continued her muttering and waving, Danny added one last thing. 

“And I added a file of something for you guys to look at, please please please look into it! I hope I can see you soon!”

And with a final flash, Danny was gone, leaving the batfam without their lovely AI/new friend. Zatannna wrapped things up and Batman escorted her back to the Zeta tube with Clark, thanking them briefly. And with that, Clark and Zatanna left with Two flashes of light. 

Now, time to see what that file was that Danny had added. 

[thedensworld]

Out The Door | l. c

Pairing: Idol Chan! x Reader!

Genre: exes au!

Type: angst, fluff

Word count: 15k

Summary: Chan was certain that you two should never have broken up. So, he made up his mind—he was going to find a way to be with you again.

Chan smirked at the bouquet of roses sitting on his counter, the vibrant petals almost mocking him. He felt betrayed—by himself, by the memories that refused to fade. Who was there to blame? It was February 14th, after all. A day that used to mean something. A day when he’d pick out flowers for you—never chocolates, because you didn’t like them.

Now, he was on the verge of laughing at himself. How pathetic was it that, even after a year, he still remembered every little thing about you? The way you preferred lilies over roses but accepted them anyway because he had terrible taste in flowers. The way you’d roll your eyes at grand gestures but secretly adored them. The way Valentine’s Day had never really mattered to you—until it did.

And yet, here he was, staring at a bouquet that wasn’t even meant for you, feeling like a fool.

"That's pretty," you had said a year ago, your gaze lingering on the red roses displayed in the flower shop window as you passed by.

"You want it?" Chan had asked playfully, his tone light but his intent obvious. He would have gotten them for you in a heartbeat.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "There's no reason to get me flowers."

Chan had only smiled, his fingers brushing gently against your cheek as he steered the wheel with his other hand. His voice was soft yet certain when he said, "I don't even need a reason to give you the world."

Now, standing in his kitchen, Chan exhaled sharply, shaking his head at himself. How pathetic. How utterly ridiculous that even after a year, the memory still clung to him like a ghost that refused to be exorcised.

Pushing himself up from the barstool, he grabbed the bouquet in one swift motion. His strides were long and deliberate as he walked to the bin, gripping the same exact roses you had once admired. Without a second thought, he tossed them in.

The petals rustled against the trash bag, a quiet, almost mocking sound. Chan stared for a moment longer, then turned away, jaw clenched.

It was just a bouquet of flowers. Just another February 14th. And yet, it still felt like letting go.

The doorbell rang. Chan let out a sigh, already knowing who it was. It had to be Hansol and Seungkwan.

Dragging himself toward the monitor, he glanced at the screen and chuckled when his guess was confirmed—his two friends stood outside, waiting.

"Go," Chan muttered as he pressed the button to let them in.

He barely lifted his finger before Hansol’s amused laughter came through the speaker, followed by Seungkwan’s dramatic whine. "Why? We brought chicken!"

Shaking his head, Chan unlocked the door. Moments later, they strolled into his living room like they owned the place, setting down a box of fried chicken and a few cans of beer on the coffee table. Chan simply stood there, watching them move around, as if they had done this a thousand times before.

"Why are you guys here?" he finally asked, settling onto the couch.

"Can’t we visit our favorite little brother?" Seungkwan teased, grinning.

Chan cringed. "Never say that again."

Hansol chuckled, stretching his arms before reaching for a can of beer. "There’s a new chicken shop nearby. Everyone says it’s good."

Chan smirked at the excuse. Yeah, right. Deep down, he knew the truth.

A year ago, they were here too. Sitting in this very spot. Eating chicken. Drinking beer. Trying to distract him the night you walked out of his life.

*

Chan stepped into the bakery, his eyes instinctively scanning the space. The warm scent of freshly baked bread filled the air, but it did little to calm the nervous hammering in his chest. His breath hitched at the thought of seeing you again.

Hansol—completely out of sobriety that night—had blurted out something that caught Chan off guard. His so-called "new favorite bakery," the one where he always grabbed kaya bread before practice, was your bakery.

"She opened a bakery?" Chan had blinked, his voice laced with disbelief. Opening a bakery had always been your dream.

Hansol had nodded, looking almost guilty. "I've known since, like, half a year ago."

Seungkwan had chimed in with a sigh, "We’ve known. I told him about the bakery… and we met her."

Chan had tilted his head, eyebrows furrowing. "Why are you telling me this?"

Then, as if catching himself, he shook his head. "No—I mean… That’s great news. She always wanted this." He let out a forced chuckle, but the nervous energy lingered. "I just don’t get why you’re telling me now."

Seungkwan and Hansol exchanged glances before Seungkwan exhaled. "I met her last week," he admitted, pausing for a beat before continuing. "And… she asked about you."

Chan's stomach twisted. He swallowed.

"Now—hear me out," Seungkwan pressed on, his voice softer, more careful. "I know the breakup wasn’t great. I get it. But from where I’m standing, it seems like you two still have feelings for each other."

What made him say that?

Had he been that obvious? Had he been showing everyone that he still had feelings for you?

Chan didn’t like the thought of it. The idea that his emotions were visible—that anyone could see right through him—made his stomach churn. He didn’t want people to think he was pathetic, still holding on to someone who had walked away.

Still loving someone who had already left him.

"What can I help you with?" a shopkeeper asked as Chan wandered through the bakery, his eyes subtly scanning the space.

He turned his head, expecting—hoping—to see you. But it was just the shopkeeper.

Forcing a polite smile, Chan bit down on his lower lip, trying to push away his disappointment. "Do you have any recommendations?" he asked, shifting his attention to the employee.

The shopkeeper's face lit up as he gestured toward the sandwich section. "Here’s our new menu! We have tuna, beef, and bacon sandwiches—perfect for breakfast."

Chan nodded absentmindedly, barely registering the words. "I’ll take ten bacon and ten beef, please." He pulled his wallet from his pocket, handing over his card.

The shopkeeper quickly packed the order, then, to Chan’s surprise, handed him a cup of Americano with a bright smile. "This one’s on the house. Thank you so much!"

Chan hesitated before lifting the cup slightly in acknowledgment. "Oh, you don’t have to… but thanks," he murmured, accepting the drink.

Once he settled into his car, he glanced at the neatly packed boxes of sandwiches in the backseat. He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head at himself. Pathetic.

Taking a sip of the Americano as he pulled onto the road, he let the familiar bitterness settle on his tongue—except, something was different. His brows furrowed as he pulled the cup away, eyeing it curiously.

That taste.

Americano with berry syrup.

Your favorite.

*

Chan scrunched up his face the moment the taste hit his tongue.

You burst into laughter at his expression, quickly pulling the cup away from him. "Why do you look like that?" you teased, amusement dancing in your eyes.

"It's weird!" Chan exclaimed, wiping his lips as if that would rid him of the lingering taste. "It’s bitter, sweet, and sour all at once. Coffee shouldn’t taste like this."

You smiled, holding the cup close to your chest. "No… it tastes good. It has everything—the sweetness, the bitterness, and the tang of berries. Just like life."

Chan let out a chuckle, raising a brow. "Since when did you get this sentimental?"

You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. "Excuse me? I’ve always been a sentimental person!"

Chan shook his head, giving you a playful look of disbelief. "You? Sentimental?" He scoffed. "You literally just leave my goodnight texts on read every night."

You giggled, tilting your head at him. "That’s because they’re too sweet. I was speechless."

Chan rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. "Oh, so you were so speechless that you couldn’t even type a single reply?"

Chan shook his head, exhaling as he tossed the empty cup into the trash before stepping into the practice room.

From across the room, Seungkwan’s sharp eyes immediately caught sight of the plastic bags in Chan’s hands. He recognized the logo instantly—it was your bakery. His gaze flickered to Chan, suspicion creeping into his expression.

Hansol, however, was too excited about the food to notice anything. The moment he got his hands on a sandwich, he eagerly unwrapped it and took a huge bite. "This is delicious!" he mumbled, already reaching for another.

Seungkwan, still observing Chan, took a bite of his own.

"It does taste good. Where did you get this, Chan?"

Before Chan could answer, the other members in the room—who had also helped themselves to the sandwiches—started chiming in.

"Whoa, this is really good."

"I could eat this every day."

"Seriously, where did you buy these?"

Chan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced at the growing pile of empty sandwich wrappers. He hadn't planned for this much attention.

"This is from the place where I always get my kaya bread," Hansol said nonchalantly, taking another bite.

But the moment the words left his mouth, his chewing slowed. His eyes widened as realization sank in, and he snapped his head toward Chan.

"Wait—really?!"

As if finally processing his own words, Hansol immediately glared at the younger, his eyes practically screaming, You went there?!

Chan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he avoided Hansol’s accusing stare. He knew this was coming. Meanwhile, Seungkwan let out a knowing exhale, arms crossed, as if he had expected this exact scene to unfold.

The other members, noticing the sudden shift in Hansol’s behavior, exchanged confused glances.

"What’s up with him?" one of them muttered, glancing between Hansol and Chan.

Seungkwan, ever the smooth talker, quickly waved them off with a casual grin. "Ah, you know Hansol. He’s just being a little extra again."

Hansol scoffed but kept his mouth shut, though the way he kept side-eyeing Chan made it obvious—this conversation wasn’t over.

*

"He came again today."

You glanced up as you packed the leftover pastries into the boxes Sunoo had set up on the counter. You knew exactly who he was talking about—Chan, your idol ex-boyfriend. But for the sake of keeping up appearances (and maybe your own pride), you feigned ignorance.

"Who?" you asked, keeping your voice light.

Sunoo shrugged, his legs dangling off the counter like a kid who had just discovered something amusing. His knowing smirk didn’t help.

"That well-known ex of yours," he mumbled.

You snorted. "No one even knows we were dating. Never got caught." There was a hint of pride in your voice, as if that secrecy had been some kind of achievement.

Sunoo rolled his eyes. "I mean that well-known person who also happens to be your ex-boyfriend. Stop pretending you're not affected! He’s been coming here almost every day for a week."

Your hands stilled for a moment, but you quickly resumed packing, forcing a chuckle. "Maybe he just really likes the sandwiches."

Sunoo gave you a deadpan stare. "Right. And I’m the Crown Prince of Korea."

"And?" you asked, sealing the box filled with leftover donuts before heading to the sink to wash your hands.

"And you’ve been hiding in the kitchen every single time he comes in, i thought you still love him." Sunoo huffed in frustration, arms crossed over his chest. The pout on his face made him look even cuter than usual, which only made you laugh.

"I do..." you admitted, drying your hands.

Sunoo’s eyebrows shot up. "Then?"

"That’s it," you shrugged, lifting the box into your arms.

Sunoo let out an exaggerated sigh, grabbing another box and trailing behind you as you made your way to the exit where your car was parked.

You popped open the backseat door and carefully placed the boxes inside. Tonight, you’d be dropping off the leftovers at the nearest police station—something you did regularly.

Sunoo, still not letting the topic go, leaned against the car with a pointed look. "With him constantly visiting, don’t you think it’s time to get back together? I mean, he might feel the same way."

You froze for just a second before turning to face him. Sunoo shifted under your gaze, suddenly looking unsure.

"Having the same feelings isn’t enough to get back together," you said softly.

Sunoo shrugged. "But at least it gives you a reason. Isn't love about finding a reason?"

You chuckled at his comment. "You're right. But how do you know that? Didn’t you just graduate high school?"

Sunoo snorted as if you had just said the dumbest thing he’d heard all year. "I might’ve dated more people than you, and I only graduated high school."

You rolled your eyes, but before you could respond, his voice softened. "But really. Stop denying your feelings. That’s what’s hurting you the most."

You sighed, slipping into the driver's seat. Sunoo stood there, watching you expectantly, but you simply started the car and drove away.

You weren’t denying your feelings. You never had.

You let them flow, like water, even after breaking up with Chan. You still celebrated his birthday and his band’s anniversary by preparing special treats at your bakery. You still kept up with his activities on social media.

You never once denied the warmth that still lingered in your heart.

But you refused to give yourself false hope.

The idea that Chan might still feel the same way—it was too dangerous to entertain. When Seungkwan and Hansol had shown up at your bakery out of nowhere, catching you off guard, they reassured you that they held no resentment toward you. Then, just as casually, they mentioned that Chan had gone through the hardest year of his life after the breakup. That he hadn’t shown a single sign of moving on.

And that was unlike him.

This was Chan—a man who had never let himself be alone for long. A man who, before you, had always found himself in a relationship.

Yet, a year had passed since you walked out that door. And he was still alone.

*

Meeting you at the police station wasn’t something on his to-do list—not today, not this month, not even this year. Yet, here you were.

Chan had just been about to step out, his younger brother trailing behind him, when he saw you standing there, frozen in place, holding a box of what he assumed were pastries. The sight of you made his heart race, and he felt a mix of surprise and anxiety.

Beside him, his brother cleared his throat awkwardly, as if he wasn’t the reason Chan was here in the first place.

Great. Another reason to slap the remaining puberty out of his high school brother:

1. Getting into a fight with another student.

2. Making Chan come all the way here to pick him up.

3. And now—leading him straight to you.

Also, what the hell were you doing here with pastries?

Chan's mind raced. He hadn't seen you since the breakup, and now, here you were, looking as beautiful as ever.

Before either of you could speak, an officer approached, breaking the thick tension hanging between you and Chan.

"Ms. Ji, good evening. Long time no see," the officer greeted politely.

Chan immediately shifted his gaze, suddenly very interested in the interior of the police station. He kept his expression neutral, but his ears burned at the sound of your name.

You smiled at the officer, handing him the box of pastries. "Good job for today, Officer. Thanks for the hard work." Your voice was soft—just like it used to be when you’d ask him if he had eaten after a long, exhausting day.

The officer beamed at you. "You didn’t have to come all the way here for this, Ms. Ji. But thank you so much!"

Then, as if only just noticing the thick, unspoken air between you and Chan, the officer glanced between the two of you.

"Do you two know each other?" he asked, clearly curious.

Chan stiffened. He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat felt dry.

But you? You barely hesitated.

"We’re acquaintances," you replied smoothly, sparing Chan the briefest glance before looking away again.

"I should go, good evening." You bid the officer goodbye with a polite nod, turning on your heel to leave. The officer walked you out to the entrance.

Chan looked conflicted, exhaling sharply before running a hand through his hair. Then, with a pointed look at his younger brother—a silent command—he made his intentions clear.

Go hail a cab.

For once, his brother didn’t argue. He simply sighed, pulling out his phone as he stepped toward the curb. Thank goodness. Even though he had just been detained for fighting with another student, at least he had the decency to recognize that Chan’s love life was a bigger mess.

Chan, however, had no time to dwell on that. His long strides carried him after you, his heartbeat picking up as the crisp night air bit at his skin.

"Hey."

You stopped.

Your fingers instinctively tightened around the strap of your bag before you slowly turned to face him.

"Hey."

It had been over a year, yet your voice still sounded exactly the same—soft, steady, untouched by heartbreak.

Chan swallowed, his hands digging deeper into his pockets. How did you still manage to look so unaffected?

"You, uh… come here often?"

A dry breath of amusement left you as you tilted your head slightly. "If you’re trying to make a joke, that was a terrible attempt."

He huffed out a short chuckle, shaking his head at himself. "Yeah, figured." His gaze flickered to the police station building, then back to the box in your arms. "You do this a lot? Bringing pastries to the station?"

You shrugged, adjusting your grip on the box. "Yeah. They work long hours, and I always have leftovers. Seemed like a good way to put them to use."

Chan nodded, but his expression remained unreadable. A small muscle in his jaw twitched, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite figure out how.

Of course you’d do something like this. Thoughtful. Considerate. Always looking out for others.

Still the same.

And yet, he couldn’t say the same about himself.

The silence between you stretched, thick with unspoken words. The last time you had been this close, it had been different. Warmer. Familiar. Now, there was a distance that couldn’t be measured in steps.

Chan exhaled, his breath visible in the cold. "It’s been a while."

You gave a small nod, your gaze unreadable. "Yeah, it has."

There were a million things he wanted to ask. How have you been? Are you happy? Do you still think about me the way I still think about you? But instead, all that came out was—

"You look good."

The words settled between you, heavier than they should have been.

You pressed your lips together before offering a small smile, the kind that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Thanks."

Chan wanted to say more, to keep you standing there just a little longer, but before he could, a car honked nearby. His brother waved him over from the curb, signaling that the cab had arrived.

You took that as your cue to leave, adjusting your grip on the box before turning slightly. "I should get going."

He nodded, even though everything in him wanted to stop you. "Yeah… me too."

Another pause. Another breath caught between the past and present.

"Take care, Chan."

And just like that, you were walking away.

Chan stood there, watching as you disappeared down the sidewalk, his hands clenching into fists in his pockets.

Funny. He had spent so much time convincing himself that seeing you again wouldn’t change anything.

But now, he wasn’t so sure.

*

That night, Chan found himself doing something he never thought he would—scrolling through your social media. The account he had unblocked just hours ago.

You didn’t post often, just the occasional pictures with friends or snapshots of your bakery. But as he scrolled, his eyes caught on the details—the way your hair had grown out before you cut it again, the soft waves framing your face in a way that tugged at something deep in his chest. That image stayed with him longer than he expected, lingering in the back of his mind like an old song he couldn’t shake.

Then his finger stopped.

A photo of your bakery.

Decorated for his birthday.

Chan’s eyes narrowed, his breath catching slightly as he took in the details. His face on the banners, the pastries colored to match his band’s theme—every little thing meticulously arranged. And the post date? Just last month.

Why would you do this?

You had no reason to. You weren’t together anymore. If anything, he thought you resented the fact that he had chosen his career over you.

Wasn’t that why you broke up in the first place?

A strange feeling curled in his stomach. He didn’t know what it was—regret? Hope? Confusion?

But then, as he scrolled further, the feeling twisted into something else entirely.

A group photo.

You, smiling, standing among friends. And beside you, a man.

His arm slung casually over your shoulders. Too casual. Too comfortable.

Chan’s jaw clenched. His fingers tightened around his phone as he zoomed in slightly, analyzing the guy like it was second nature. As a man himself, he knew that kind of touch. It wasn’t just friendly. There was something in the way the guy stood close to you, the way he seemed at ease, like he belonged there.

"Who the hell is this?" he muttered, brows furrowing.

Like a magnet, his eyes kept finding the same man in different posts. Sitting beside you. Standing beside you. Slinging his arm around yours. Even touching your cheek in one picture—something that had Chan’s stomach flipping uncomfortably.

"What’s up with this guy?" He snorted, irritation creeping into his tone.

He tried to check the guy’s profile, but you hadn’t tagged anyone. Not a single name. Smart. Frustratingly so.

And then—

A notification.

You had just posted an Instagram story.

Chan tapped on it immediately.

A simple, cryptic sentence:

“Even if there’s a reason… could it be the reason?”

His brows shot up.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He stared at the words, trying to decipher them, trying to connect them to the birthday post, to the pictures with that guy, to you.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt something unfamiliar creeping in—

The unsettling thought that maybe, just maybe—

He had been too late.

*

"That's your problem, Lee Chan. You're too possessive but insecure at the same time."

Seungkwan didn't hold back as he took a sip of his drink, lounging comfortably in his apartment. He, Jeonghan, and Chan had settled into an impromptu drinking session after Chan had shown up unannounced, dragging along bottles of soju and cans of beer—clearly looking for an outlet.

Jeonghan raised a brow, intrigued by the turn of conversation. “That could be true…”

Seungkwan chuckled, shaking his head. “That is true. If you want to have a good relationship, you only need one—either confidence or possessiveness. Look at Mingyu and Seungcheol hyung.”

"Seungcheol is a bit possessive, though," Jeonghan pointed out.

Seungkwan waved a dismissive hand. "That’s just a concept. It makes him look cute."

Chan groaned, running a hand down his face. “But think about it—how could I not be insecure when she never wanted to introduce me to her friends? Was it because of that guy?” His voice tightened on the last part, irritation creeping in.

Seungkwan sighed, exasperated. He pointed a finger at Chan to Jeonghan. “Look at this fool. You’re an idol, Chan. How could she introduce an idol as her boyfriend? Where’s your brain? Did you leave it behind at practice?”

Jeonghan nodded, though he was still weighing both sides. "I actually get where Chan’s coming from, though. Y/n is very beautiful, and she’s competent too—a lot of men want her. But she never really made it clear that she was off-limits.”

Chan’s eyes widened in relief. “Right?! And I was so patient, trying to understand her, trying to make it work. But she was the one who broke up with me?” His voice rose slightly, frustration evident. To anyone else, it would have sounded like a fresh wound rather than something that had happened a year ago.

He put his can of beer down a little too abruptly, the sound echoing in the quiet of Seungkwan’s living room.

Jeonghan glanced at him, amused but also slightly concerned. “What did she say when she broke up with you?”

Chan inhaled sharply, closing his eyes. The memory crashed into him like a wave—too vivid, too raw, even after all this time.

It had been the day after Valentine’s Day.

Chan had just gotten back from a three-day trip abroad, exhausted beyond belief, desperate for nothing more than a proper rest. He had been on edge all day, feeling sensitive after the long flight. But the moment he stepped into his apartment, his fatigue was replaced by confusion.

Your suitcase was sitting in the living room.

Your bag rested beside it.

His heart sank.

Hadn’t you two been arguing all week? Was this about Valentine’s Day? Had it really come to this?

"Let’s not do this," Chan had said the moment he saw you emerge from the bedroom, another bag in your hand.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t even pause. You simply walked forward, grabbing your luggage as if he wasn’t even standing there.

Chan moved quickly, stepping in front of you, blocking your path. “Where are you going?”

Your expression was unreadable when you finally met his gaze. "Home."

Chan’s chest tightened. "This is your home," he insisted.

But you shook your head. "Let’s take a break."

Chan had never believed in breaks. There was no such thing in his dictionary. A break was just a softer way to say breakup. And if you wanted to break up, then he deserved to at least know why.

"Is this because I chose work over spending Valentine’s Day with you?" he demanded, irritation creeping into his voice.

You frowned slightly. "That’s what you think of me?" A bitter smile tugged at your lips. "Then let’s say that’s the reason."

Chan’s frustration spiked. "What do you mean? At least explain it to me!"

You just shook your head again, gripping your luggage and moving past him.

"How can I let you go if you don’t tell me the real reason?"

That was when you turned to face him, your voice quiet but firm.

"You said it yourself— you chose work over me. That’s the reason."

Chan had stared at you, searching for something in your face. A crack in your expression. A hesitation. Anything that would tell him that you didn’t mean it.

But you nodded, steady. Unwavering.

"Yeah."

And then you walked out of the door, left him.

Back in Seungkwan’s apartment, silence stretched between the three of them after Chan finished recounting the memory.

Seungkwan was the first to break it, crossing his arms over his chest. "If I were you, I wouldn’t believe it."

Chan shot him a skeptical look. "Why? She said it herself."

Seungkwan sighed, shaking his head. “You know… sometimes women don’t tell the truth—not because they want to lie, but because they don’t want to hurt you more than necessary.”

Jeonghan, who had been silently listening, hummed in agreement.

"And maybe," Seungkwan added, his voice softer, "that was the least painful thing she could say to you."

*

"I'm sorry, but we're clo—"

Your words faltered the moment you saw who stood in front of the entrance.

Chan.

There, standing just beyond the threshold, was Chan. His presence felt almost out of place against the warm glow of your bakery’s lights, his frame silhouetted by the dim streetlamps outside. He held a paper bag in one hand, gripping it just a little too tightly. He looked unsure—out of place, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should be standing there at all.

For a second, neither of you spoke. The quiet between you was filled with things unsaid, memories neither of you had dared to touch for too long.

Then, finally, you found your voice.

"Chan… Hey," you greeted, pushing open the counter divider to step closer to him.

You glanced at the clock. 10 PM. The bakery had closed an hour ago, yet here he was, standing at your doorstep like he had something important to say.

"I haven’t come here in a week," he said abruptly, as if that explained his presence.

You nodded, already aware of it. It wasn’t hard to notice when someone like him stopped showing up. He had been coming almost every morning—until that night at the police station. After that, he disappeared.

Your eyes flickered to the bag in his hand. Before you could ask, he extended it toward you.

"I was in Italy for a week," he said, shifting slightly. "I got you a bottle of wine from a local winery there."

Surprise flickered across your face as you carefully took the bag from him. You peeked inside, fingers tracing over the sleek packaging before your eyes landed on the label.

Made in 1999.

Your lips parted slightly. That was the year Chan was born. The wine was as old as he was.

"You didn’t have to," you murmured, glancing up at him. "This must’ve been expensive."

Chan shrugged, his eyes darting toward the bakery’s interior instead of meeting yours. "I just… I wanted to thank you. For the birthday event. The fans must’ve loved it."

Your heart clenched at that. He was referring to the special decorations you had set up last month—his face on banners, pastries in his band’s colors. At the time, you weren’t even sure why you had done it. Maybe it was just an old habit you couldn't shake, or maybe it was something else.

You bit your bottom lip, your gaze shifting to the wine glasses sitting on a cabinet nearby.

Without thinking, you walked over, grabbing two and setting them on a small table near the counter.

"Let’s drink it together," you said, glancing at him over your shoulder.

Chan immediately waved his hand. "No, it’s a present. You should keep it."

You smiled, tilting your head slightly. "It’s okay." A small chuckle escaped your lips. "I don’t like drinking alone."

The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

Because once upon a time, he had been the one you shared drinks with. Late-night conversations, quiet moments, the kind of familiarity that felt effortless.

And now, standing across from him, you weren’t sure if you were trying to relive a memory—

Or trying to forget one.

"Your worker..." Chan started, his voice casual yet laced with something unreadable.

You turned to him as you poured the deep red wine into his glass, the rich aroma filling the small space between you. He looked as charismatic as ever, effortlessly commanding attention even in something as simple as denim pants and a loose white shirt. His long hair, tucked neatly behind his ears, framed his face in a way that made your breath hitch—a sight you hadn’t expected to affect you so much. Unfair. So much unfair.

"Sunoo?" You guessed, already knowing your overly enthusiastic employee was the likely subject. Sunoo had a knack for keeping the bakery alive with his energy and charm, but sometimes—just sometimes—you wished he’d mind his own business, that little menace.

Chan nodded, confirming your suspicion. "Yeah, I think it’s Sunoo. He always makes me that Americano with berry syrup."

You froze.

Oh, dear god.

You needed to sit down. Or disappear. Preferably both.

Internally, you launched into a full-scale attack on Sunoo. That little rascal. That absolute traitor. You should’ve known better than to trust him near the espresso machine unsupervised.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. "Oh my god. Chan, I am so sorry. You hate that flavor, don’t you?"

Chan chuckled, waving it off. "Yeah, but it’s fine. He didn’t know."

"No, it’s not fine!" you wailed dramatically, gripping the wine bottle like a lifeline. "I can’t believe he’s been sabotaging your morning coffee all this time. What should I do to make it up to you? Free pastries? Free coffee for life? A legally binding contract that bans Sunoo from touching the espresso machine ever again?"

Chan laughed, shaking his head. "You don’t have to do all that."

"No, I do," you insisted. "And while I’m at it, I might need to stage an intervention for Sunoo. What was he thinking? Who just decides to put berry syrup in an Americano?!"

Chan grinned, watching your mini meltdown with mild amusement. "Maybe he was just trying to be creative?"

You pointed an accusatory finger at him. "No. No. We do not encourage Sunoo’s creative coffee experiments. That’s how we ended up with the Matcha Espresso Disaster of last year."

Chan laughed even harder, and for a moment, the bakery felt a little lighter, like you weren’t two exes dancing around old wounds.

Still, you were going to have a very serious conversation with Sunoo in the morning.

"Have dinner with me."

Chan’s voice cut through the quiet hum of the bakery, steady but carrying something unspoken—something heavy.

Your breath hitched for just a second. "I’m sorry, what?" The words tumbled out before you could catch them, your brows furrowing in disbelief.

Chan didn’t flinch. He only nodded, his gaze locked onto yours with a quiet urgency. "Have dinner with me this weekend. You said you wanted to make it up to me, right?"

A soft, nervous laugh escaped you, but it did nothing to ease the sudden tension that thickened the air. "Chan… I don’t think—"

"As a friend," he cut in, his voice quieter this time, almost pleading. "Just as a friend. Please." His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers curling slightly against the counter. "It’s been a while since we really talked."

Your chest tightened. You glanced down at the glass in your hand, as if the deep red of the wine might offer you an escape. "We’re talking now, aren’t we?" You tried to sound casual, but your voice came out softer than you intended.

Chan let out a breath—part scoff, part something else. Then, he leaned in just slightly, the warmth of his presence making it impossible to ignore him.

He licked his lower lip, eyes still on you, unwavering.

"Are we?"

*

You stepped into his house just as the clock struck seven. Chan’s eyes immediately landed on the plastic bag in your hand—probably filled with your favorite food, just like always. It was a habit of yours, bringing something to eat whenever you came over, as if his kitchen wasn’t enough. It was something so familiar, so you, that it almost made him forget how long it had been since you last stood here.

He held the door open as you slipped off your shoes and made your way to the living room.

"It's clean…" You remarked, your eyes scanning the space with mild surprise.

Chan let out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck in a nervous tick. "Yeah… I try to keep it that way. But, you know, sometimes a hectic day hits, and it turns into a shipwreck."

You chuckled, settling onto his couch like you belonged there. And maybe that was what threw him off the most—you still fit into this space.

Chan swallowed and turned on his heel, heading toward the kitchen. He quickly grabbed a couple of containers for the food you brought, his hands moving on autopilot. But as he reached for a dish towel, he caught himself—he was stalling. Wiping down a bowl he’d already washed an hour ago just to keep busy, to calm the subtle panic creeping up his spine.

Because if he stopped moving, he’d have to face the fact that this was completely insane.

It had been an impulsive text, one he barely thought through before hitting send. Asking his ex to come over and hang out in his barely put-together apartment on his day off? He should’ve known better.

But what shocked him more was your response.

"Sure."

So casual. So effortless. So unlike the emotional mess he’d expected.

Chan had to check his phone twice to make sure it was actually you who replied.

And now here you were, sitting on his couch like it was the most natural thing in the world, while he stood in his kitchen trying to push down the ridiculous amount of effort he put into cleaning just because you were coming over.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Or maybe… he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

Chan approached you, setting the containers down on the coffee table before crouching beside you to help unpack the food. His fingers brushed against yours briefly as he pulled out a box, and for a moment, he wondered if you noticed. If you cared.

"You didn’t have to bring anything," he commented, glancing at you as he reached for another container. "We could’ve just ordered something."

"You say that like you don’t miss my good taste," you teased, but there was something softer in your voice—something familiar.

Chan let out a chuckle, shaking his head. But the moment his eyes landed on what you’d brought, he froze.

His favorite snack.

He blinked, his fingers still hovering over the box as realization settled in.

"I brought this for you," you said, casually, as if it wasn’t a big deal. "It’s from your favorite place."

Chan finally looked up at you, a flicker of surprise in his gaze. "That’s pretty far…"

He knew neither your place nor your bakery was anywhere near the restaurant.

You shrugged. "I went there this morning and got this on my way home. It’s already cold, though."

Cold? Did he care about that? Not at all.

The only thing that mattered was that you thought of him. That you saw the place, remembered him, and stopped to grab something for him.

His chest felt tight, like something warm was curling inside it, something he couldn’t quite name. Instead, he exhaled a quiet laugh and nudged the box closer to himself.

"You remembered," he murmured, more to himself than to you.

And for the first time that night, he let himself believe—just a little—that maybe, just maybe, he still had a place in your heart.

Chan cleared his throat, pushing away the warmth creeping up his chest. He didn’t want to dwell on it—not now, not when you were sitting here in his living room, casually unpacking food like old times. So instead, he latched onto the first neutral topic that came to mind.

"What about your bakery?" he asked, picking up a piece of the snack you’d brought. "Who’s taking care of it while you’re here?"

You glanced at him before reaching for a pair of chopsticks. "It’s closed today."

"Really?" Chan raised a brow. "You barely take a day off."

You nodded, leaning back slightly against the couch. "Sunoo, my part timer, his grandmother passed away. He went back to his hometown for the funeral."

Chan’s expression softened at that. He remembered that part timer, the one that always gave him americano with berry syrup. "Ah… That’s tough. He must’ve been close to her."

"He was," you said, stirring the food absentmindedly. "She basically raised him. That’s why I went to his hometown this morning—to pay my respects."

Chan stilled for a second, his grip on his chopsticks tightening just slightly.

You went all the way there?

His eyes flickered to you, studying your face, but you looked calm—like it was only natural for you to go.

Of course. That was just the kind of person you were. Always showing up for the people you cared about.

Chan exhaled, setting his food down. "You must be exhausted then. Going all the way there and then coming here?"

You tilted your head, as if just realizing it yourself. "Maybe a little," you admitted. "But it’s fine."

Chan clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "You should’ve just gone home to rest."

You shot him a small smirk. "And miss the chance to see your shipwreck of a house? No way."

Chan let out a laugh, finally letting the warmth settle. Once again, maybe, he wasn’t the only one holding on to things that felt familiar.

*

Chan woke up feeling refreshed this morning. He stretched his limbs, tossing and turning in bed to shake off the lingering sleepiness before finally rolling out and heading to change into his workout gear.

On his way to the gym, his fingers were busy scrolling through his phone, instinctively opening your chat from last night after you went home. He hovered over the keyboard, debating whether to send you a message.

A morning text? Too much.

A witty text? Maybe something playful—

"Hey... I dreamed about you last night ;)"

Chan grimaced. Nope. That sounded like a terrible idea for a text to an ex.

Before he could think further, his thumb betrayed him.

"Hey.."

His eyes widened. He gasped.

Did he just—

Chan stopped in his tracks, staring at his screen in horror. Maybe if he deleted it fast enough—

Ding.

Your reply came almost instantly.

"Hey."

Chan blinked. Then exhaled, pressing his lips together to suppress a stupid smile.

Chan: In your bakery?

You: Yup!

Chan: Can I visit after my gym session?

You: Sure. I'll get your sandwich ready then. Bacon?

Chan: Perfect. See you then!

Chan breathed a sigh of relief, his heart feeling oddly lighter as he continued his walk to the gym.

Upon arriving, he spotted Jihoon—a rare sight at this hour. Given that it was still their day off, the older guy usually wasn’t functional before 1 PM.

"You’re here early," Chan noted as Jihoon finished his set, placing the dumbbells down with steady breaths.

Jihoon nodded. "Got an agenda this afternoon."

Chan smirked, whistling playfully. "Oh? That sounds suspicious—"

Jihoon shot him a glare. "Don’t look at me like that as if you weren’t with your ex last night."

Chan’s smirk instantly dropped. His eyes widened. He stepped closer to Jihoon, lowering his voice. "How do you know?"

Jihoon gave him a flat look. "I saw you sending her off. We live in the same area, genius."

Chan groaned, running a hand through his hair. Right. He forgot about that.

Jihoon tilted his head slightly, arms crossed. "So… you two back together?"

Chan shook his head, trying to dismiss whatever was running through Jihoon's mind. "We’re just talking again. As friends, I guess? Yeah..." He nodded, as if saying it out loud would make it more true.

Jihoon hummed, wiping his hands with his towel. "Uh-huh."

Chan shot him a look. "What?"

Jihoon shrugged, tossing the towel over his shoulder. "Nothing. Just funny, that’s all."

Chan rolled his eyes and checked the time. "I don’t know why I still talk to you."

Jihoon chuckled. "Because you need someone to call you out on your denial."

Chan groaned, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not in denial."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," Jihoon said, patting his shoulder before grabbing his own water bottle.

Chan sighed, running a hand through his hair before finally giving in. "Alright, fine. I’ll tell you what happened."

Jihoon raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "Go on."

Chan leaned against a nearby bench, crossing his arms. "Yesterday, I invited her over. It was kind of impulsive, but she said yes."

Jihoon nodded, waiting for more.

"So, I spent the whole damn day cleaning my place—like, deep cleaning, man. I don’t even know why, but I just wanted it to look nice."

Jihoon smirked but didn’t interrupt.

"She showed up with food, her usual thing, right? But this time, she brought my favorite snack. And guess what? She got it from that place across town—the one that’s way out of her way."

Jihoon let out a low whistle. "That’s commitment."

Chan ignored the way his stomach flipped at that. "I didn’t even know what to say. I just—man, she thought about me while she was out there. That kind of messed with me a little."

Jihoon gave him a knowing look. "And you’re still calling this just talking?"

Chan shot him a glare. "Let me finish."

Jihoon held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Continue."

Chan exhaled. "We talked, she told me about Sunoo, her staff—he’s dealing with some family stuff, so she visited his hometown earlier that morning."

Jihoon’s expression softened. "Oh, that’s rough."

"Yeah, she closed the bakery for the day because of it. Which means she didn’t even have to be up early, but she still went out of her way for all that."

Jihoon hummed, the teasing tone fading slightly. "She cares, Chan."

Chan rubbed his neck. "I know."

A beat of silence passed before Jihoon smirked again. "And then this morning?"

Chan let out a short laugh. "Woke up feeling... I don’t know, refreshed? Like, it wasn’t a bad feeling, but it wasn’t exactly normal either."

Jihoon raised an eyebrow. "You felt happy."

Chan groaned. "Why do you have to say it like that?"

Jihoon chuckled. "Because it’s the truth."

Chan shook his head. "Anyway, I’m stopping by the bakery after this. She’s already making my usual sandwich."

Jihoon grinned. "She remembers your usual? And you’re still trying to act like this is casual?"

Chan shot him a look. "Hyung."

Jihoon laughed, slapping Chan’s shoulder. "Alright, alright. But I’m telling you, man, this? This is not just talking."

Chan sighed but didn’t argue. Because deep down, he knew Jihoon was right.

*

Days passed, and without either of you realizing it, things started to shift.

It wasn’t a sudden, dramatic change—it was subtle, natural, as if the distance that had settled between you was melting away piece by piece. Conversations stretched longer, laughter came easier, and before Chan knew it, you were slipping back into his life the way you always belonged.

And then, one night, it happened.

A kiss.

It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t talked about—it just happened. Maybe it was the way you looked at him when you laughed, maybe it was how the night air felt warmer with you by his side, or maybe it was just that deep, undeniable pull that had never really left.

But the moment his lips met yours, he knew.

This is it.

This was the cue. The silent signal that everything was starting again, that whatever had broken before was slowly, steadily piecing itself back together.

From then on, Chan didn’t hesitate. After his schedule, he would drive to your bakery just to pick you up, sometimes without even texting beforehand. He’d lean against the counter, watching as you wrapped up the last orders, his presence so familiar that even your staff stopped questioning it.

"Long day?" you’d ask, handing him a cup of tea or whatever you’d decided he needed that day.

And he’d smile, nodding as he took the cup from your hands. "Better now."

Sometimes, the two of you would just drive around with no real destination, the quiet hum of the car and the city lights making everything feel weightless. Other times, you’d take slow walks through empty streets, talking about your days, about nothing and everything at once.

It felt easy. It felt right.

And Chan?

Chan felt like he was finding a part of himself that had been lost all this time.

You.

Chan stepped inside your house, his gaze instinctively sweeping over your living room. It looked different from last year. The cute trinkets and soft pastels that once decorated every corner were gone, replaced with a more refined, mature aesthetic. The change was subtle, but he noticed. It wasn’t just the decor that had shifted—something about the entire space felt different, as if time itself had settled into the walls.

His eyes drifted to the kitchen, where a few dishes sat in the sink, remnants of breakfast still lingering on the counter. Maybe you hadn’t gotten around to cleaning, or maybe you’d spent the night experimenting with new recipes for your bakery. Either way, it was lived-in, real—you. And Chan liked that. It felt warm, like home, like the way you used to make his kitchen feel.

"You want tea? Coffee?" you asked, already moving toward the kitchen.

Chan shook his head, stepping closer. "No need to get your hands busy. Just sit with me," he murmured, tapping the empty space beside him on the couch.

You hesitated for a second before joining him, barely getting comfortable before he pulled you into his arms.

"I like this…" he muttered, his voice low, as if he was admitting something to himself more than to you.

A soft laugh escaped you. "Like what?"

"This," he whispered, arms tightening around you just enough for you to notice. "Being here with you again."

Your breath caught for a moment. His warmth, the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the familiar scent of his cologne—it all felt so natural, so right. Like something neither of you had ever truly let go of.

You sighed, relaxing into him. "I missed this too."

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city outside and the steady rhythm of your breathing against Chan’s chest. His arms tightened around you slightly, as if grounding himself in this moment, as if afraid that if he let go, you’d slip away again.

You shifted just enough to look up at him, and Chan’s gaze met yours—warm, searching, lingering. His fingers brushed lightly along your arm before trailing up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"You’re staring," you murmured, a teasing lilt in your voice.

"Yeah," he admitted without hesitation, his lips curling into a small smile. "I missed looking at you."

Your breath hitched slightly, your heart betraying you with the way it picked up pace. There was something so effortless about Chan, the way he could make you feel like the only person in the world with just a look.

"Then make up for lost time," you whispered.

His eyes flickered down to your lips, hesitation flashing in his features for just a second—one last moment of restraint before he closed the distance between you.

The first brush of his lips was slow, careful, almost like he was testing the waters. But the second? The second was deeper, fuller, laced with all the unsaid words and emotions that had been hanging between. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face to his as he pressed in closer, his thumb stroking gently along your cheek.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him even closer as the kiss deepened. It wasn’t rushed—it was unhurried, savoring, like both of you wanted to memorize this moment, to make sure it wasn’t just a fleeting dream.

Chan sighed against your lips, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. "Tell me this isn't just nostalgia," he whispered, voice slightly breathless.

You shook your head, brushing your fingers through his hair. "It’s not."

Relief washed over his face before he captured your lips again, this time with more certainty. Like he wasn’t just falling—he was diving headfirst. And this time, he wasn’t afraid of the landing.

Chan woke up with you in his arms almost every morning. Not that he planned it every time, but he tried—and he could. Sometimes he crashed at your place, claiming it was too late to drive home. Other times, he dragged you to his, using the excuse that his bed was bigger, softer, warmer. The truth was, he just wanted to see you first thing in the morning.

Like now.

He blinked against the morning light filtering through your curtains, the weight of your body pressed against his chest grounding him in the best way. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, your hand lazily resting on his hoodie, the fabric bunched slightly in your grasp as if even in your sleep, you didn’t want him to go.

Chan smiled, his fingers brushing along your back, tracing idle patterns. You stirred slightly, a soft hum escaping your lips before your body relaxed again.

"You're staring," you mumbled, voice still heavy with sleep.

Chan chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Yeah. I like looking at you."

"You say that too much," you whined, but the way your fingers curled against his hoodie betrayed the warmth spreading through you.

"Then you should get used to it," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "Because I don’t think I’ll ever stop."

You sighed, tilting your head up just enough for your lips to find his. It was slow, lazy—like the morning itself, like neither of you were in any rush to move, to leave the bubble of warmth you’d created. Chan sighed into the kiss, his hand slipping under the hem of your sweater, resting against the bare skin of your waist.

"You have to open the bakery today?" he asked between kisses.

You hummed, but made no move to pull away. "Not until ten."

Chan smirked. "That means we have at least two more hours."

You rolled your eyes, but your lips were already curving into a smile as Chan flipped you onto your back, leaning over you with that mischievous look in his eyes—the one that always, always made you weak.

"Two hours," you reminded him, though the way you pulled him closer told a different story.

"Plenty of time," he whispered before capturing your lips again.

*

"You're back together."

Hansol mentioned it too casually one day during their recording session for the next comeback, his voice carrying over the hum of instruments and the quiet chatter of the producers.

Chan raised a brow, glancing at him from his seat. "How do you know? Jihoon hyung told you?"

Hansol furrowed his brows. "Jihoon hyung knew?"

Chan let out a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. "I mean—he saw us. So..."

Hansol nodded slowly, then sighed, arms crossed over his chest. "I saw her in your clothes this morning. That shirt—I gave it to you."

Chan’s mouth formed an "O" as realization hit. Right. That oversized, faded gray shirt you had grabbed from his closet before rushing out the door.

"You're right..." He huffed a laugh before shrugging. "And yeah, we’re talking again."

Hansol smirked. "Isn’t it a bit much to be wearing your clothes in the morning while still in the ‘talking again’ phase?"

Chan scoffed, shaking his head. "Hey, respect all the effort. It took me a whole year to finally realize everything."

Hansol’s smirk softened into something gentler. "Well, I’m happy for you, though." His voice was quieter now, more sincere.

Chan met his gaze, the corners of his lips twitching up. It felt nice, hearing that from Hansol—like the pieces of his life were finally clicking back into place.

"Did Seungkwan know about this?" Hansol asked suddenly, a knowing glint in his eyes.

Chan blinked, then quickly shook his head. "Haven’t told him yet."

Hansol snorted. "Oh, that’s gonna be fun."

The next day, Seungkwan strolled up to Chan with an unreadable expression, arms crossed over his chest like he was about to deliver some sort of life-altering news.

"You’ll never guess who I ran into yesterday," Seungkwan started, watching Chan’s face closely.

Chan barely looked up from his phone, tapping out a quick message before pocketing it. "Who?"

"Wonha."

That got Chan’s attention. He blinked, brows furrowing slightly as he tried to place the name properly. Wonha. His ex from his early twenties. One of the few exes he actually had a good relationship with after the breakup.

"Huh," Chan muttered, tilting his head. "How’s she doing?"

Seungkwan raised a brow. "She’s doing well. And—" He leaned in slightly as if dropping a bombshell. "She asked for your number."

Chan blinked again, this time in mild surprise. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Said she wanted to catch up."

Chan leaned back in his chair, processing that. Wonha had always been a good friend, even when they realized romance wasn’t for them. There was no dramatic fallout, no resentment. Just two people who grew apart but still wished each other well.

"Did you give it to her?"

Seungkwan rolled his eyes. "Would I be telling you this if I didn’t?"

Chan chuckled, shaking his head. "Guess not."

And so, he waited. Not anxiously, not with any particular anticipation, but with a vague curiosity. He knew he wouldn’t reach out first—that wasn’t his style. If she really wanted to talk, she’d text.

And she did.

A simple Hey, Chan! It’s been forever. How’ve you been? popped up on his screen later that evening.

Chan hesitated for half a second before typing back.

Hey, Wonha! Yeah, it has been. I’ve been good. You?

The conversation flowed easily after that, casual and familiar. Like two old friends catching up. Because that’s all it was. A friendly catch-up.

Or at least, that’s what Chan told himself.

The next day, Chan found himself spending the entire afternoon at your bakery, pretending he was just there to help out but mostly just looking for excuses to be near you. He chatted with Sunoo, stole a few samples of the new pastries you were testing, and even helped clean up when things got a little messy in the kitchen. But really, he was just waiting for the clock to hit nine.

And the second it did, he was already grabbing your coat from the rack and tossing it over your shoulders.

"Let's go," he said, nudging you toward the door.

You raised a brow, amused by his impatience. "I need to close up first, you know?"

"I’ll help," he insisted, already moving to flip the sign to closed and gathering whatever needed tidying up.

It barely took five minutes before he was pulling you to his car, a familiar routine by now—one that neither of you questioned anymore.

"Where to?" he asked, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as he glanced at you.

You hummed, thinking. "Han River. Convenience store. Instant noodles and maybe a can of beer."

Chan grinned, nodding as he shifted gears. "Classic."

The drive was smooth, city lights blurring past as the two of you fell into easy conversation about your day. It was moments like this that made Chan realize how much he had missed this—the late-night drives, the effortless company, the way you made him feel like no matter how exhausting his schedule was, this was always worth it.

When you arrived, the convenience store was quiet, only a few other night owls scattered around, either enjoying their own late-night snacks or lost in their own worlds. Chan grabbed a basket, filling it with your usual picks—two cups of instant noodles, a can of beer for you, and a bottle of water for himself. He threw in a bag of chips for good measure before heading to the cashier.

As you both settled at one of the outdoor tables overlooking the river, the crisp night air wrapped around you, but it wasn’t cold. Not with Chan beside you.

"You ever think about how we always end up here?" you mused, watching the steam curl up from your noodles.

Chan chuckled, tapping his chopsticks against the rim of his cup. "Yeah. It’s like our thing, isn’t it?"

You nodded, smiling softly. "Our thing."

Chan watched you for a moment, something warm settling in his chest. Maybe it had always been this simple. Maybe it had always been you.

After a while, between bites of noodles and sips of beer, the conversation flowed effortlessly—talking about anything and everything, teasing each other, reminiscing old memories. The laughter came easily, and for Chan, it felt like breathing.

Then someone approached.

"Chan?"

He looked up, chopsticks frozen mid-air, and his eyes widened in surprise. "Wonha?"

She smiled, standing there with casual ease, as if running into him was the most natural thing in the world. They greeted each other, the familiarity still lingering despite the years apart.

Then her gaze shifted to you, curiosity flickering in her expression. "And you are...?"

Chan blinked. He hadn't thought about this. Hadn't thought about how to define this, to define you. Girlfriend? Ex? Friend? What were you now?

"We're close," he finally said, the words feeling strange on his tongue.

You, ever composed, simply smiled and extended a hand. "Nice to meet you, I'm Y/n."

Wonha shook your hand, offering a polite nod. The conversation that followed was friendly—catching up, lighthearted small talk. Wonha mentioned she was back in town for a while, talked about work, asked about Chan’s schedule. But despite the casual nature, there was an underlying awkwardness, a tension Chan couldn’t quite shake.

And when Wonha finally excused herself, the silence she left behind was even heavier.

You didn’t say anything at first, just finished the last of your drink, eyes focused on the rippling water of the river. Chan shifted in his seat, glancing at you, waiting for you to say something—anything.

Then, after what felt like forever, you spoke.

"Let’s go home."

It was simple, but it carried weight.

Chan let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Finally, the silence is cut.

He nodded, standing up and grabbing the trash, his mind racing as he followed you back to the car.

*

Chan couldn’t reach you for almost a week. At first, he thought you were just busy. He texted, called a couple of times, but the replies were short, if they came at all. He even stopped by your bakery, only to have Sunoo mention in passing that you had gone on a business trip to another town.

That was when the uneasy feeling started creeping in.

You hadn’t mentioned anything about a trip to him. And worse—when he thought about it, he realized you had been slowly distancing yourself for the past week. Maybe even longer.

He wanted to believe he was overthinking, but deep down, he knew better. You were avoiding him.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, another problem decided to make an appearance.

That morning, his phone was bombarded with notifications—texts, calls, mentions. At first, he thought it was just another work update or a group chat going off. But then Seungkwan's name flashed on his screen.

"Congrats, man. So, when were you planning to tell us?"

Chan frowned. "Tell you what?"

Seungkwan sighed dramatically. "The dating news, obviously. Your article is everywhere."

Chan's heart dropped. He pulled up social media, and there it was—a headline with his name splashed all over the place:

"Seventeen's Dino spotted on a date? Rumors of a relationship surface after café sighting!"

Accompanied by a picture.

A picture of him sitting across from a girl at a café.

And the girl in the photo?

It wasn’t you.

It was Wonha.

Chan froze, staring at the screen in disbelief. His members started chiming in one by one—congratulations, playful teasing, all assuming the article was true.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. "This isn’t true."

The only thing he could do now was call the company, demand a clarification, and make sure the world knew that Wonha was just a friend.

But even if he could fix this problem, there was still you.

And right now, you were already slipping away.

"Why don’t you ask the girl you met at the café about her?"

Sunoo’s response was sharp, his words slicing through the tension in the air. Chan had barely stepped foot into the bakery before being met with that cold remark.

It had been a week since the scandal broke, a week since he had last seen you. And now, here he was, standing in the familiar warmth of your bakery, trying to explain himself.

“It was a misunderstanding,” Chan started, his voice firm but laced with frustration. “The media twisted it, like they always do.”

Sunoo didn’t look convinced. He crouched behind the counter, rummaging for something, before standing back up and placing a small sign in front of the register.

Chan furrowed his brows, reading the words aloud.

"House reserves the right to refuse service to anyone."

"Wait—this is a thing?" Chan asked, blinking in disbelief. He had never seen that sign here before.

Sunoo nodded, arms crossed. "House rule. F&B industry stuff. You wouldn’t understand since you come from entertainment."

Chan let out a dry chuckle, rolling his eyes. "You keep talking about industries. Why don’t you just tell me where Y/n is?"

Sunoo’s expression hardened. He leaned against the counter, gaze unwavering. "Why? You want to see her? Talk to her? Do you always check in on your ex like this?"

Chan felt his breath hitch. "What are you talking about?"

But before Sunoo could respond, the bell above the door chimed, signaling a new customer. In an instant, his demeanor shifted.

"Welcome!" Sunoo greeted with a bright, polite voice, flashing a smile at the guest. But just before he turned away completely, he cast Chan one last glance—one filled with something unreadable.

And just like that, Chan was left standing there, feeling as though the ground beneath him had suddenly become unsteady.

"He's gone..." Sunoo murmured, still watching through the bakery window as Chan disappeared down the street.

You stepped out of the kitchen, wiping your hands on a towel before settling onto one of the bar stools. Your expression was unreadable, but Sunoo could see the tension in your shoulders.

"You okay?" he asked, leaning against the counter.

You let out a chuckle, though it lacked humor. "Why wouldn’t I be okay?"

Sunoo raised an eyebrow. "Well, for starters, you’ve been avoiding him for a week. And second, you were just hiding in the kitchen the moment he walked in."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "I was busy."

"Right," Sunoo drawled, crossing his arms. "Too busy to tell him you were going on a business trip? Too busy to tell him you're upset?"

You exhaled, resting your elbows on the counter as you looked down at your hands. "What do you want me to say, Sunoo?"

"Maybe the truth?" he suggested. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're running away."

You bit your lip, but didn’t say anything.

Sunoo sighed, softening his voice. "You know, whatever it is you're feeling, you're allowed to feel it. You don’t have to act like nothing happened."

You glanced at him, eyes flickering with something close to hesitation. Sunoo didn’t push further, but he didn’t back down either.

"Just… think about it," he said before turning back to work, leaving you with your thoughts.

*

You went home, exhausted, only to halt in surprise at the sight of Chan squatting in front of your unit, scrolling through his phone. The glow of the screen illuminated his furrowed brows, but the moment his eyes caught yours, he stood up immediately.

"Now we meet," he said, his voice firm. You could hear the frustration laced in his words, see it in the way his shoulders tensed. But you were more upset than he was, and in your mind, he deserved every second of silence you'd given him.

"You're just going to give me the silent treatment? Like you always do?"

Your hand froze on the door handle. Slowly, you turned to face him.

"I thought we were over a year ago," you said, your tone indifferent.

Chan sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "And here I thought we had a chance."

You crossed your arms, looking at him with unreadable eyes. "What do you want, Chan?"

"You have no idea how crazy I’ve been this past week. After everything between us, you just disappeared, like you always do. This isn’t how you handle things. You don’t just vanish when things get tough."

You scoffed, shaking your head as you looked down at your shoes. "Oh, sure…" Lifting your head, you met his gaze with something sharp, something cold. "You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Playing with someone’s heart."

Chan's brows furrowed, his expression a mix of confusion and hurt. "What are you trying to say?"

"You’re good at it," you said, voice unwavering. "Messing with people's feelings."

His frustration cracked into something closer to disbelief. "You’re the one who left me. A year ago and now. Don’t make it seem like I was the one who walked out that night."

Your jaw clenched as you turned away, gripping the door handle once more. "You have no right to tell me that."

"Grow up."

You stopped.

"Nobody in this world is a mind reader," Chan continued, his voice quieter but no less firm. "So grow up and say what’s in your head. I can’t guess what you’re thinking, and I need you to tell me what’s wrong, what needs fixing. I know I lack a lot, but after everything—after seeing you again—I want to be better. But the way you treat me... it's making me feel small."

You didn't respond immediately, your heart pounding in your chest. His words hit you in places you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

"Have you ever thought," you started, voice softer now, "how things would’ve been different if you had asked me to stay that night?"

Silence.

You let out a breath, your lips curling into something bitter. "You wouldn’t know, would you? Because you never even tried. And that’s what hurt me the most."

Finally, you turned fully to him, looking straight into his eyes. "You never knew how hard it was to speak my mind just to be ignored. And that’s why you never understood how much it hurt."

Chan exhaled sharply, as if your words had physically struck him.

"And now, you want me to speak?" Your voice didn’t waver, but there was a slight tremble in your fingertips. "Tell me, Chan, if I do—will you actually listen this time?"

Chan stared at you, his lips parting as if he had something to say, but no words came out. The weight of your words sank into his chest, heavy and suffocating. He had spent so long trying to understand you, but he had never really asked himself whether he had truly listened.

His silence was enough of an answer.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as you turned back to your door. “Exactly.”

Chan stepped forward, desperate. "I know I messed up. I know I should’ve done things differently, but Y/n, do you really think I didn’t want you to stay?"

You let out a dry laugh, gripping the doorknob but not turning it yet. "Wanting and actually doing something about it are two different things, Chan. And I waited—God, I waited for you to just say something. But you didn’t."

"I was scared," he admitted, voice raw. "I didn’t know how to ask you to stay without being selfish. I thought maybe—maybe if you left, you’d be happier."

You turned around, eyes narrowing. "And who gave you the right to decide what would make me happy?"

He faltered, guilt flashing across his face. "I—"

"Chan," you sighed, your voice softer this time, tired. "I don’t want to do this again if it's just going to end the same way."

"Then don’t let it," he pleaded. "We can be better this time. I can be better. But I need you to talk to me. No more running, no more silence. Just us—figuring this out together."

You searched his face, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, the desperation, the regret. But was it enough?

"You broke my heart," you whispered.

Chan swallowed hard, his own heart aching at your confession. "I know," he said quietly. "But if you let me, I'll spend however long it takes putting it back together."

The air between you was thick with emotion, the past lingering like a ghost neither of you could quite shake. The choice was yours now. To let him try—or to walk away for good.

You let out a quiet sigh before pushing the door open wider. "Come in."

Chan hesitated for a second, as if he didn’t expect you to actually let him in, but he stepped inside nonetheless. You didn’t want anyone witnessing the two of you arguing in the hallway, and frankly, you were too tired for a public spectacle.

The door clicked shut behind you as you walked to the dining table, pulling out a chair and sitting down. You didn’t look at him. Instead, you focused on the smooth surface of the table, tracing invisible patterns with your fingertips.

Chan, meanwhile, stood by the window, three meters away. His hands were in his pockets, his back against the frame, his posture tense yet composed. His eyes weren’t on you either. The space between you was filled with silence—thick, suffocating, and louder than any argument you could’ve had outside.

Seconds stretched into minutes, neither of you speaking. The weight of the past, of everything left unsaid, settled heavily in the room.

Eventually, Chan broke the silence. His voice was quieter this time, hesitant but firm.

"Why did you leave that night?"

Your fingers stilled against the table. You swallowed, debating whether to answer honestly or give him the same indifference you had been holding onto.

"Because I was tired," you finally said. Your voice was calm, but the bitterness in it was unmistakable.

In the past, you had always known that Chan was friendly and well-liked. That wasn’t the problem. The problem started when you kept hearing from other people—friends, fans, even strangers—that he was still close with all of his exes. Some people even made jokes about how he had never been single for more than a month before jumping into another relationship.

At first, you brushed it off, trusting him. But over time, it started to bother you—not just the rumors, but the way Chan never reassured you about them. Instead of addressing your concerns, he dismissed them like they were insignificant.

“Why are you listening to those people? You know me.”

“Come on, it’s just people making up stories. Don’t let it get in your head.”

“So what if I’m on good terms with them? It’s called being mature.”

Every time you tried to talk about it, he shut it down, making you feel like you were overreacting. He never cheated, but he never made you feel secure either. And that’s what hurt the most—his failure to recognize that trust isn’t just about being faithful, it’s about making your partner feel like they’re the only one who matters.

As months passed, you tried to hold on, tried to trust him, tried to ignore the way doubt kept creeping into your heart. But it became exhausting—feeling like you were the only one fighting against the rumors, the only one trying to hold the relationship together.

Then, there was one final moment that broke you. Maybe it was another passing comment from someone about him still being close to a particular ex. Maybe it was seeing a picture of him with one of them, looking too comfortable, too familiar. Whatever it was, you tried one last time to make him understand.

“Chan, I’m tired of always hearing about you and your exes. I’m tired of feeling like I’m competing with ghosts.”

But instead of listening, he got defensive.

“You don’t trust me at all, do you? Why are you making this such a big deal?”

You sighed deeply, crossing your arms over your chest, as if trying to hold yourself together. “I was tired of fighting with my own thoughts. Because whenever I tried to bring them to the table, you brushed them away.”

Your voice was steady, but Chan could hear the exhaustion beneath it. That quiet kind of hurt—the one that lingers long after the wound is made.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I did that?”

You let out a small, bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Yes. And I started to feel alone. Alone… alone… while you were out, hanging out—a lot—with your exes. And I was left by myself. I saw you that night. You were with your friends, and there was her…”

You didn’t have to say her name. He knew exactly who you were talking about.

Chan exhaled sharply, looking away. The weight of your words pressed against his chest, tightening like a vice.

He remembered that night—the night everything between you fell apart.

He could still hear his phone ringing, your name flashing on the screen. He had answered casually, thinking it was just another call. You told him you were at his place. You wanted to talk.

He said he’d be home soon. But he hadn’t meant it.

Instead, he stayed. Another drink. Another story. Another hour.

When he finally did go home, you were already waiting—but not in the way he had expected. You weren’t curled up on his couch, waiting to be held. You weren’t upset, demanding an explanation.

No, you were standing there—rigid, distant, already pulling away.

And before he could even process what was happening, before he could even reach for you—

You ended it.

Just like that. No screaming, no accusations, no dramatic fights.

Just quiet devastation.

“You didn’t trust me.” His voice barely broke the silence.

You met his eyes, and it sent a shiver down his spine. There was no hesitation when you answered.

“You’re right.”

The finality of it crashed into him like a wave.

Chan clenched his fists, his mind spiraling back to that night. He had stood there, watching you walk away, unable to move, unable to say a single word. Because at that moment, he was too caught up in himself.

He hadn’t thought about you. About how you had tried—again and again—to tell him what was wrong. About how you had begged, without ever raising your voice, for him to reassure you.

Instead, he had let his own frustration consume him. He had spent so long convincing himself that you were the problem—that you were overthinking, being irrational, asking for too much.

But now, hearing you say it so plainly—

You didn’t trust him. And he had given you every reason not to.

His voice was quieter this time, almost hesitant. “You never told me why…”

Your eyes flickered with something unreadable—hurt, regret, maybe even disappointment.

“Because you weren’t on the same page as me.”

Silence.

And it was deafening.

Because he knew it was true. Even if you had explained back then, he wouldn’t have understood. He would’ve dismissed it, convinced himself that you were just being insecure.

But this wasn’t insecurity.

This was trust breaking, piece by piece, until there was nothing left to hold onto.

And suddenly, he realized—you hadn’t left because you wanted to. You left because, at that moment, you had no other choice.

And that realization hurt more than he ever thought it would.

Chan knew he had lost you once because he failed to listen. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

He stood there, leaning against your window frame, the weight of everything sinking in. The silence between you was thick—so many words left unspoken, so much hurt neither of you had truly acknowledged until now.

But this time, he wasn’t going to brush it aside. He wasn’t going to let his own emotions overshadow yours.

Chan took a slow breath and finally spoke, his voice steady but filled with raw sincerity. “I was selfish.”

You didn’t say anything, but the slight twitch in your expression told him you were listening.

“I thought I was doing enough just by being with you. I thought… if I wasn’t doing anything wrong, then there was nothing to fix. But I never stopped to ask myself if I was making you feel safe with me. If I was making you feel like you mattered.”

He pushed off the window frame, stepping closer. Not too close—just enough to show you that this time, he wasn’t running from the conversation.

“You were right to leave me that night,” he admitted. “Because I wasn’t ready to hear you. I wasn’t ready to understand. But I am now.”

The room felt smaller with Chan standing there, his presence filling the silence between you. The weight of everything—the past, the heartbreak, the unspoken words—pressed down on both of you, but for the first time, neither of you looked away.

You exhaled slowly, your arms still crossed, the shield you had built around yourself refusing to fall so easily. "You say all the right things now," you muttered, your voice quieter than before. "But words don’t erase what happened."

Chan nodded, his expression serious. "I know." He took a cautious step forward, just enough to close the emotional distance without overwhelming you. "I know words aren’t enough. But I’m not saying this just to make you forgive me. I just... need you to know that I finally get it."

His voice carried none of the frustration or defensiveness you had once been so used to. Instead, there was something raw—an understanding, a regret that felt real.

You let out a dry chuckle, shaking your head. "It took you losing me to understand?"

"Yeah," he admitted, a small, humorless smile on his lips. "I guess I had to lose you to really see how much I took for granted."

Your shoulders eased just slightly, the tension in your chest loosening. You weren't ready to forgive him, not yet. But something about the way he was speaking—**without excuses, without pushing blame onto you—**made you feel like, for once, he was truly listening.

He glanced down at his hands, exhaling deeply before meeting your gaze again. "I don't expect things to go back to the way they were. I don’t even expect you to give me another chance. But if you ever think there’s even the slightest possibility of trusting me again..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Then I want to be someone worth trusting."

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t as suffocating this time. The anger that had once flared between you had softened into something else—something uncertain, something hesitant, but no longer painful.

You sighed, finally lowering your arms. "I don’t know if I can just believe you overnight."

Chan nodded, the corner of his lips twitching into the smallest, most understanding smile. "Then let me prove it to you. No rush, no expectations. Just… let me be here. This time, I’ll listen."

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, he would.

*

"Have you seen this?"

Attached was a screenshot—an official announcement from Pledis Entertainment.

"Dino of SEVENTEEN is currently in a relationship with a non-celebrity. We ask for your support and understanding."

The news took you by surprise.

Your name wasn’t mentioned in the official announcement, but you knew. You were the non-celebrity. The one the world was suddenly talking about. The one they were wishing happiness for.

Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—friends, acquaintances, even people you hadn’t spoken to in years, all reaching out with the same excitement. "Is it true?" "Are you really dating Dino?" "How did this even happen?"

You stared at the screen, overwhelmed, heart racing.

And then, there was the photo. The one of Chan in an apron, standing behind the counter of your bakery. Box on his hands, sleeves rolled up, a soft smile as he handed a customer their order. It had been taken just last weekend, completely candid. You knew because you had been standing right beside him, laughing as he struggled to tie the apron properly.

You weren’t sure how the photo got out. Maybe a customer had snapped it. Maybe a fan had recognized him. Maybe it didn’t even matter anymore—because now, the world knew.

And surprisingly, they were happy for you.

You had been terrified of this moment. Afraid of what people might say, of the scrutiny that would come with being associated with him again. But as you scrolled through the comments, you saw nothing but excitement, nothing but support.

"Dino looks so happy!"

"He really found someone special."

"He’s literally boyfriend goals, helping out at her bakery like that."

"I hope they stay together for a long time."

Your chest tightened. It felt surreal.

It had taken months to get here. Months of hesitation, of slow conversations, of learning to trust again. Months of Chan proving to you—through actions, not just words—that he had changed.

That he had finally understood.

You thought back to the first time he had shown up at your bakery. He hadn't said much, just stood there awkwardly, asking if you needed help. You had been hesitant, but you let him stay. Then he kept coming back. On his free days, between schedules, whenever he could.

And somewhere in between rolling dough, wiping flour off his face, and sneaking bites of pastries when he thought you weren’t looking—he became part of your life again.

Not as an idol. Not as the Chan you once fought with. Just as him.

You put your phone down, heart still racing.

Chan had yet to text you about the announcement. He was probably waiting, letting you process it on your own.

And for once, you weren’t afraid.

You looked toward the kitchen, where he was now—tying his apron, completely unaware that the world had just found out about you two.

You took a deep breath, stepped forward, and smiled.

"Hey, boyfriend," you teased, leaning against the counter.

Chan looked up, confused for a second, before his phone finally buzzed. His eyes widened.

"You okay?" he asked immediately, concern flickering in his gaze.

You nodded. "Are you?"

He exhaled, then grinned. "Well… at least they got my best angle."

You rolled your eyes, but you laughed. And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t looking at the past anymore.

At first, you weren’t sure how things would change.

Chan had always been social, always surrounded by people, and a part of you feared slipping back into old patterns. The nights where you’d feel left out. The moments where you questioned your place in his life. But this time, things were different.

He made sure of it.

The first time he invited you to hang out with his friends, you hesitated. You still remembered how it felt before—watching from the sidelines while he laughed with people who had known him longer, had history with him in a way you didn’t. But Chan noticed.

And instead of brushing it off, he reached for your hand.

"Hey, come here," he had said softly, pulling you into the conversation. "They’ve been wanting to meet you properly."

Properly.

Not as someone in the background. Not as just another presence in the room. But as his girlfriend.

From that day on, he never made you feel like an outsider. You were part of his world now, not just someone looking in.

Whenever he was with his friends, his arm always found its way around your shoulders. If you were feeling quiet, he’d gently pull you closer, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your head, whispering, "You okay?" If he laughed at an inside joke, he’d take the time to explain it to you. If his friends teased him, saying he had changed, he’d just smile and say, "Yeah. I did."

And then there were his exes.

Chan never cut them out of his life—not because he was holding onto the past, but because he had learned how to balance things. He didn’t hide it from you. He was transparent, always telling you if he happened to run into them, if they caught up once in a while.

But the difference now? He never let it make you feel small.

If his exes were around, he made it clear where he stood. His hand in yours. His attention on you. His presence next to you, always.

"You don’t have to worry," he’d say, eyes sincere. "I know what I want."

And he showed you.

When someone brought up his dating history, he never entertained it. If an old friend joked about how he’d never been single for long, he’d only shrug and say, "That’s in the past."

And if there was ever a moment—even the smallest second—where doubt crept into your mind, he always knew.

One night, after a dinner gathering, he noticed how you grew quiet as an old conversation about his past relationships resurfaced. He didn’t wait for you to bring it up.

In the car ride home, he reached for your hand and held it against his chest.

"Talk to me," he murmured.

You sighed, unsure how to put it into words. "I know you’re close with them. And I don’t want to be the kind of person who’s insecure about it. But sometimes…"

"Sometimes it still lingers?" he finished gently.

You nodded.

Chan didn’t get defensive. He didn’t dismiss it. He just squeezed your hand and said, "I get it. And I’m not asking you to ignore your feelings. Just… let me remind you, whenever you need it."

You looked at him, heart softening. "How will you remind me?"

He turned to you, eyes full of certainty.

"Like this."

And before you could react, he leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

Not rushed. Not just for reassurance. But because he wanted to. Because he chose you.

And he would always make sure you knew that.

*

Seungkwan had absolutely nothing in his head as he stood near the break room, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone. It was one of those rare moments where his brain wasn’t running a hundred miles per hour—no schedules to stress over, no members to yell at for losing their things nor refusing to take their vitamins. Just mindless scrolling.

That was until he overheard Hansol’s voice from inside the room.

“She sent me some pictures. It looked good.”

Seungkwan barely paid attention at first, but then Chan’s voice followed, casual as ever.

“Yeah, she was developing a new recipe last night. She told you about that? Jeez, you’re still her favorite member, hyung.”

Seungkwan’s thumb froze mid-scroll.

She?

Recipe?

His eyes narrowed. He replayed the sentence in his head, dissecting it like a scientist analyzing a new discovery. There was only one “she” in their circle who was obsessed with baking.

His heart dropped to his stomach.

His brain took a second too long to process the words. The next thing he knew, he was barging into the room, his eyes darting between Hansol and Chan.

"WAIT, WHAT?! WHAT’S GOING ON?!"

Chan looked up lazily from his phone, blinking at Seungkwan like he had just asked if water was wet. "Uh… what do you mean?"

Seungkwan’s jaw dropped. "DID YOU JUST SAY SHE—AS IN Y/N?!"

Hansol smirked but said nothing, sipping his drink.

Chan nodded, still looking completely unbothered. "Yeah? Why?"

Seungkwan’s face contorted in a mix of betrayal and disbelief. "YOU’RE BACK TOGETHER?!"

"Uh-huh."

"AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME?!"

Hansol chuckled, leaning back. "Dude, it’s been months."

Seungkwan gasped dramatically. "Months?!" He placed a hand on his chest as if he had just been personally attacked. "And I was the last to know?"

Chan shrugged, completely unfazed. "We didn’t exactly keep it a secret. You were just… too busy freaking out over the whole scandal thing."

"Busy freaking out—Chan, I lost SLEEP over that! I thought I ruined your life! I was having nightmares about it!" Seungkwan clutched his head as if reliving the trauma. "And the whole time, you two were just happily together behind my back?!"

Hansol patted his shoulder, failing to suppress a laugh. "Yeah, man. You really stressed yourself out for nothing."

Seungkwan groaned, collapsing onto the couch. "Unbelievable. This is betrayal. I feel so betrayed." He pointed an accusatory finger at Chan. "You should’ve told me! I deserve better than this!"

Chan chuckled, finally setting his phone down and walking over to ruffle Seungkwan’s hair. "Alright, alright. I’ll make it up to you. How about we all hang out at the bakery tomorrow? She’s testing out her new recipe."

Seungkwan’s ears perked up slightly, but he kept up his sulking act. "...The one with the cream filling?"

Chan smirked. "Yup."

Silence.

"...Fine," Seungkwan muttered, crossing his arms. "But only because of the food."

Hansol shook his head. "He forgives fast."

Seungkwan scoffed but didn’t deny it. "You’re lucky I love desserts. But I’m still mad at you."

Chan laughed, slinging an arm around him. "Sure, sure. I’ll let her know her favorite member is coming by."

Seungkwan rolled his eyes, "liar. You said it was Hansol earlier." But he couldn't help the small, satisfied smile that tugged at his lips.

And just like that, the weight of the past lifted, leaving only laughter, warmth, and the start of something even better.

End.

[yvaineseleneposts]

Split Ends and New Beginnings

A/N: Just a fluffy piece. It's a slow burn.

Requested: no

Pairing: Nico Hischier x Reader

Words: 7k

Warning(s): none

Nico Hischier didn’t usually tag along for errands like this. A salon appointment wasn’t exactly high on his list of weekend priorities — especially during a rare break in the season. But when his sister Nina asked if he wanted to come with her to get her hair done, he said yes without hesitation.

Time with her had been scarce lately, and he missed her — the normalcy of her voice, the way she kept him grounded when the schedule got too hectic or the noise of his career got too loud. And maybe, if he was honest with himself, there was another reason too. One she hadn’t let go unnoticed.

“You’ll come with me?” she asked. “I swear, you’ll like the place. My hairdresser’s your type, if that’s even still a thing for you.”

He’d just laughed her off. But now, standing inside the small salon with its warm, plant-filled corners and quiet ambient music, Nico understood what she meant.

She was standing at the front when they arrived — effortlessly composed, with a smudge of dark color on her wrist and a teasing look in her eye when Nina introduced them. Her handshake was light but confident. There was no gushing about hockey, no awkward glances. She met his gaze and held it, like she had no idea who he was — or didn’t care.

That alone made him sit up straighter.

“So you’re the brother,” she said with a smile, turning to Nina. “I see the family resemblance. Except he’s got a lot more hair to manage.”

Nico laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess I’ve been kind of letting it do its thing.”

“Well,” she said, eyes scanning his head like she was already making mental notes, “it’s got good shape… under the chaos.”

He sat quietly while Nina got her hair done, sneaking glances at the mirror, at the way her hands moved — quick, precise, creative. She talked to Nina like they’d known each other forever, slipping between jokes and gentle instructions. Every so often, her eyes flicked to Nico, just for a second. Nothing suggestive. Just... curious. Familiar, almost. He caught himself watching more than once.

As they were leaving, she looked over at him. “You ever think of getting that cleaned up? I do guys’ cuts too. You know, if you ever get tired of that whole shaggy hockey mystique.”

Nico raised an eyebrow. “That an offer?”

“Just a professional observation,” she said, already turning back to the front desk. “But if you want to read into it, that’s on you.”

He did.

A week passed. Then ten days. Nico tried not to think too much about it, but he found himself lingering in the mirror a little longer. Pushing his hair back. Wondering if he should do something about it. Or if going back too soon would make him look obvious. When he finally returned, he made up some excuse about needing a trim before a shoot. The salon was quieter this time — no sister to hide behind, just him and the sound of scissors snipping in another room.

She looked up from the chair she was finishing. Her surprise was subtle, but there.

“Back so soon?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Figured I should see what all the hype was about.”

She motioned him over. “Sit down, mystery man.”

As she ran her hands through his hair, Nico found himself relaxing in a way he didn’t expect. The conversation flowed again, naturally — slower this time. She asked about the team, but not in that bright, fan-girl way he was used to. Just interest. Just listening.

He didn’t flirt — not really. She didn’t either. But their words skimmed close to something unspoken, something easy but loaded. The kind of thing that settles in the chest and stays there for a while.

By the time she spun him toward the mirror and he saw himself — lighter, cleaner, more like himself — he wasn’t thinking about how his hair looked anymore. He was thinking about how good it felt to sit still. To be seen without performance. And how rare it was, in his world, to leave somewhere not wanting to move on too quickly.

She handed him a card with his next appointment time scribbled on the back.

“Come back in four weeks,” she said, and then, after a pause, added, “Or sooner, if you feel like it.”

He took the card and smiled.

“Sooner sounds good.”

It wasn’t quite four weeks. More like two and a half.

Nico showed up on a quiet Thursday, no hood, no sunglasses this time. The weather had turned brisk, that strange in-between phase where you can still pretend it's not fully fall, but you know it’s coming. He stepped into the salon, instantly greeted by that familiar smell — something warm and botanical, grounding.

She looked up from the counter, surprised, but not displeased.

“You again,” she said, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t I tell you four weeks?”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling as he slipped off his jacket, “but I’m bad at waiting.”

She waved him toward the chair. “Clearly.”

It wasn’t even about the haircut, not really. His hair hadn’t changed much. But he didn’t offer excuses. And she didn’t ask. Instead, they picked up right where they left off — no small talk, just a gentle slide into the kind of conversation people usually save for late nights or long drives.

She talked about the salon — how she’d started sweeping floors at sixteen, how it wasn’t what she expected to love, but she did. She mentioned her mom in passing — something about how she used to cut her bangs in the kitchen with sewing scissors, laughing too hard to care about symmetry. She didn’t say much more, and Nico didn’t press.

In return, he shared pieces of the road. Not the headlines or game highlights — she didn’t care about those — but the quiet parts. The way hotels all start to smell the same. The weird comfort of being anonymous in certain cities. The way he still called his sister when the travel started to feel like floating. Their banter softened that day, less sharp, more honest.

“I used to think people like you were untouchable,” she said, combing through his hair near the end. “You know. Hockey players. Athletes. The kind of people who exist on screens.”

“And now?” he asked, voice low.

She tilted her head, pretending to assess the back of his neck. “Now I think maybe you just need someone to tell you when you’ve got product buildup.”

He laughed, but something in her tone lingered — like maybe she had thought he was untouchable, once. And maybe now she wasn’t sure what to do with the fact that he wasn’t.

When he left that day, she didn’t give him a card. She just looked at him, one eyebrow raised, and said, “You’ll come back when you need to.”

He nodded. But the truth was, he already knew when he would.

The visits kept happening. Not regular enough to feel scheduled, not close enough to call intentional. But always… just in time.

Sometimes she’d be finishing up with someone else and he'd sit quietly in the corner, watching the way she moved, the way she listened. Other times, it was just the two of them — long appointments that should’ve taken 30 minutes but somehow lasted an hour.

They didn’t flirt, not in the way people usually do. There were no dramatic glances or lines. Just… closeness. Familiarity. Shared silences that felt full instead of awkward.

One rainy evening, she paused midway through trimming around his ear and said, quietly, “You ever feel like your life’s happening somewhere slightly to the left of where you are?”

Nico blinked. “All the time.”

She nodded, not explaining. He didn’t ask, but he remembered that moment more than anything else she said that day.

It would be months before anything shifted clearly between them. But in that slow build — appointment by appointment, word by word — something unshakable was growing. It didn’t need declarations. Just time.

And Nico, for the first time in a long while, was willing to wait.

By the time January came around, Nico had been to the salon more times than he could reasonably explain — especially to himself. His hair didn’t need trimming that often. But still, he showed up. Every few weeks. Always with something casual to say, always with the quiet hope she’d still smile when he walked in.

She always did.

It had started to snow that day — not the dramatic kind that shut down cities, just a soft curtain falling steadily, muting the outside world. He came in a little later than usual, the sleeves of his coat dusted white. She was alone in the space, her last client already gone. The lights were low, music playing something soft and piano-heavy through the speakers.

“Forgot I had you today,” she said, brushing hair off her apron. But her voice didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, it sounded like maybe she'd needed the interruption.

“Lucky me,” Nico said, pulling off his coat.

She didn’t ask what he wanted done — she never really did anymore. They both knew the appointments had become something else. He sat in the chair, and she moved behind him, fingers combing through his hair like she’d done a dozen times before.

But something was different this time. He was quiet. More than usual. She noticed.

“Tired?” she asked softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Long road trip. Weird energy. Hard to explain.”

She didn’t push. Just kept working, the comb gliding through his hair, fingertips grazing the side of his neck.

Then, halfway through the cut, her hand stilled.

“You okay?” he asked, turning slightly.

She was quiet for a beat. Then: “Do you ever wonder if you’re making it harder for yourself? By not saying things?”

Nico froze.

His chest tightened with a rush of recognition — not panic, but something close. A pressure that had been quietly building since the day they met. He met her eyes in the mirror.

“All the time,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was certain.

She looked back at him — not coy, not flirty. Just there, open and vulnerable in a way that felt more intimate than any touch.

“I think I’ve been coming here for reasons that have nothing to do with my hair,” he added, almost a whisper.

A soft smile tugged at her lips. “I know.”

The air shifted. Not with drama or declarations — but with the simple truth of being seen, finally, at the same time.

She set the scissors down, brushed the loose strands off his shoulders. The haircut was technically finished, but neither of them moved. Not for a while. Something had settled between them — warm and fragile. A weightless kind of gravity.

Outside, the snowfall had thickened, soft and steady. The city felt slower, quieter. Nico glanced toward the window, then back at her.

“You done for the night?” he asked.

She nodded, starting to sweep around the chair, but he gently took the broom from her hands.

“Come walk with me,” he said. “Just for a bit.”

She hesitated, just for a second, then reached for her coat. “Alright.”

The cold hit them in the face at first, but it wasn’t sharp — it was the kind of cold that wrapped around you, crisp but clean. They walked without much of a destination, their footsteps muffled by the snow underfoot. The city lights glowed soft gold through the haze.

They didn’t talk at first. Just walked shoulder to shoulder, hands deep in their pockets, both content with the quiet. But Nico felt something pressing behind his ribs. A truth, not heavy, just waiting.

“I leave tomorrow,” he said finally, voice low.

She looked at him, but didn’t stop walking. “Where to?”

“West coast swing. Couple weeks on the road. Then All-Star break, then back again.”

She nodded slowly. “You’ll be gone a while.”

He watched her profile in the low light. “Yeah.”

A pause stretched between them, filled with breath and snowfall.

“I wasn’t sure if I should say anything,” he added. “But… I really like being around you. Talking to you. It’s been the only thing lately that’s felt—” he exhaled, searching, “—normal. But in a good way.”

Her eyes softened. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I know I don’t,” he said, more firmly now. “That’s why I am.”

She stopped walking. Turned toward him. “So what are you saying, exactly?”

He looked down, smiled. Then back up at her with a quiet certainty that surprised even himself.

“I’d really like to keep talking to you. Even when I’m not here.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him for a moment, eyes searching. Then she reached into her coat pocket, pulled out her phone, and handed it to him without a word. Nico took it, thumbed in his number, and handed it back.

“No pressure,” he said, stuffing his hands back into his coat. “You don’t have to text. Just… if you feel like it.”

She gave a soft, almost amused smile. “I think I’ll feel like it.”

They started walking again, this time a little closer than before.

And as the snow thickened around them, the city blurred into silence — but the space between them felt clearer than it ever had.

The first text came the night Nico left.

Nico: Made it to L.A. In-flight movie was awful. The lady next to me sneezed no less than 14 times. Hope your night was better.

She smiled when she saw it. Not just because it was funny — though it was — but because it felt like him. Easy. Familiar. Like he was still near.

She waited ten minutes before responding. Not because she was playing games, but because she read it three times first.

Her: Quiet salon today. One client canceled, another brought her dog. He wore a sweater and judged me the entire time. 9/10 experience.

From there, it didn’t stop.

Some nights it was short — a photo of the pregame meal, a sarcastic “rate this hotel carpet,” or a blurry picture of the sky from the team bus. Other nights, it was longer. He told her about the quiet between games, about the pressure that crept in at 3 a.m. when no one was watching. She sent voice memos sometimes — little rants about weird clients or the music she played in the salon when no one was around.

And then one night, she caught herself staring at her phone. Hoping for the little buzz. Missing it when it didn’t come.

Missing him.

It was two days before she said it, tucked inside something else, like maybe if she disguised it well enough, it wouldn’t feel like too much.

Her: Had a long day. Wouldn’t have minded one of our weird hair-salon therapy chats right about now. Guess I’m getting used to having you around.

She didn’t expect a reply right away — time zones and game schedules — but it came quicker than usual.

Nico: You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.

Then, a second message.

Nico: I miss it too. Talking to you. Walking with you. Just… you.

She stared at the screen for a long time before responding.

Her: I didn’t expect to miss someone I barely knew. But here we are, huh?

Nico: Feels like I know you more than most people I’ve known for years.

She didn’t answer right away. She didn’t need to.

Because by then, the silence between texts wasn’t empty anymore. It was full — with everything they hadn’t said yet. And somewhere between his late-night hotel rooms and her quiet evening closes, something soft and real was beginning to take shape.

Not rushed or labelled, but real.

The snow hadn’t let up much. It came in waves — soft and endless, like the city itself was trying to slow everything down.

She was in the salon late again. Winter did that — clients shuffled in after work, delayed by weather, and lingered longer than they should’ve. She didn’t mind. It gave her time to think. To wonder if he was thinking about her too.

She hadn’t heard from him yet that day. That wasn’t unusual. Game days were packed. Still, she found herself glancing at her phone more than she wanted to admit.

Just after eight, the doorbell chimed.

She looked up, halfway expecting a walk-in she’d have to turn away. But it was Nico.

Snow in his hair. Backpack slung over his shoulder. Tired, but smiling in that quiet, boyish way that had started to live in the back of her mind.

Her breath caught. “You’re—what?”

He shrugged, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Flight bumped up. Got in a few hours ago. I figured... I don’t know, maybe I’d just show up.”

She didn’t move for a second. Just took him in — real, here, more grounded than he’d seemed on the screen.

“I didn’t expect you,” she said.

“I know.” He took a step closer. “But I wanted to see you. Before anything else.”

A pause. Not tense, just full.

“Clients?” he asked, gesturing at the empty chairs.

“Last one left twenty minutes ago.”

“Good,” he said softly. “I was kind of hoping you’d still be here.”

She reached out then — not fully, just a light touch on the sleeve of his jacket, grounding herself in the fact that he was real.

“I missed you,” she said, quiet like a confession. “More than I thought I would.”

Nico’s eyes softened. “Me too. You don’t realize how much space someone takes up until you’re halfway across the country wondering if they’re thinking about you too.”

She smiled, that familiar tug of warmth rising up between them again. “I thought about you more than I’d like to admit.”

There was nothing dramatic after that. No kiss. No music swelling in the background. Just her walking to the back to hang up his coat. Him watching her like she was the only calm in a world full of noise.

And then — like it was the most natural thing in the world — she made tea. He swept hair off the floor. They talked, slow and close, like people with no reason to rush.

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, something finally — fully — began.

The salon lights clicked off with a quiet hum, and they stepped back into the cold.

Nico held her coat out without a word, and she slipped into it, the silence between them soft, like a worn-in sweater. No pressure. No question marks. Just two people quietly orbiting the same truth.

“You look wiped,” she said as they reached the curb.

“I am,” he admitted. “But not in a bad way.”

She smiled. “That’s specific.”

“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “It’s like… I’m tired, but I don’t want the night to be over.”

They stood like that for a moment, streetlight catching the edge of her breath.

Then he said, “You want to come over? Nothing big. Just a movie. Maybe fall asleep halfway through and pretend we watched the whole thing.”

She gave a soft laugh, but didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. That actually sounds perfect.”

His apartment was quiet, dimly lit, still a bit in post-road-trip disarray. She didn’t seem to mind. Kicked off her boots by the door, slipped into the corner of his couch like she’d been there a hundred times.

Nico tossed her a blanket and set a mug of tea in front of her without asking. She looked at it, then at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Since when do hockey players drink chamomile?”

“Since I started talking to someone who makes fun of me if I don’t.”

She smirked. “Sounds like she’s very wise.”

“Oh, definitely. And ruthless.”

The movie they picked didn’t matter. Something familiar and soft around the edges — just enough story to justify the quiet, not enough to compete with the weight of the day.

Twenty minutes in, her head drifted against his shoulder. He stilled. Not because he didn’t want her there — but because he did, so much, and he didn’t want to move a muscle that might make her leave it.

She murmured something unintelligible. A half-dream sentence. He looked down, caught the way her hand had curled beneath the blanket, one knuckle brushing his thigh like an unconscious tether.

And that was it. No kiss. No rush. Just her breathing even beside him. Him watching the screen but not really seeing it. He reached down slowly, threading his pinky with hers. Not to wake her. Just to feel it. Just to know she was there.

The morning arrived like a whisper. Pale winter light slipped through the edges of the curtains, casting soft shadows across Nico’s living room. The TV was still playing — some looping screensaver, muted and glowing — and the air held that quiet stillness reserved for the earliest hours.

She woke first.

Blanket half-tangled around her legs, head resting against something warm and solid. It took her a second to place it — the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint smell of cedar and clean cotton. And then her eyes opened fully. Nico was still asleep, head tilted slightly, mouth parted just enough to give him away.

She froze. Her immediate instinct was panic. Not the real kind — just the kind that whispers, God, I fell asleep on him, and Was I snoring? and Did I drool? Quiet mortification in the shape of every self-conscious voice she'd tried to ignore.

She sat up slowly, careful not to wake him. Too late.

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then locking onto her. A sleepy half-smile tugged at his lips. “Morning,” he said, voice rough and low.

“I—” she started, brushing her hair out of her face, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to crash like that. I was just... tired, I guess.”

“You’re allowed to be tired,” he said, still smiling. “It’s not a crime.”

She pulled her knees up to her chest, trying to hide the flush creeping into her face. “Still. Not my most graceful moment.”

He leaned his head back on the couch cushion, watching her with that calm, steady gaze that never rushed her.

“Truth?” he said.

She glanced at him. “Okay.”

“I slept better last night than I have in weeks.”

The words settled between them, warm and real.

She blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He reached for the mug on the coffee table — cold by now — and shrugged. “Maybe it was the chamomile. Or maybe it was falling asleep next to someone who doesn’t need anything from me but... this.”

She didn’t say anything for a beat. Then softly: “I liked it too.”

He smiled again, that quiet one she was starting to think was reserved just for her. Neither of them moved for a while. There was no pressure to. The kind of silence that used to feel heavy now felt like peace.

Eventually, he stood, stretched, and offered a hand.

“Come on. I make terrible coffee. You should witness it.”

She took his hand, fingers lacing with his easily now.

“I’ll rate it out of ten,” she said.

“Oh, it’s a three. But the company’s a solid nine-point-eight.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And the point-two deduction?”

“For falling asleep during the movie.”

She laughed, and he looked at her like it was the best sound he’d heard in weeks.

It had been a few weeks since that morning on the couch — since that sleepy, accidental closeness started shifting into something neither of them wanted to name too quickly. They hadn’t talked about it outright. Not yet. The tension was still wrapped in light touches, lingering glances, shared meals that stretched longer than they should have.

And that would’ve been enough. Until it wasn’t.

It started small. A missed text. Then another.

Then a day where he didn’t come by, even though she’d said she was keeping the evening free. By the third day, she was trying to convince herself not to care. He didn’t owe her anything. They hadn’t defined this. She wasn’t his girlfriend. But that didn’t stop her chest from tightening when the salon doorbell chimed and it was someone else. Again.

He finally showed up after closing, face drawn from travel and practice and something else he hadn’t said out loud.

She didn’t turn when he walked in. Just kept sweeping hair into the pan.

“I tried to call,” he said quietly.

She nodded, but didn’t look at him.

“I’ve been—” he started.

“Busy,” she said, cutting him off. “I know. I get it.”

He stepped closer. “You’re upset.”

She dropped the broom, turning around. Not angry — just tired in a way that came from caring too much, too quietly.

“I’m not upset that you were busy,” she said. “I’m upset that you didn’t say anything. You pulled back, Nico. And I felt it.”

His face flickered with guilt. “I didn’t mean to. I just… when things get crazy with the season, I go on autopilot. I shut down. And I didn’t want to drag you into that.”

“I was already in it,” she said, voice softer now. “I was already in this. Whatever this is.”

A long pause stretched between them. Then, finally, he said it.

“I was scared.”

She looked at him, unsure.

“Scared that I’d mess it up,” he added. “That if I let this become real, I’d ruin it. That you’d see me in the worst parts of the season — the tired, burnt out, closed-off parts — and decide it’s not worth it.”

She exhaled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.

“I already see you,” she said. “Even the messy parts. That’s not what I’m scared of.”

“What are you scared of?” he asked.

She hesitated.

“That you don’t feel it as much as I do.”

He stepped in, close enough to erase the air between them.

“I do,” he said, voice low and steady. “I feel it every damn time I see you. Every time I don’t see you.”

Her breath caught. He reached for her, not quickly, but carefully — like asking a question he already knew the answer to. She didn’t back away. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing just beneath her cheek. Then, finally, like it had been waiting in the wings all this time — he kissed her. Soft, but certain. Not rushed. Just right.

She melted into him, hands fisting lightly in his jacket, her mouth finding his like it had known the way all along. It wasn’t perfect — it was breathless and raw and a little shaky — but it was real.

And when they pulled apart, she didn’t look away. Neither did he.

One day she decided that she wanted to watch him play. See what all the fuzz was about. The arena felt louder than she expected. Not just from the crowd, but from the way the sound echoed inside her — the music, the announcements, the scrape of skates against ice. It was a world she didn’t quite belong to, not really. But she was here for him.

She sat near the glass, a friend of his had arranged the seat — not center ice, not VIP, but close enough to see everything. Close enough to see him.

She hadn’t told him she was coming.

Not because it was a surprise. Not really. But because part of her didn’t want to make it about her. This was his space. His rhythm. She just wanted to be part of it — to witness it without interrupting.

And then he skated out for warmups, and she caught herself holding her breath. He moved like someone born to it — fast, sharp, effortless. The Nico she knew, but somehow different too. More focused. More contained. But she could still see him in there — the way he tapped a teammate’s glove, the tilt of his head during drills, the quiet smile he gave to the equipment guy.

He didn’t see her. Not at first. But then — during a break in warmups — he coasted toward the glass, wiping his face with his glove. And when he glanced into the crowd, his eyes landed on her.

He stopped. Just for a second.

Surprise flickered across his face, followed by something warmer. Something he didn’t bother hiding.

He skated off again without a signal, but it didn’t matter.

She saw it in the way his shoulders dropped a little. In the way he moved after that — looser, lighter. Like knowing she was there gave him just enough more.

The game was a blur of noise and tension. He played hard. Took a few hits. Made a sharp assist in the second period that brought the crowd to its feet.

She didn’t yell, didn’t cheer like the fans around her. But she smiled when he looked up after that pass, and for a split second — even across all the noise — he looked like he was searching for her again.

After the game, the tunnels were a maze of concrete and controlled chaos. She waited near the players’ entrance, hoodie pulled up, pretending to scroll through her phone. A staff member had said he’d come out that way. When he finally did — hair still damp, suit jacket slung over one shoulder — he spotted her instantly.

“Hey,” he said, walking straight to her.

“Hey,” she echoed, voice light. “Good game.”

He stopped just short of touching her — public space, people everywhere — but the look in his eyes said what he couldn’t.

“You came.”

“I did,” she said. “You looked good out there.”

His smile was slow, a little crooked. “I always feel better when you’re watching.”

She rolled her eyes softly, but couldn’t hide the blush.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here.”

She fell into step beside him, and as they disappeared into the cold night, he reached for her hand — casually at first, like it didn’t mean anything. But it did, it meant everything.

It started with a photo.

Nothing dramatic. Just a candid — Nico, in jeans and a beanie, walking out of a downtown café. She was beside him, laughing at something he’d said, their hands barely touching.

Someone caught it. Posted it. By the next morning, it was everywhere.

“Devils Captain Spotted With Mystery Woman — Who’s She?” “Hischier’s Off-Ice Chemistry Heating Up?” “Hockey’s Most Private Star Might Not Be So Private Anymore.”

She didn’t even know until a friend from the salon texted her with a screenshot.

is this you???

Her stomach dropped.

Nico called her five minutes later.

“Hey,” he said, before she could say anything. “You saw it?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” he added. “I didn’t think that would happen. I should’ve warned you it might.”

She sat on the edge of her bed, phone pressed to her ear, heart doing something complicated and unnameable. “It’s not your fault. We weren’t doing anything.”

“I know,” he said, quietly. “But that doesn’t matter to them.”

There was another pause — not strained, just full of something new. A shift.

She cleared her throat. “So... what now?”

He hesitated.

And then: “That depends. Are you okay with people knowing?”

She blinked. “Are you?”

“I wasn’t sure,” he admitted. “I’ve always kept this part of my life locked down. But with you...”

A breath.

“I don’t want to keep you a secret.”

The words landed with more weight than either of them expected.

She smiled, even as nerves danced under her skin. “That’s a very un-hockey-player thing to say.”

He laughed softly. “Yeah, well. You’ve been a bad influence.”

A beat passed, warm and honest.

“I want to do this right,” he added. “If you’re in — I’m in. Fully.”

She let the quiet settle between them. Then: “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’m in too.”

They didn’t make a statement. They didn’t need to. But the next time he walked into the arena, she was beside him. Not tucked behind. Not rushed in a back entrance. Beside him.

And when someone called her name — the press had found it by then — Nico didn’t flinch. He glanced at her, then down at their joined hands, and he smiled. Let them see.

He didn’t make a big deal of it. That’s what made her nervous.

Nico mentioned it offhand one morning while she was brushing her teeth in his apartment — toothpaste still in his mouth, voice muffled.

“My sister’s coming into town this weekend,” he said. “And my mom too. I was thinking… you could come by. Say hi.”

She blinked at him through the mirror. “You want me to meet your family?”

He shrugged, rinsing. “You’ve met my team. This feels less scary.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’ve cut your teammates’ hair, Nico. I wasn’t emotionally invested.”

He leaned against the doorway, grinning. “You’re saying you’re emotionally invested now?”

She tried to glare, failed, and nudged him out of the bathroom with a laugh.

When Saturday came, her nerves hit at the door.

He was calm — casual jeans, sweater, sleeves pushed up, completely unbothered. But she felt it in her chest: that low, persistent hum of what if they don’t like me? or what if I say something weird and ruin it all in thirty seconds?

She held a bottle of wine so tightly her knuckles went white.

“You’re not going into battle,” Nico said gently, noticing. “You’re just meeting my mom.”

“That is a kind of battle,” she muttered.

He grinned and kissed her temple. “Trust me. She’s going to love you.”

His mom opened the door, and the first thing she did was smile — warm and kind, with the same eyes Nico had when he was tired but happy.

“You must be her,” she said in a soft Swiss accent, pulling her into a hug before she could panic.

Dinner was cozy. Real food. Real laughs. His sister teased him mercilessly — which felt like a rite of passage — and his mom told stories that made Nico bury his face in his hands.

She didn’t speak much at first, but every time she looked at him, Nico gave her a small nod, like, You’re okay. I’ve got you.

Halfway through dessert, his sister leaned toward her, grinning.

“He’s lighter around you,” she said quietly. “We’ve seen it. We like it.”

Something in her chest unclenched.

After everyone had left, the apartment was quiet again. She sat on the couch in her socks, finishing a glass of wine.

Nico dropped beside her, thigh brushing hers.

“You okay?”

She nodded. “I think I survived.”

He smiled, and after a moment, added, “My mom already asked if you’ll come next time we’re home.”

She laughed softly. “She’s fast.”

“She likes you. They all did.”

There was a beat of silence, comfortable now.

Then she leaned her head against his shoulder. “It’s weird. Tonight felt... normal.”

“In a good way?”

“In the best way.”

He took her hand, lacing their fingers, then kissed the top of her head.

“Get used to it,” he murmured.

The road trip was long — two weeks, five cities, and enough flights to make Nico forget what day it was most of the time. She knew the schedule. He’d sent it to her with highlights, times they might FaceTime, cities that had decent Wi-Fi. But even with the planning, the missing crept in early.

They had been through distance before — in the beginning, when things were still new, still unsaid.

But now?

Now it felt different. He didn’t just miss her presence. He missed the feeling of her. The grounding. The way she touched his arm without thinking, or made fun of his playlists, or stole his hoodies and left them at her place like breadcrumbs.

She missed him too — but not in that dreamy, butterflies-in-the-stomach way. It was heavier. Like looking at an empty chair across the room and knowing it should be filled. By day four, their texts had shifted.

Nico: did you eat today?

Her: barely. salon’s slammed. you?

Nico: protein bar and a pretzel. crushing it.

Her: i miss you in an annoying, obvious kind of way.

Nico: yeah. same. come to pittsburgh?

She stared at the message longer than she should have.

Her: what?

Nico: next game. I’ll book the hotel. flight. everything. just say yes.

Her: nico…

Nico: i know. it’s a lot. but i hate missing you like this. and it’s not just about the game. i want you around. my world feels better with you in it.

She stared at the screen, heart pounding.

It wasn’t just about a plane ticket. It was about what they were becoming — no more pauses, no more halfway in.

She typed, deleted, retyped.

Her: okay. send me the flight info.

The hotel room smelled like him — faint cologne, laundry soap, and something warm underneath it all. He met her in the lobby, ball cap pulled low, hand reaching for hers before either of them said a word.

They didn’t kiss right away. They just held on. A tight hug. Like breath after too long underwater.

“Hi,” she whispered against his chest.

“Hi,” he murmured back, eyes closing.

It was the best part of the trip — not the game, not the hotel, not even the room service pancakes the next morning.

Just this. Being in the same room again and realizing that the missing hadn’t broken anything.

It had only proved what they already knew.

She didn’t fully understand the game, but she understood him.

And that was enough.

Pittsburgh was loud. Electric. The Devils played hard — Nico harder than usual — and when the final buzzer sounded and they’d edged out a win in overtime, the entire bench erupted.

He didn’t look for the cameras or the crowd. He looked for her. Found her.

She was on her feet in the third row, clapping, beaming — cheeks flushed, eyes wide. And when their gazes met across the glass, she didn’t mouth anything.

She just smiled like she was proud. That was better than any cheer.

He found her waiting in the same hotel lobby afterward, damp hair from the post-game shower, jacket half-zipped, grin wide.

“I’m starting to think you’re my lucky charm,” he said, pulling her into him.

She laughed softly, fingers curling into his sleeves. “One win and I’m a charm now?”

“Absolutely,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “You’re coming to every road game from now on.”

“You’re not that rich.”

“I will be if you keep showing up.”

They both laughed, but there was something else under it. A look they hadn’t shared yet. A weight. An invitation.

Back in the room, the noise of the world dulled. They didn’t rush.

He kissed her slow, like there was time. Like they could stretch it out across hours. Her shirt came off first — soft cotton, then warm skin — and she leaned into his hands like she already knew the shape of what they were building.

He traced every inch of her like he’d been memorizing her since day one.

When they made love — and it was that, unmistakably — there was nothing performative about it. No pressure. No script. Just quiet gasps, long glances, whispered encouragement.

After, she lay curled beside him, one leg tangled over his, fingers resting over his heartbeat. Neither of them said anything for a long time. Then, in the hush of post-game adrenaline and shared breath, Nico murmured into her hair, “I don’t know how I did any of this before you.”

She lifted her head to look at him, eyes soft, searching.

“You don’t have to anymore,” she whispered.

And he didn’t say it out loud — I love you — not yet.

But it lived in that moment.

In the stillness, in the way they held each other until sleep pulled them under, in the feeling that for the first time in a long while, home wasn’t a place.

It was a person.

[yieldtotemptation]

PAROXYSM ft. Mina

mina x male reader smut

part two of strange currencies

16k words

Go ahead, try and pretend like you’re not obsessed.

Like you’re not bothered that it’s been weeks since you had Mina—felt the heat of her body, the silk of her skin, the sweetness of her breath on your neck.

Since you've seen that ass. Had it in your hands, spread her cheeks with your fingers, stretched her wide with your cock and left Mina in tears, crying out—

"God, I can never go back from this."

And it’s not like you haven’t been searching for opportunities; a party you’d both be invited to, another gala, some event with enough plausible deniability for when you inevitably, ‘accidentally’ bump into her again.

But for some reason, nothing seems to align.

You’ll get word that she’s in Korea, basking in a rare stretch of free time, while you’re in Hong Kong, signing deals and making promises of dubious sincerity.

You’ll be rushing to return, already planning out how you’ll steal another taste of her, another touch; only to find out she’s been whisked away again—to Japan, or Brazil, or any one of the countless countries desperate to host her.

Glimpses is all you ever truly get—paparazzi shots, magazine covers, the odd video that passes through the digital ether.

So, yeah.

You let it rest, go through the motions, try to recreate it in the aggregate. There are plenty of pretty faces, eager bodies in your orbit.

But they're all just that: bodies.

Empty shells of what you had. They don’t laugh like her, they don’t keep you on your toes like she can, they don’t look at you with the same hunger.

(They don’t say your name like Mina did.)

—

“So,” is the first word you hear from Mina. Too much time has passed, and you’ve officially given up on any pretences of nonchalance. Decided to get straight to the point with the right people and just get her number. “I guess I’m not the only one who can’t stop thinking about that night.”

“Uncharted territory and all,” you’re repeating, and there’s a beat of silence on the other line.

A deep breath, and you swear you can hear her smile. “Definitely unique.”

It’s well past midnight and you’re tired and you’re feeling unusually vulnerable, so you're admitting things you'd usually keep under lock and key. “It’s been—you’ve been stuck in my head, Mina.”

“I know the feeling,” she sighs. Just the timbre of her voice and there’s shivers down your spine. “The memory alone is still—”

You finish for her, “Vivid.”

“I was going to say really fucking hot, but yes,” she laughs. “It’s helped me through some lonely nights. Remembering how you felt inside me, everything we did together it’s—God, you have no idea.”

“I’d argue I have the entire idea. For one—the stairs,” you’re supplying, grinning to yourself, leaning back in your chair, remembering the way she clung to you. How tight she was around you, how fucking new she felt as you filled her. “You were so fucking gorgeous. Never felt anything like it.”

“And the shower,” she counters, “you had me pinned against the tiles. Couldn’t move without you fucking me deeper. Just stuck with nowhere to go but further down your cock. No one’s ever done that to me.”

“Don’t forget the kitchen,” you add, “We got pretty creative with the utensils.”

Mina giggles. You didn't know she was capable of sounding so girlish. “I’ll never look at a spatula the same.”

It’s getting dangerous, each memory rekindling the flame of a night that you’d tried to convince yourself couldn’t have been as epic as you remembered. Couldn’t have mattered so much.

And yet here you are now, letting Mina stir up thoughts of her cunt gushing down her thighs, her nipples stiffening between your teeth, her ass choking your cock, the look on her face when she came all over you—and you know she’s wading through the very same set of flashbacks.

“Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that garden. Your hands are all over me, your mouth everywhere—”

“Your cunt on my tongue—”

“Your fingers in my ass—”

“Your fucking moans, Mina—”

“Wait, I need to—”

Mina stops you, and you find yourself releasing a breath you didn't even know you were holding. You think you can hear her; hear the shutting of a door, a lock turning, frantic pacing, the squeak of a bed.

Your eyes close and you're picturing it now—Mina, laid back on pure white sheets, sprawled out like a Goddess. It's all there, crystal clear. Fingers dancing over her collarbones, tracing the delicate line of her neck down to the swell of her breasts.

Teasing herself, running her thumbs over her areola, the skin there a shade darker, a touch more sensitive. Pinching and pulling, peaks hardening into tight buds, missing the roughness of your tongue.

And then going lower, down over her ridged abs and between her toned thighs. Spreading her legs out in an invitation, toes curling into the mattress. Finding herself slick with need, so, so soaked. Dipping down to trace over her folds before sliding right into the wet heat.

Mina gasps. It's not your imagination. She moans into the phone.

You can almost taste her again.

She finds her voice. "Please, keep talking."

—

The first photo comes through the very next day.

You can intuit from the architecture in the background—the steep roofs, the brick exteriors, the gothic towers—she’s somewhere in Paris.

And there’s Mina, flat on her stomach, sheets tangled around her like the aftermath of a hurricane that’s swept through. Smiling at you straight down the barrel of the camera, cutting through the digital space between you. It’s sly and knowing and a little bit wicked, because she knows that it’s not the view of the city behind her that you’re looking at, nor is it even her face, usually so stunningly unavoidable and instantly captivating.

It's her ass.

Plump and round, poking over her shoulder, filling a whole corner of the frame. And you're spotting the indentations where your fingers have sunk in, the stretch of alabaster that your grip turned a shade of pink. A map of memories etched across the curve of her cheeks.

It’s a thousand words in a single photo, a message loud and clear, carefully composed to make you ache. So, you do. You ache.

You save the picture—not because you think you’re going to forget, but because you need to have a piece of her with you at all times.

Something to pull out when the days are too long, too dull. Something to look at when your memories of her aren’t enough anymore.

The photo, you notice, comes with a caption: ‘The only thing missing here is you.’

—

“Stability,” Mina’s telling you nights later, after you’ve spent close to an hour describing to her all the ways you’d like to have her again, like to break her down until she’s just a trembling mess of limbs and cum.

It’s a habit the two of you have picked up; these clandestine calls that come in the dead of night, during those rare occasions you’re in a reasonable enough time zone to talk. You’re actually in the same country this time. The States, but on different coasts, so, close enough.

She’s sending these breathy whispers down the phone; still coming down from her high, from the way her thighs clenched around her own hand, from the way she painted your name onto her skin with her own juices.

Still coming down from you, from the meticulously detailed step-by-step explanations of exactly what you’d do to her if you weren’t thousands of kilometres apart.

“Stability,” you repeat the answer she’s given to the question that’s been burning in your mind for weeks now. It’s certainly a faux pas to ask right after she’s made you cum across your own chest; but it’s late, and tonight’s suite is far too big and much too quiet—the kind of quiet that lets you think too much.

And so you had to ask her. Why was she still with him?

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Mina confirms. “I like stability, I like routine, I like knowing what to expect. Means I can never be disappointed.”

“Never be surprised, either,” you point out. She laughs, the sound warm and rich through the speaker.

“That’s never really been a problem.” She pauses. “Until you.”

There’s an alarm bell sounding somewhere, triggered by the way that last syllable curls around the corners of her lips, bounces across fifty different states to land in your ear.

You.

It rattles around your brain, punches you right in the gut. You try to play it off with a chuckle. But you both know what this really is. The desperation, the need. What you do to each other. How much of a fucking mess you’d make together if you had half the chance.

You make an attempt at being casual: “Apologies, then.”

“You kinda fuck everything up for me, you know?” She admits. “I was fine with it all. Leaving all of this as just a fantasy. Living with the boredom.”

“Everything’s boring.”

“Except this.”

You should really be above all this. The pining, the yearning. Having a crush.

It’s unbecoming.

Leave her alone. Leave her to the dream life she’s built up for herself. The career, the boyfriend, the whole shiny package that everyone’s decided she should want. It’d be the rational thing to do.

And yet— “So, what are we going to do about it?”

“I suppose,” Mina says, and once again, you're swearing you can hear her smile through the phone, because this is far from the end of things, “We’ll just have to find some way to scratch this itch.”

—

(It’s an outrageous abuse of power.

But so what? You’re an asshole billionaire, that’s what everyone expects of you anyway.

Besides, compared to your peers, it falls far short of bankrupting entire economies or causing irreparable damage to the Earth’s oceans and atmosphere.

So why not go full tilt and really indulge?

That’s basically the gist of your justification for forcing fate’s hand and manifesting your own ‘accidental’ meeting with Mina.

Still. It’s only a meeting.)

—

“Quite a situation you’ve engineered here,” is Mina’s first quip, as she steps right out of your daydreams and into your office.

Oh, you’ve been thinking of her.

Spent time replaying that night in your mind, revisiting the sight of her bouncing on that staircase, the feel of her soft skin slapping against yours, the sound of her sighs in your ears.

Obsessed over the messages, the photos, the videos she’s sent—how she moves, that coy smile on her face when she knows she’s got your full attention in her grip. All these mesmerising moments captured in high-definition.

And it’s coming back to you now—the waterfall of hair cascading down her shoulders, the red of her lips, the beauty spot on her nose, above her cupid’s bow—a constellation across her face.

(She makes your office feel small.)

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, aiming for flippant, but missing the mark by a wide margin.

“Mhm,” is all you’re going to get, because you both know better.

She makes herself at home here, taking the long way to your desk. Hips swaying as she runs her fingers over the décor, the lights and the statues, the books and the furniture. Again, fitting right in with the expensive, the luxurious, the exclusive.

You’re not hiding that you’re staring, and she’s not hiding that she knows either.

Mina walks right past you, turns away so you can see the full sweep of her back, the high-waisted skirt that hugs her curves before flaring out at the waist. Eventually, she stops at the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the city, the urban sprawl below a far cry from the palatial gardens that backdropped your first encounter.

The sun’s setting overhead. It casts a warm glow over her. Outlines her figure in gold.

You break the silence, "Heard the photoshoot went well."

“Well, you get what you pay for,” is Mina’s second quip of the afternoon. She turns back to face you, leaning against the window frame, a perfect silhouette.

You can almost hear the glass tremble.

Mina asks, offhandedly, “You’ll have to enlighten me—is it standard practice for visitor passes to have access to every floor in the tower?”

“Security must be lacking.”

“Right,” Mina says. “And is it normal in your line of work, for the CEO to handpick the brand ambassadors?”

You shrug. “I like to get my hands dirty.”

“If that’s what they’re calling it,” she responds, smiling now. Pushing herself off the glass and taking a dangerous step forward.

“We were looking to appeal to our Japanese market,” you say, repeating the same lines you fed to your team, to her management, to anyone who bothered to raise an eyebrow. It’s a good lie. “Needed someone refined, someone that depicted class. Aspirational.”

Mina takes another step forward. Heels that make her legs look endless hitting the polished flooring with a click. "So that's how you see me, then."

"Amongst other, less appropriate things," you admit, already completely, hopelessly captivated.

"Let me guess: Stunning?"

"That's one."

“Fuckable.”

“Absolutely.”

“Submissive?”

“Are you asking, or telling me?”

Mina’s eyes dazzle as she closes the distance, rounding your desk and stopping just short of your chair. She waits for you to swivel and face her.

And then she leans forward, so close. Nose brushing yours, breath warm and sweet and familiar. Her hands land on your thighs, pushing your legs apart.

She drops to her knees.

“Telling.”

You can’t help yourself, you press your thumb to her lips, stamping it crimson.

It’s a wicked thing, how Mina’s bottom lip dips, how her tongue snakes out to lick the pad of your thumb clean. You push in deeper, watching as she takes you into her mouth, seals her lips around you and sucks.

How she’s looking at you now—building up this image of Mina; kneeling, the skirt riding up, her panties soaked with anticipation. Dressed like this is just another business meeting—masked in a high neckline and a smile so perfect against your skin.

That's today's game. Dress up.

Professionalism went out the window the moment she walked in—it barely crosses your mind to wonder whether or not she locked the door. You don’t even care.

Mina stops her little show, thumb pops out of her mouth with a wet sound, leaving a smear of red behind. There’s something about Mina, something that can’t be intuited unless she’s right in front of you, inhaling your exhales, smiling up at you like you're the only person in the entire world that matters.

It's like magic—makes everything and everyone else feel like a figment of your imagination.

“You forgot to mention a few other things,” Mina breathes on you, low and warm, priming you for a punchline that you know will send you reeling.

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know,” and she starts unbuttoning her blouse, reaching for the top button then— “How utterly,”

Then the next button.

“Desperately,”

More still.

“Needy,”

All of them.

“I am for your wonderful, perfect cock.”

The blouse opens up, falls away, drifts off her shoulders until it’s blood-red lace and vanilla-white skin.

Fuck.

(Mina’s not from this world, no fucking way. Definitely not human; jury’s out on if she’s some kind of Goddess. Probably something in between, come down from some place where the air is thinner and the lights are brighter.)

Your mouth is dry. “I could never forget.”

Mina’s eyes crinkle at the corners. Lips spread wide. She’s kissing your cock through your pants.

It’s electric. A long, teasing press of her lips that winds you so tight that just the slightest touch, just a single word could set you off.

Her teeth graze the fabric. You throb through the cotton.

“Mina,” you manage, hand dropping to the side of her face. There’s a tremor in your voice that you’re not used to, that you can’t even pretend to hide. Mina’s got you in the palm of her hand—or rather, on the edge of her lips—even though she’s the one on her knees.

“Relax,” she coos, holding her lips against you, deft fingers unlatching your belt, finding your zipper. “Let me take care of you. Let me take care of this cock,” honeyed words slipping out with the same ease that tugs you free, “Get my tongue all over it, take it deep down my throat, be such a good little whore for you—until you can’t think of anything but how much you want me to swallow every drop you’ve got for me, baby.”

You swallow, caress her cheek, “Darling—”

“Shh," Mina hushes, taking your cock into her hand, holding it against her cheek. So damn happy to have it so close to her mouth once again. “Everything you said over the phone. All that stuff about fucking my face, leaving a mess, filling up my throat—I want it all. You’re going to give it to me now, please.”

She doesn’t even look up at you, just so focused on your cock. Kissing around the shaft, and then drawing her tongue in one, slow, dragging lick all the way from your base, right to the tip. It’s gentle, careful, exploratory.

Introducing her lips to every inch of skin along your cock, over your balls, taking her time to stain all of you with the sheen of her kisses. Careful, so careful. Meticulous too, deep in concentration that you can almost feel her thoughts, intuit from the pressure of her lips how much this means to her. How much she needs it.

And it’s as her breath warms the head of your cock that you realise you’ve got a stranglehold on the armrest of your chair, holding it so tightly you could snap it in two. Not like there’s any helping it, nothing to do but brace yourself as she opens her mouth, pink tongue peeking out, and licks you again—longer, slower.

Holding still now, cock balanced on her tongue, fixing you with this stare.

A dare.

(Don’t move. Don’t interrupt. Let her do her work.)

That’s when her boyfriend calls.

Sorry, her partner.

A jarring noise, a slap in the face that breaks the spell. Vibrating atop your oak desk, a violent buzzing through the room—once, twice, thrice.

Mina’s eyes flick to yours. A split second, a single thought shared. There’s laughter on her lips because of course, because why the fuck not, because this is definitely your kind of chaos. You nod. You’re both in on the joke.

The phone’s still ringing, ringing, ringing.

And Mina’s mouth is still on you, tongue tickling underneath, lips wrapping around, before taking you in deep. Right as she accepts the call.

“Hmf?”

—

(A good idea to mention this theory you’ve been brewing for a while, the other reason why Mina still hasn’t broken up with boyfriend.

Because of you.

Because of how much fucking hotter it makes her. The thrill, the rush, putting a blemish on an otherwise spotless record.

And maybe you’re just as guilty—because you want to hear her lie to him too.)

—

“Still working,” is Mina’s deadpan over the phone, somehow keeping a straight face despite how full her hands are with you. She even rolls her eyes. “You know how it is—unreasonable CEOs jumping down my throat for no good reason at all.”

This woman.

Churning lies with such ease that you almost feel sorry for the poor, oblivious soul on the other end of the phone. Almost.

But Mina's too good at all of this. Too good at hiding it all. Too good at everything, really—whether it's singing, dancing, kneeling before you, making your cock disappear down her throat.

Just a slight adjustment in posture, and she’s taking you in deeper. A gentle suck, a swirl of her tongue around the ridge—and oh, the way she’s looking at you, eyes up and so damn full of mischief.

She’s fucking loving this. Loving the way you’re watching her, the way your hand finds her hair as she takes you in, the way you’re fighting to keep your composure. Fighting to keep your breath even and calm and to stop yourself from groaning so loud that it won’t just be her boyfriend, but the whole fucking tower that’s going to hear how much of a slut she is for you.

You can still hear his voice coming through—muted, indistinct—like a ghost, haunting the edges of this pornographic scene you’ve painted together. 

Fuck this guy likes to talk.

“Mhm,” is all Mina has to say to keep him convinced, to let him believe that she’s actually invested in whatever the fuck he’s on about. Keeping him none the wiser that her full attention is on you, her mouth moving up and down, her eyes glued to yours, watching every twitch, every drop of pleasure that flits across your face.

She reaches up with her free hand, wrapping it around the base of your cock. Gliding along your shaft in this twisting movement that sets your nerves alight.

Everything’s just so tight—her grip, her throat, your own breath in your chest.

“Mhm,” again, longer, sounding closer and closer to a moan than a casual agreement, but still, she’s playing the part. Barely listening to what he’s saying, because she’s doing this thing with her tongue—right at the tip, flicking it around your slit—that’s making you test the strength of your chair.

There’s temptation here—her mouth so warm, so wet—it would be so easy to grab a fistful of her hair and fuck her mouth like you know she wants. But you keep your cool, keep your hand gentle and steady atop her head, let her dictate the rhythm.

And when you hear the voice over the phone rise, maybe a bit of frustration or concern, maybe the start of something suspicious, Mina shamelessly pops your cock out of your mouth and answers, “Just having a snack. Late lunch break.”

She hits the mute button.

Bows her head deep, savouring each inch as she takes you deeper, making this fucking sound when your cock hits the back of the throat. Wet, gagging, sloppy noises that build this tension right at the base of your spine that leaves you aching, absolutely desperate to just give her more.

She holds herself there, choking so nicely, so sweetly, on your cock. Her eyes start water, it’s an effort to keep them open, but she’s still smiling through it all, just so delighted to finally taste what she’s been dying to have for weeks.

You’re struggling, “Fucking hell, Mina.”

Mina giggles into your cock, vibrating along your shaft. Pulls her head back; just a rope of spit that connects the two of you, glinting under the fluorescent lights. A poke of her tongue has her scooping it all up and slurping it all down, smacking her lips with a satisfied ‘ah’.

She unmutes.

“Sorry, it just tastes really good. Like nothing I’ve had before.”

There’s a confused murmur coming out of the speaker, a perturbed, “Really?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” and Mina has the gall to wink at you, the audacity to keep her hand on your cock, stroking it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. All the while she just chats to her boyfriend—partner, again—like you’re not about to cover her face with your entire load.

“Mina,” you let slip when she squeezes too hard, cranes her head to feel the weight of your balls on her tongue. Lapping away, licking and tonguing and teasing, until you’re gritting your teeth, holding back the moan that wants to break free.

The voice at the end of the line crackles, “Who’s that?”

Mina doesn’t miss a beat, “Boss for the day,” presses a wet kiss onto the head of your cock in a futile attempt to still you, “Really pushing me hard, making me work for it, you know?”

The voice relaxes, but not enough. “What’s going on over there? Something doesn’t sound right.”

“Everything’s perfect.” Mina’s just so pleased with herself, tongue dancing up and down, over and around, making the chair creak from the reflexive jerk she forces out of you. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

“I told you that you shouldn’t do these types of jobs, you should listen to me and—”

“Get on my hands and knees and beg them to let me break the contract?” Mina smirks up at you, lips all smeared and messy with your arousal. “I can handle it” she continues on, dragging her lips to your base so she can slur into your waist, “I’m a professional. This is what I’m built for.”

God, he really doesn't deserve her.

He drops the subject so easily, moving on to talk more about him, about his schedules, his work, his boring fucking existence outside of her. And now you’re both rolling your eyes, sharing this secret, this ridiculousness that’s got you both on the edge of laughter and utter bliss.

Mina ups the ante, mutes her side of the call, and places the phone back on top of the desk.

You cock an eyebrow. “Seriously, him?”

She shakes her head. “No, just you.”

And she shows you, proves her point, because Mina’s not one for half-measures. Holds your cock tightly, strokes it again and again, one after another like it’s counting down to something explosive. Bomb’s ticking: the pressure’s building, the heat is coiling in your balls, but she keeps it steady, keeps it slow, keeps it right on that edge where it’s just enough to keep you there, but not enough to push you over.

“I’m just yours,” Mina hums, licking her swollen lips. “I’m yours to do with as you please, but,” she pauses, so she can jerk you just right, stroking with such finesse that you can't believe she's ever been with someone who didn't appreciate it, "I'm really hoping you let me swallow your cock now."

“You’re too fucking greedy.” 

Mina nods so earnestly.

So you give her what she wants, because what’s the point of playing this game if she isn’t going to win? 

You stroke the back of her head, guide her as she takes you all the way—nose to stomach, swallowing you up like you’re her favourite snack, her favourite secret. Her favourite lie to tell herself.

Fucking ridiculous. Too fucking much.

You lift your hips, leaving her to yank down your pants over your knees and to the ground. The clank of your belt buckle against marble echoes through the room, a starting gun to your undoing.

The phone’s still there, he’s still talking, a vaguely muffled annoyance. Mina doesn't even spare it a glance, just looks up at you, mouth full, eyes declaring:

‘Ignore everything else, just enjoy me.’

Fuck.

Mina’s cheeks hollow, her throat pulses, and gone is the usual effortless grace that she carries through everything she does.

No, she’s all raw, all passion. Sloppy now, greedy, showing you just how much she’s willing to do for you. It’s in the way she’s using her hand to squeeze the base of your shaft, the way she’s bobbing her head faster and faster.

Filling the room with the sounds of her slurps and smacking of her lips; her eyes watering with every deepthroat. Making her mouth this perfect, wet, hot little cave that’s swallowing you whole.

And you’re watching, watching every single move she makes. Unable to do anything else, really. Unable to think, to speak, to do anything but stare at her mouth, her eyes, her hand moving up and down, up and down—stare at Mina giving herself over to you.

“Jesus—fuck—” and there’s your voice back again, so much louder than you intended.

But Mina’s smiling around your cock, eyes still on you, urging you on, putting you under her spell. She’s playing with your balls now, her thumb brushing over the sensitive skin, her nails lightly scraping, and it’s like she’s got every button mapped out, knows exactly how to make you go off the deep end.

"Mina, you're just so," you try, rummaging through your addled mind for the right words to pin on this storm before you, "so fucking good at this," you finally settle on.

Mina's eyes light up, triumphant. Deep pools of brown swirling with all sorts of things—few that can be said out loud and even fewer that should ever be thought—and none of which she gives a flying fuck about.

Your cock slides off her lips long enough for her to slur, "Flattery gets you everywhere, sir."

“Mina.”

She's just so happy with it all—it's a little unsettling. Mina, all elegance and poise, so fucking giddy at the opportunity to debase herself at your feet.

She takes a breath, a real one, not the shallow, desperate ones she’s been taking for the past few minutes, and then she’s diving back down. You can see the determination in the set of her jaw, the way she’s holding herself in place with one hand on your thigh so she can devour you whole. And she’s doing a phenomenal job, really, because your cock’s so hard it’s almost painful, and your thighs are trembling with the effort of keeping still.

But she’s not done yet, Mina’s never done. She reaches behind her, unclips her bra with a flick of her thumb, slipping it off her shoulders—a silent, unnoticed escape.

Perfect little tits, perfect little dusky nipples, peaked and ready for your attention. 

She takes one in her hand, rolls the nub between her fingers, playing with it, plucking it like a guitar string, making it sing. Making sure you’re still looking, while she's still sucking you off with her mouth, still fucking grinning around your cock.

A true masterclass in multitasking.

Her other hand stays on you, working in tandem with her mouth. A stroke for every bob, a squeeze for every moan, and she’s whining into your skin, a muffled—mmph, mmph, mmph—so loving that you know it’s not just for show.

Her hand drops down, slipping between her legs, disappearing into the fabric of her skirt. You can’t quite see it, but you know by her sigh as she leans into your thigh, by the way her other hand pinches her nipple harder, that she’s pressing up and into herself.

The fabric’s too thick to see much, but you can imagine her—fuck, you don’t have to imagine—you can almost feel her, her fingers sliding into her wetness, her palm cupping her mound, her middle finger circling her clit like it’s the head of a tiny drum, matching the same rhythm that’s been driving this whole spectacle.

“Your fucking mouth, Mina.”

The words leave you on a groan, a tightening of your grip on her head as she just plays and plays. Every suck pure heaven, warm, wet, utterly divine; pulling your hips closer and closer off the edge of your seat, until you’re nearly falling down her throat.

But even Mina, for all her skill and polish, can’t hold out forever. The fingers at her cunt, the kneading of her own tits, the gagging around your cock, the oblivious boyfriend still blissfully unaware of the depraved scene unfolding on the other end of the line.

It’s a heady cocktail, and she’s had too much too quickly. Her throat’s tightening around you, rogue tears are sliding down her cheeks, and it’s about time that you both give up on pretence and hurtle straight to the crux of this entire escapade.

You stand, rising to your feet before Mina has you tumbling off your chair, sliding your cock out of her chasing lips.

“Mina,” you breathe, voice full of gravel, heavy.

Mina’s frozen, just staring at your cock dangling above her nose, her mouth open and wet, her big, brown eyes begging for its return to her lips.

“Mina,” you repeat.

“Mmm?”

“I want to fuck your face now.”  

Mina licks her lips. “Want to?”

“I will.”

“Please,” she says, a single word like a hot knife slicing through whatever restraint you have let. And you’re just about to lose it, really fucking lose it because she’s so fucking eager, so fucking hot for it, so absolutely fucking yours.

In your office, at your desk, kneeling at your feet, skirt rucked up around her waist, panties drenched.

She ties up her hair into a messy bun.

“Please, use me.”

A twist of your hips has your cock slapping against her cheek, the sound bouncing off the walls, leaving a trail of gloss across her flushed skin.

Mina laughs.

You lean down, grab her hair, thread your fingers through the strands, and guide her lips to where they were made to be.

“Christ,” is ripped from your throat as your cock is back down hers, plunging into her mouth like its home.

You push, push until her nose is squished against your pelvis, holding her there; her throat tight against your cock, her hand working her clit in double time. Whimpers escape past her lips, muffled whines that threaten to break you if you’ll let it.

But you don’t, not yet. You pull out, just long enough to let her gasp for air, only, she doesn't need the respite. She just blinks, and begs—

“Again.”

And again. And again.

Until she’s a writhing mess, until she’s shaking with the effort of holding herself together, until you’re plunging into her mouth so fast that you’re truly fucking her throat.

Deep, harsh strokes that make her cheek bulge, that fuck tears from her eyes. And Mina fucking loves it. Loves every second of it, loves having her head thrown back, her throat working for you like it’s your divine right, like her sole purpose in life has been to take your cock.

You’re fucking her face like you said you would, like she’s been begging you to do for weeks, whispering sweet nothings and filthy somethings into your ear during those late-night phone calls. Giving exactly what she’s been craving, exactly what she’s been dreaming about when she fucked herself so nicely for you to hear.

And she’s just taking it, letting you use her mouth like it’s nothing, because to her, it’s everything.

She’s lost in it, her hand a blur between her legs, her eyes glazed over. She’s so close, so fucking close, and she’s taking you with her; dragging you down into this pit of depravity that she’s been keeping warm for you.

“Mina?”

And there’s the phone again. Louder now, insistent, demanding. Finally noticing somethings not quite right.

"Mina?"

There’s panic in Mina’s eyes—but you’re quick to realise it’s not worry for him. It’s desperation for you. For you to keep going, for you to not notice, for you to keep the fantasy alive.

But you do notice. And it just makes you harder.

You're too far gone now—you're thrusting into her mouth with a fervour that’s almost violent. Mina’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she takes it all, letting you fuck her face with a reckless abandon that’s only heightened by the voice on the phone getting louder, more concerned.

You’re the only voice she’ll listen to now. “Hold still for me, Mina.”

Her eyes go wide, and she nods, her mouth stretched wide around you. Cradling her cheeks, just firm enough to feel the heat of her blush.

“Mina, why are you muted?”

She’s barely even on this planet anymore—just bringing herself closer to the edge, loosening these ragged, wet moans around your pistoning cock.

“Mina, are you ignoring me again, seriously?”

“Mmph—fuh—mmph—” is her attempt at an answer, but she’s too busy letting you use your mouth, too busy fucking herself on her fingers, too busy being the perfect little slut she’s told you she wanted to be.

It fills the room—the sounds of wet, sloppy sucking, careless fucking, your own grunts of pleasure. And somewhere in the background, that voice getting more and more insistent.

“Mina, say something, answer me!”

And she does. Just not to him. She says it to you, mouth full, eyes on yours.

Garbled, stuttered, fucked-up little pleas— “there—there—please—please—oh my god—"

Her hand moves faster, her throat seizes, her eyes roll back in her head. Her body jerks, her hand still working her clit, her mouth still full of you.

Mina cums at your feet, a terrible, beautiful orchestra of noises—moaning, gurgling, gagging around your cock. Swallowing, desperate for a breath of air, trying not to choke, eyes watering so badly it’s a surprise she can see you at all.

You pull out, so abruptly that she gasps and stumbles a little. And yet, despite it all, despite how brutally hard and fast her orgasm hits her, she���s still smiling up at you, as graceful and gorgeous as ever.

So fucking proud of herself.

And she’s not done yet. She’s never done, not really.

Her hand comes up to catch you, holding your cock like an anchor, keeping you ready as she takes a moment to recover. The other reaches for the phone, a shaky hand bringing it to her lips, level with your own tip.

She takes a breath. She’s going to answer.

She unmutes again.

“Sorry. Can’t talk. Gotta finish something big.”

“Mina—what the fuck are you—”

Mina gives you that look—that nod.

Sucks you in one last time, gives you a final choke. A desperate gag, a deep impossible swallow down her throat. And then she releases you from her lips.

The phone clatters to the floor, forgotten.

“Cum for me, please, baby.”

At her instruction, you're erupting.

Mina captures the head of your cock with her lips, keeps it balanced on the edge. Uses both hands to twist and wind around your shaft. Overwhelming you, seizing you into her mouth because this is exactly what she’s been starved for.

Breaking a fucking dam inside you, flooding her mouth with your cum, completing her with your taste. It hits the back of her throat, thick and hot and she swallows and swallows and swallows.

So fucking grateful for every drop, for every pulse that shoots into her mouth, coating her tongue, sliding down her throat. She’s drinking you down like water, like air, like she can’t get enough of you, leaving you breathless until all you can do is just repeat her name over and over again—an endless chant of “Mina.”

And when you’re finally done, when every nerve-ending in your legs isn’t burning down and threatening to take you with it, you pull out of her mouth, gasping for air.

Mina just sits there.

Looking up at you, naked chest heaving, nipples stinging red. Cum slipping out the corners of her mouth, staining her chin. Skirt ruined, panties a sodden mess around her ankles. Hand still on your cock, coaxing you to peace.

And fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

With a smile that could melt the coldest of hearts, Mina reaches down to the floor and picks up the phone. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, not even bothering to be delicate about it.

"Hey," she says, voice miraculously calm and collected. "Sorry—got distracted."

You watch, utterly stunned, as she plays the part of the girlfriend so flawlessly, puts on an Oscar-worthy performance. You can hear the boyfriend's voice, frantic and worried—and completely fooled.

But then she looks at you, clears her throat, and her smile goes wide, and you can see the woman beneath the façade. The woman who's had enough of being bored. Who's decided that she's owed the impossible fantasy.

Kneeling on the floor, yet more powerful than ever.

So, so fucking perfect.

Spreading her thighs, fingers back at her cunt, carefully toying with her clit. Building herself back up to that peak she’s just thrown herself from, because apparently, that’s what you’ve taught her to do.

To never settle, never stop, never be satisfied with just one taste.

You’re cock throbs.

“Mina, you need to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Her hand moves faster, her thumb circling and pressing, her middle finger slipping inside herself. You can see the gleam under the artificial lights, how her cunt’s making everything sticky and messy.

Making herself nice and ready.

“There's a big mess here,” she says into the phone, all sugary sweet, a perfect story that drips from her tongue like molasses. “Lot of clean up. It’s ruined me—ruined the whole job. It’s gonna keep me here all fucking night.”

—

(It’s just an arrangement.

That’s what you’re calling it when the moon’s rising over your office, and Mina’s kissing these promises over your heart, drawing up the terms of this unwritten contract that neither of you can really commit to—even though you're both well aware of how much you want to.

Sex, as an agreement. Sex, as a release. Sex, because you’re both fucking incredible at it.

It just might be everything you both need.

You're both just too afraid to be the first to say it out loud.) 

—

Weeks later, and you get really fucking good at making time for her.

Whether it’s fifteen minutes at a party, a couple hours at an airport, or a few nights spent in a hotel room with the curtains drawn and a do not disturb sign nailed to the door—everything starts to fall into place.

There's always an empty room to be pulled in to, a shadow to be claimed, a corner of the world that belongs to you.

It’s Mina, straddling you in the backseat of a limo, her cunt tight around you as the city lights slide by. Your hand on her throat, not choking but guiding, a conversation based on pressure and pleasure alone. Her tits bounce in your face, begging for your teeth, and you give it to them, biting down until she’s gasping your name into the leather upholstery. The chauffeur pretends not to notice. You don’t pretend anything.

It's you, bending her over the bathroom counter of some stranger’s house, her rather business-like slacks down at her feet to expose the bare, wonderful convex of her ass. You spank her until she’s crying, until she’s bright red and demanding that you make good on your promise to fill her up so she can’t leave this party without globs of you leaking down her legs.

It’s hotel beds that have seen too much, office desks forced to bear your weight, dressing rooms with the door locked tight.

It’s the way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching, the way she says your name. How she laughs, how she teases you, how she lets you in—just a little, just enough to keep you hooked. And you do the same.

It’s sex, but it’s not just sex, no matter what you tell yourself.

And it’s Mina again, fixing her hair while you zip her into something far more appropriate, already mentioning, “I'm going to be in New York next week, if you're in the area—"

And it's you, answering in the same way that you always do, "I’ll find a way."

—

Serendipity finds the two of you in Shanghai, amidst all its concrete jungle and neon lights, kept at bay by the soundproof windows and the drawn curtains of this hotel room turned temporary sanctuary.

Mina's stretched out on the bed, wearing one of your shirts that swallows her up to her knees, her hair a mess of curls and knots that she hasn't bothered to tame. Nose buried in a book—something thick and weighty Nayeon recommended her.

Paying no mind to you, as you’re busy brewing tea in the kitchenette (piping hot, oolong, how she likes it).

You sneak a glance as you wait for the kettle to boil, at the perfect picture she's composing—her bare legs peeking out from the shirt, the soft curve of her waist, the way the light from the bedside lamp casts shadows across her skin.

It's seeing her like this, far more exposed and naked than minutes ago when she was pinned beneath you wearing nothing at all, draining your cum into her cunt and thanking you for the privilege.

The drawbridge is coming down, guards leaving their posts—just the two of you in your stolen moments.

It's nice.

She catches you staring.

Tilts her chin down, peering at you over her glasses.

You ask, "Am I distracting you?"

"Always," she says, and it's loaded with the sum of whispered secrets and inside jokes, the weight of a dozen different glances stolen across crowded rooms. She closes the book, setting it aside, and pats the you-shaped imprint on the spread next to her. "Come here."

You bring a steaming cup over, handing it to her, adding a little more warmth to her side of the bed. An unneeded murmur of thanks, a smile that's brighter than any of the skyscrapers gleaming outside, and a careful sip.

You wait for her review.

A cool, clear, "Ah."

And as for your reward, she sets the mug down on her lap, closing her eyes and pursing her lips. Waiting, patiently.

It's built in you like a habit now—lean in, get the light peck you're owed. Gentle press against her lips, nose bumping up against her glasses, sweetness that makes her cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink.

Just so fucking cute and domestic that it almost feels wrong.

The normalcy, you're realising—doing something that millions of other people do every single day—kisses that aren’t about fucking, power plays and games. Kisses that are just...kisses.

Mina's on the same wavelength, that's her thing now. Looking at you with a slanted smile. A little disbelieving, a little amused.

You're sure you're mirroring it back.

“This is... weird, right?” You finally say, breaking the silence. Feeling the weight of the question, the implication of what you’re really asking. Is this okay? Is it allowed? Can we put a name on this without the whole world imploding?

Mina's smile doesn't falter. "Kinda," she says, and her hand's slipping into yours, her thumb tracing little circles against your palm. “Very. But also, good.”

You nod, not quite believing it. You've had relationships (is that what you're calling this now?)—but none of them felt like this. Like, sure, she makes you hard, but fuck if she doesn't make you weak.

Pulling you into this loop of familiarity, learning things about her that you would've dismissed if it was anyone else. Not just the carnal things—the ones that make her thighs run with need, that make her chant your name like it’s the only word she knows.

Normal people things. Snack addictions, sleeping habits, temperature controls.

The mug goes to the bedside table, and Mina twists her body into yours, landing her head on your lap and curling her legs up so they stay on the bed.

"You know," she says, still holding your hand, fingers tracing up your forearm now, nails drawing in a light tattoo. "I thought that this wouldn't work out."

You mention the obvious. "Because you still, technically, have a boyfriend?"

Mina stretches herself out against your waist, incidental movements that just so happen to make you stir. "No, darling," she's saying, turning to look at you, making your heart stutter. "It's because you're you. Relationships just don’t seem to be in your nature."

You feign injury.  

Even though, truth be told, she has a point there. You’ve never been one for the quiet moments, for the mundane comforts, mornings next to someone you spent the night with.

Maybe it's your own guardrails you've put up, maybe it's some sappy Trojan Horse she's pushed through the gates of your stoic heart—but here you are, stroking her hair while she holds your hand, your fingers playing with the soft strands like you're trying to learn Braille.

"You know," she says, reaching it out to run her thumb down the line of your jaw, "guys like you are all the same."

You arch a brow. "I think I’ve heard this one before.”

"Let me finish," she says, "Obsessed with the thrill of the chase, with the idea of something you can't have. And when you finally get it, you just...disappear."

She grants you the headspace to ruminate over that one. 

"Are you saying I already have you?"

"Haven’t figured it out yet?" she whispers, shifting her weight on the bed. Another Mina special, the incidental movements, shirt pulling taut against her, and with benevolent grace, it slides down an inch. The swell of her breast revealed, an already pebbled nipple peeking out. A shy secret. As if.

And she knows. Mina knows what it takes to turn you on because, deep down, she’s the same. Different animals, same beasts, the roles could easily be flipped: her the billionaire, you the idol, and it would still end up the same.

You’re both chasers of thrills, craving the high of the untouchable, the unattainable.

Doing whatever it takes to feel alive—that's what it boils down to, isn't it?

"I meant it, you know," you're saying, exposing yourself, all gooey and raw. "Never once dreamt of owning you."

It's obvious where Mina's headed with this. So used to people just laying claim of her without even asking—like it's their fucking right. Believing that just because she’s in their vicinity, smiling all pretty and dressed up, she's fair game. Thinking the fame has done to her what it's done to so many others, turned them into commodities.

And maybe she's let them believe the fantasy, it's her job after all, to fuel the delusion and make it feel real. But never once did she truly belong to anyone but herself.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

Mina lifts herself off your lap, body bowing, leaving the shirt to ghost down her arms and leave her chest bare.

Closer still, until she's straddling your hips, thighs pressing down on either side of your legs, and oh, mystery solved, there was nothing under the shirt but her.

And again, Mina, on the subject of your title over her: "Not even if I wanted you to?"

—

(It takes the length of a phone call for Mina to be officially yours.

Brutal in her efficiency, cutting the guy down and pushing him off the cliff of the inevitable.

You're just as cruel, laughing between her thighs as she slurs vague platitudes, barely encroaching on an apology, uncaring bullets flying across borders.

And then the 'I can't' when prompted for a chance to negotiate, an 'I'm busy' when the pleas come, and a final 'just fucking give up already' when the desperation gets too much and he's becoming less and less important the further your tongue gets into her cunt.

Poor bastard doesn't even know he's not the only one getting fucked.)

—

You feel like you’ve earned the right to be a tad more reckless.

So, dates.

Conventional, yes, but fuck you could do with some of that now. You had the money, the power, and now you had the girl. So, secret dates, grand gestures, the whole nine yards.

And yet, each one was its own little disaster.

An example: the restaurant.

Michelin stars, gourmet courses, over-the-top bullshit that you unashamedly love. Booking out the entire joint for the night, only for it to all go haywire when Mina showed up in that dress; tight, tiny, black.

"Eyes up here, darling," is what she said, before, "Or, you know, don't. I like the attention."

Just fucking you all the way up, having you pushing her into a backroom before the wine was even poured. Ruining said dress, rucking it up to her waist, making it some poor drycleaner’s problem.

“I was never big on grand gestures,” she assures you, as you pepper her neck with kisses, hands curving around to her breasts on sheer instinct.

"Wish you'd told me that in advance."

"And miss out on this?" Mina groans something fierce when your fingers find purchase. “Never.”

It's just Mina and you, doing what you've done a dozen times over by now, having long blown past any insecurities that this might just be too good, too perfect, that one of you might be the first to bolt for the door and run.

“I swear to god,” Mina’s managing, as you’re shoving her panties to the side, because you’re both well aware that this has to happen right here, right now. “This cock is going to be the death of me.”

You chuckle against her throat. “Wouldn’t be a bad way to go though, right?”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Says you.”

“Please, just—”

Your hips snap into her. She flinches. Screams your name so fucking loud.

Each and every one of the kitchen staff receives a very, very sizeable tip.

—

It becomes a problem.

Oddly enough, neither of you are at fault.

Leaked photos light up every website, tabloid, and social media platform in mere minutes—Mina and her ex, wrapped up in each other’s arms, the unmistakable blur of a bedroom in the background. Nothing too lurid, nothing too explicit—but just enough to get the world to gasp in collective shock.

The fucking coward did it. You never knew he had it in him.

Sure there's dating on the pictures. Years, probably, back to when their happiness couldn't be called into question, but it does its job.

The statements pointing this out do little to shift the public's attention though, they've already latched on to the chance to rip apart her spotless record. You’ve seen it before, a hundred times with a hundred different celebrities. The cycle of love turned to dust in the blink of a camera flash.

And yet despite all of this, despite the shitstorm that’s swirling around her, despite the radio silence you're expecting, not an hour passes before Mina's calling you again.

“I need you.”

“Then come over.”

—

Mina belongs here, it’s so obvious.

Walking through the rooms of your home like she’s always been there, like she’s what’s been missing.

None of the art on the walls, the books on the shelves, none of the sculptures worth more money than any person should ever see in their life—none of it make as much sense as she does here, in your space.

Ours, you’re already thinking.

While you’re staring at her, she’s taking it all in—every detail of your domain, eyes brushing over the aged furniture and modern finishes, each aspect of your home that you’ve curated as meticulously as you’ve cultivated your own reputation.

She doesn’t say a word about whatever conclusion she’s drawing—because she’s not the type to judge—she’s just curious. She’s always been curious.

And then she’s in your arms.

Hands looping around your neck as you hold her tight, like it’s been years instead of the mere days since you’ve seen her. Since you’ve felt her heat, heard her whimpers, felt her nails dig into your skin like she’s trying to slip in underneath.

“It was inevitable, right?” She whispers against your collarbone. “Something was bound to fuck this all up eventually. My life, yours. It was all too perfect.”

You hold her tight. Letting her sink into your embrace, disappear into your chest. She’s so small in your arms—not that she’s ever not been, but right now, it’s stark. Like she’s shrunk, folded herself into something more manageable, something easier to hide. Something that won’t be torn apart by the teeth of the media and the rabid fans.

Kiss the top of her head to make her relax a fraction, opening a pressure valve that releases a shaky exhale.

You point out, “It still is.”

Mina blinks up at you, and you pretend you don’t see the dampening in the corners of her eyes. “I need to do the whole apology tour now. Keep my head down, hide my face. That’s what they’re saying anyway. What they expect.”

You shrug. “Could hide out here.”

That makes Mina smile, laugh even, colouring her features with something far more impactful than any of the decor. “And, I'm guessing, fucking each other’s brains out from sunrise to sunset?"

"There'll be a couple of meals in between. You may be surprised to learn I make a mean bowl of ramen."

Mina laughs again, and it’s the sweetest sound in the world—like the chiming of a bell that’s only meant for you. She looks at you, really looks, and you can see the wheels turning in her mind, the genuine consideration she's giving your proposal.

“What do you say?”

“I—”

Before she can finish, you add, “I can handle our little problem. Just leave it to me.”

Mina blinks. There’s the curiosity again. “Handle?”

“Yeah,” you reply, vaguely amused. Something darker in the back of your throat. “I know some people. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Mina stares at you aghast, the smile slipping from her lips. Wondering if she might have missed something in the reality of the billionaire with a silver tongue and a penchant for ruining dresses.

It’s your turn to laugh. “I’m kidding, Mina. Jesus, the look on your face. I’m not going to have the guy killed.”

Mina rolls her eyes. Slaps your chest with a little more force than intended.

You add, with a Disney Villain-worthy ominous tone, “For now.”

“You ass,” she says, but she’s smiling again, the tension all but dissipated.

“Not even I’m capable of having that sort of thing arranged. Well, maybe I am, just never tried, so—” you begin, only to stop immediately at the curving of Mina’s lips. “I was just planning on doing a bit of spin. Tap some of our PR Wizards, maybe offer the wolves something juicier. Whitewash the whole thing—shut him down.”

And a cherry on top of your whole plan—

"Make him wish I'd kill him instead."

Mina’s expression shifts, taking pause to study your face, your words. It’s the pragmatism that gets her, you think—but it’s baked into who you are. You don’t get to a billion dollars by making friends.

As a point of clarification, she asks, "What are you going to offer the press? I mean, you’re not going to leak dirt on someone else, are you?"

You shrug, an easy smile playing on your lips, "I was thinking we could just go public with us. Offer our whole thing."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"My jokes usually make you laugh."

Mina takes her time to ponder this, to consider what you’re actually saying. To process the idea of turning all this—the sneaking around, the private moments, the stolen kisses—into something so exposed. Something translated and made palatable for public consumption, to be picked apart by the vultures skirting the edges of the media.

And there’s fear there too. That the thrill could wear off for her again, the exhilaration could evaporate, and the boredom would settle in.

Or it could be a whole brand-new opportunity. Replacing one thrill with another, the rush that comes with being seen together, the excitement of the chase being replaced with the passion of the capture.

She asks, slowly, carefully choosing each word, doing her best to avoid setting off a bomb that could send this whole thing into a downward spiral. "Is this what you want to do?"

You pull her closer, fit her body flush against yours, and bring your lips down onto hers. You let them linger, let her sigh, let her melt and keen and smile against your mouth.

"Darling," you murmur against her lips, "I've been ready to tell the whole world since the moment I sat down next to you."

—

Sometimes, the conventional ways are the best.

Stumbling through your house—kissing her hard in the hallway, losing her skirt in the kitchen, tearing off her shirt at the top of the staircase. Carrying her past the threshold of your bedroom and leaving her panties at the door; truly letting her into your world in every way, shape, and form.

Holding her close, one hand at her waist, the other looping around her chest. Kissing into her neck as you lay her down onto your mattress, getting up close and personal until it’s all Mina, all the sweetness and heat of her, the richness of her perfume that’s become her signature.

The red of her blush, her lips, the marks you’re leaving on her skin. The white of her throat, her collarbone, the bra that’s half on, half of.

Pinning her wrists over her head, keeping her still, watching her pupils dilate.

Fucking flawless. Every inch, every glorious detail. Underneath you, at your mercy, already staining your sheets with her need.

And then, a beg:

“Please.”

“Greedy.”

“It’s how you made me.”

Your other hand ventures lower, drifting down her stomach, holding against her abs, leaving your fingertips to ghost over her mound.

She shudders at your touch.

You let her know, “I wasn’t complaining.”

And your tongue is on hers, soft to start, relaxing into familiar patterns, swipes of reintroductions, until Mina’s arching her back, urging you on. But you’re greedy in your own way; wanting to take your time, wanting to extract all these sighs and moans straight from the source.

Only, Mina’s having none of it.

“You’re really going to torture me after the day I’ve had?”

You quirk an eyebrow, push your thumb down against her clit. Applying enough pressure to make her hips buck.

"Torture is a strong word, darling."

Mina's huffs as you hold her there, keeping her locked in place and at your mercy. Wriggling under your grasp, but not making any real effort to escape. After all, where would the fun be in that?

"Fine," she's relenting, eyes slipping shut, unable to hide the smile that’s making its way onto her face. "Call it what you want. Just—more."

"Then let's just call it a pleasant distraction."

Your lips are together once more, your kiss quickly turning from something sweet to something a lot more demanding. Throwing Mina a bone, pressing into her a declaration of intent that has her wild for you.

You take your fingers, slide it down, swiping through her folds. Dancing around her entrance, seeing how nice and slick she already is for you, feeding that gnat in the back of your head that urges you to just fill her whole. Right before pressing up into her cunt.

“Yes,” Mina whispers into your mouth, hips rising to meet your hand, helpless little shivers around your first, then second digit—pushing until you’re knuckle deep inside her heat, making her squirm and cry, “Just stretch this fucking pussy, please.”

“Oh, you’re so wet for me,” you say, like it's a surprise, like she's ever not, like she doesn't part her legs and beg for you to take the invitation to her cunt every single time.

And Mina’s reaffirming, “Of course I am, I’m always—” but she never gets to finish her sentence, because you’re sliding a third finger in, and she’s trying so hard to keep it all together despite how determined you are to pull it all apart.

You’re too attentive—watching her face, every micro expression. Watching for every twitch, every whine, every cry that gets stuck in her throat when she tries to swallow it down.

There’s beauty in all of it, every single time, you could never get enough of it. Been burned into you now—what it takes to make Mina come undone. The right ways to touch her, the spots that make her preen. Where to be gentle, when to be rough, how to keep her guessing.

It’s all here, now, distilled to its basest elements, and it doesn’t even take much. You’re too good at this, know her far too well to need anything other than the sound of her breath to dictate your pace.

Your thumb plays at her swollen clit, doing nothing but pressing down as your fingers saw in and out of her slippery cunt, making her clench around you like she always does. Faster and faster, until she’s crying for it, shivering and trembling underneath you, struggling against your hold on her wrists because she's dying for something to hold onto.

“You—you’re too much,” Mina pants, because that’s all she can do now as you push into her with purpose. So, so fucking wet, creaming around your fingers, pooling in the palm of your hand. “Too—too—too fucking—”

Losing control over her own limbs, cumming with a sharp cry, levitating off the bed as your hand works magic between her legs, needing a hard kiss to ease her back down to Earth.

The aftershocks still roll through her body, leaving her with these tiny, frantic whimpers. You keep her pinned, soothe her with your thumb at her clit, padding around in gentle circles, feeling her spasm and pulse around your fingers.

Your kiss ends on that high note, parting lips to give Mina a chance at a complete inhale. Her chest is heaving, nipples poking out of the top of her bra, skin already sticky with sweat. Eyes opening, hazed over with need and the beginnings of tears.

“I—I need more.”

Hands let go of her wrists, fingers slide out of her cunt, and you lean back to watch her try to compose herself. It’s a battle she’s not winning.

Mina’s blinking up at you, trying to catch her breath, trying to remember how to do anything other than be fucked into oblivion by you. You help her—leaning over, thumbs hooking under her bra straps. Pulling it down with a gentle tug that makes her arch into the motion, makes her chest spill out and your mouth water.

You take the chance to admire her. To drink her in, appreciate her the way she deserves to be appreciated—a masterpiece spread out on your bed, naked and needy.

There’s the intoxication, knowing you’re the one that did that to her, knowing that you’re the one that’s going to do it again. Over and over again.

“If I have to wait another second, I’m going to scream,” Mina says, the demand losing its edge in a whine.

You chuckle, press an open-mouthed kiss onto her breast, sucking a nipple between your teeth.

Sometimes, you just can’t resist.

“Let’s not pretend that isn’t exactly what I want.”

“Make it happen, then.”

Mina holds position as you pull back, keeping her hands over her head, keeping as still as a statue as you come to your knees over her. Eyes on you as your shirt, your belt, your pants go. Eyes on your cock as your briefs fall away, leaving it standing tall and thick and ready for her.

There’s power dynamics at play here—how Mina’s so vulnerable to you, how she’s laid herself out, unwilling to move until you tell her to. She understands it, implicitly. Knows she’s playing right into your hands, forced to wait while you let the anticipation build.

You hold your cock above her, stroke it carefully. Watch her eyes track it. See her gulp.

And she begs, again, “Please,” softer now, the unmistakable tremble in her voice. "I just—I need it so fucking bad."

Whether on purpose or by instinct, her legs splay, presenting her pussy, glistening with want. There’s the pulse in her clit, the need dripping over her folds—you feed the agony just a little more, hovering over the entrance, letting the tip of your cock graze over it. Teasing, taunting.

"Beg for it."

Mina opens her mouth, but she fails to summon the words. Just leaves her lips hanging open, leaving you an opening for your fingers to push in and try to help her find the right plea.

Her tongue flicks out, licks at your digits, the taste of her arousal still thick on them. The wetness of her tongue as she sucks, the suction of her lips as she envelopes each finger, one by one. Savouring her own flavour with deep, longing slurps, with grateful hums resonating around your fingers.

Leaking down the tip of your cock, cunt getting wetter and wetter the longer she’s denied. Making you throb against her, making your hips jerk and bump dangerously close to where she needs you to be.

But you still don’t enter her. You just wait until she’s done, until your fingers are clean and wet, and she’s left a trail of kisses up to your wrist.

It’s then that you drag your fingers out from her lips and demand of her once more:

“Beg.”

And this time, Mina’s able to say it clearly, confidently, right from her chest—

“I need you inside me. Need to feel you so deep inside me that I can’t tell where I end and you begin. I want to make you cum so hard you’ll never want to leave, want to leave your mark so deep inside me that even if you do, I’ll still feel you.”

Each word, a fucking gift.

And her reward—

A hard, quick plunge straight into her cunt. Inside her, instantly buried, immediately unbearable. Just too good.

Mina can’t do anything, just dig her nails into the sheets and try not to scream at the suddenness of it, at the way you complete her without any warning at all.

It all just ripples through her, a second orgasm already possessing her and forcing her into seizure. Can’t even hold it together—can’t keep the moans contained, can’t keep herself steady—can only just lock eyes with you and hope that you’re seeing it all, hope that you’re feeling it too.

Mina’s got no control around you anymore, none at all.

“Your cock,” she’s saying, repeating it over and over. Like it’s brand new to her, like it hasn’t ever left her wrecked a hundred times over.  “Your fucking cock.”

Words punctuated by the slaps of your hips, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding, of Mina welcoming every stroke of your cock inside her. So fucking tight, gloved around you like it was forged specifically for your cock; not for anything else but you, only you.

“So hard, my God.” Mina’s hands clasp behind your neck, needing a firm hold on something solid and real. “So fucking hard for me, so—so—fuck—”

Her lips are everywhere, a flurry of butterfly kisses across your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, the edges of your jawline. Crazed, unbridled assault of affection. Disarming, incredibly hot. Mina doing her best to mark you up before she’s torn away again.

It’s far too early in the processions—habit would usually have her playing it cool, trying to keep up the façade of control, hold onto shreds of dignity, until she’s unravelling completely and begging you to fuck her harder, deeper.

But now, she’s just letting you have her.

No games, no pretences.

Just you, and her, and this wild, hopeless need to feel good, to be consumed by this.

“Yours,” Mina’s whispering, voice cracking around the edges, “All yours.”

And you know it. Have known it. Had it signed and sealed in ink since the very first time she told you. When you made her knees buckle and eyes water as you took her in every way possible. Since she called out for you, said your name into the quiet of the night like it was a secret she never wanted to keep.

Yet it’s hearing it now, the sum of all these moments stacked on top of each other; the haunts that you’d frequent, the private corners that you’d made yours, the endless phone calls and messages and photos that could fill entire warehouses with their filth.

Finally here—both of you, panting, sweating, sex thick in the air. The world outside forgotten.

Fucking Mina so hard, so deep, euphoria shooting straight through you each time your cock bottoms out inside her. The softness of her cunt, its heat, its creaminess, its fucking divinity. Leaking out all around you and squeezing you so good that it’s a miracle that you’re still coherent enough to speak.

But you do, with a gruff, “Already knew that, darling.”

Mina’s laughing, because that’s the type of high you’re giving her. Even with the way you’re stretching her open, even with her eyes barely open and her toes curling into the bed—she’s laughing because it’s the only thing she can do. Because it’s all so absurdly perfect that she can’t find the energy to do anything else.

“All this, all of you,” you’re leaning in, at the base of her throat, licking a stripe up to her earlobe. Drumming the words into her skin, until she shivers. “Every part of you. All mine.”

Simple words that hold so much sway over her, that could pull her apart or build her right back up. Words that make Mina clench around you, make her cunt grasp you so tightly as if she’s trying to make them real.

“Always,” she’s heaving, “Always yours.”

And there’s this look on her face, like she’s lost in a dream—eyes glassy and all fogged up, breath hot against your shoulder. Glowing under the dimmed lights, making the sweat pooling at the base of her throat shimmer.

Keeping your hand there, at her neck, like it’s the only thing keeping her from floating away. Ruining her. Because really, it’s all for her. All of this is all for her pleasure, her satisfaction.

You’re just along for the ride, so fucking lucky to have her like this. So impossibly beautiful, just knowing she exists would drive you insane if you didn’t get to be with her. Didn’t get a chance at this pussy, so perfect, dripping so much, made so hot for you and only you. Your own personal slutty cunt.

It’s the way her legs wrap around your hips—the smoothness of her skin, the power in those thighs, holding you like she’s afraid you’ll pull away. Like she’s terrified you’ll leave her like this, frantic and wretched and so, so fucking wet.

The newest picture you’re painting, your magnum opus in her name—her tits bouncing with each thrust, nipples stiff and flicking in the air. The yielding of her back, bending just so she can accommodate that extra length of you inside her. And her stomach—fuck, those abs. Tightening and loosening, shaking with every hit of your hips, with every sharp gasp of air.

Demanding of you. Cum for me. Please. Now.

“I need this. Exactly this from now on,” Mina’s declaring, stuttering it like you’re fucking every syllable out of her tightness. “Just you fucking me. Whenever we’re together, every second we get alone—fuck—"

And you’re nodding because you’re always right there with her, always on the same wavelength, thinking the exact same fucking thing.

“Keep filing me up until I can’t take it anymore. Until I’m screaming so loud, I can’t even hear myself think—”

Breathless words that flood your ears, that Mina needs to get out, needs to make sure you hear. Absorbed straight into your bloodstream, pumping into your cock, fed right back into her cunt. So fucking tight. So downright incredible that you’re speeding up, driving in deep, as deep as you could possibly go.

“Until I’m so full of you that I forget my own name—forget any other name but yours—until I—until I—”

A nasty hit makes her body curve and rise, makes her pussy clamp around you, in warning of the orgasm to come, the one you’re both hurtling towards with a kind of reckless abandon that’s become second nature.

“Until I—please—just always make me feel this way—”

“You will,” you promise, meaning it, fucking it into her like your life depends on it. Like you need it to survive, because maybe you do. Maybe you’ve never truly lived until you’ve felt Mina’s cunt quiver around your cock like this, until you’ve heard her beg for you like you’re the only thing she needs to breathe. And again, for good measure, “you will."

And oh, that’s all it takes. That’s enough to have Mina spilling.

“Cumming,” is her proclamation. Repeated, ad infinitum, just, “Cumming, cumming, cumming.”

All over your cock, all around your cock. Cunt strangling you with the force of it.

And this is where you decide Mina’s most beautiful.

When she’s consumed by climax, when she’s held prisoner by it, when she’s just nothing but a canvas for you to leave your marks all over.

“Feel so good—so fucking good—”

It’s the best kind of challenge, pushing her through it.

Worshipping her in all the ways that count, treating Mina in ways woman like her should never be treated. Tearing an angel down from the heavens just to hammer her cunt into submission, and being thanked for it afterwards.

“God,” Mina’s trying, voice rasping and broken, “I—fuck—I can’t—”

You take her, hand wrapping around her tits, pinching, rolling, teasing nipples until they’re as tight as her cunt around you. Leaning in and capturing her lips, drinking down her whimpers with a kiss so deep you can taste your name on her tongue.

Fucking her, ruining that tight, little pussy, through every wave that crashes down over her, that burns her up from the inside and makes her so Goddamn hot.

Leaving her in disbelief that it could ever feel this good again, that there's a light at the end of this tunnel, that there's a life after being fucked so thoroughly by your cock.

Holding her through it, preventing her from crumbling into a million overstimulated pieces. Slowing down the pace of your hips with steady, deliberate thrusts until you’re just inside her. Cock throbbing, bathing in her heat, waiting.

Mina stirs, eyes flutter open, meeting yours. “Cum inside me. Wherever you’d like.”

There’s only one real choice. Mina knows this as well as you do.

Your cock leaves her cunt, slick with her juices, her cum. Proof of your dominion over her body, gleaming along your shaft.

Nothing but bliss on Mina’s face, so well-fucked and satisfied and just plain happy that it’s almost a surprise she hasn’t melted away into a puddle. She’s smiling, looking up at you through her lashes, sweet and soft and perfect.

Turning herself over, bowing down on her knees, pointing her ass up at you like it’s the universe itself handing you a present and saying, ‘Here, this is yours.’

You can’t resist that kind of temptation.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” Mina tells you, rolling her hips higher still, flaring out her hips, treating you to the perfectly round globes of her ass. “Waiting for you to take me. However you want. Make it hurt so good. Make me remember how you feel.”

Her hands reach back, delicate fingers spreading plump cheeks apart. The tight, pink ring of her ass winking at you. A sight that never gets old, a vision that’s forever carved into the back of your eyeballs.

One last request. “Please.”

Your cock pushes in.

“Thank you.”

Right away, it’s too fucking much. Your cock breaching through her asshole, pushing in inch by inch. Slow and torturous, the kind of thing that makes you want to yell.

Then the first thrust—that first hit, like a narcotic, straight through your veins, every single time. Feeling it, sensations so intense, so sharp, that you forget to even breathe.

And Mina’s crying. Crying out, muffled by the pillow she’s biting into. Yet still, pushing back against you, urging you deeper, even though she’s coming apart, even though she’s shaking from the sheer effort of having you fill her.

“Darling,” you call to her, “you’re doing so good,” because she is. Good, good, so fucking good for letting you split her in two like this. For letting you ruin her in all the best ways.

The second thrust is easier, smoother. Body giving in to your demands, stretching around your cock like it always does, like it’s made to do. To bend and flex to your whims and desires.

With every push, every retreat, every agonisingly, achingly slow grind into her ass, you’re nearing that rapturous end.

“So fucking good for me, Mina. Your ass is so tight around me. Such a good girl.” You’re grunting now, trying to ease her into it, to build up to the point where you can pound her, push her like you really want to.

Mina’s nodding, eyes screwed shut, sunken in the way you’re stretching her out. It’s a familiar feeling, having her ass opening up for you. A dance you’ve performed so often it’s almost muscle memory—each step painstakingly learned; each move carefully choreographed.

You’re easing into her, slow, so fucking slow that it’s a wonder that either of you doesn’t implode with want. But Mina’s good, so good, letting out these tiny, shuddering breaths that you feel down to the marrow of your bones.

And then, as your is fully seated in her ass—

“Don’t hold back,” Mina says, quietly, barely audible, but the need is crystal clear. “All of it, please.”

Hand in her hair, hand at her waist. Gripping into her, guiding her and then fucking her, really, truly flooding her ass with your cock, disappearing into her tightness until your hips are slapping into hers.

So pretty, even like this, even when her moans are getting louder, borderline screams that are cut off by the cotton of the pillow, her knuckles turning white in the effort. Her back tenses, muscles rippling underneath your palms.

She dips a hand underneath her, between her legs. Fingers at her cunt, whirling around her clit, doing all she can to keep up with you.

“Feels fucking amazing. Your ass, Mina,” you’re trying to say, but it’s coming out all gravelly and thick. “So fucking tight for me.”

It’s the one through-line that’s kept steady over these months. Mina’s transcendental beauty, Mina’s razor-sharp intelligence, Mina’s pussy that’s always, perpetually yours. All these things; but it’s Mina’s ass—that perfect, juicy, heart-shaped, fucking flawless ass that keeps you up at night.

Every time you’re buried inside, it’s like coming home to something sacred. Tightness gripping you, ass swallowing your cock in waves, the kind of feeling that makes you believe in a higher power—because nothing so divine could possibly be man-made.

“Fuck, I just—” Mina’s breathing out, quick huffs because that’s all she can manage, “just love this so fucking much. Love how you feel in my fucking ass.”

Her hand’s working overtime now, circling her clit with a fervour that’s almost religious. Pussy starting to leak again, juices running down her thighs, mixing with the sweat, pooling at her knees. Fuck, the way she’s touching herself while taking you in, so willingly, so wantonly, so utterly destroyed for you—she’s going to cum again, you can feel it. And you’re not far behind.

“I think I’m going to—fuck, I only just—but I’m going to—again—you’re going to make me—again—” She’s squealing, half-mumbling, full-crying, and your heart nearly bursts out of your chest because it’s all for you.  

You’re not even managing anything other than desperate thrusts, just fucking her with everything you have—like you’re trying to claim her inside and out, trying to leave your fingerprints on every part of her so everyone will know she’s been yours all along.

“Please, please, please,” again and again, stuttering out, “Just—just—just—”

Just keep going, keep pushing into her until she’s shaking, until she’s pleading for you to stop, to let her breathe, because she’s about to fucking break.

Or, really:

Keep going and never, ever stop.

The hand in her hair tightens, pulling her back, making her arch. That perfect spine, the curve that’s painted by God himself. Kisses into her shoulder, into the crook of her neck, making her whimper.

“Keep fucking me. Like this—like this—God—I’m going to—again—”

Pulling her closer to you, so you can feel the tremors starting from her core, spreading out like wildfire. Pushing her hand away, taking over between her legs—rubbing, teasing, circling her cunt and pushing her closer and closer to the brink. Fucking her so deeply that you can feel the first quivers of her orgasm from the inside out, daring to take over her body again.

“Keep fucking—touching me, fill me up—just don’t—please, I need it—”

A final plea, her last rites, before she’s lost.

“Cumming—cumming again—please, oh, please—oh—”

Mina’s body goes lax, a ragdoll in your arms. But you keep fucking her through it. Through the quakes and shivers, through the cries—through the crying out. Pleading. Pleading for you to follow her into oblivion.

And fuck. If you’re not right there with her.

You’re close, chasing her, feeling her orgasm, feeling it coil around your cock and pump through her veins and into yours. Feel her—her body, her muscles, her cunt—tightening, tightening, tightening around you until it’s unbearable.

“Cum for me—with me—” she’s repeating, her newest mantra, “cum inside me. Give it to me—please, I need it—please—so badly—”

Begging, dying for it. Willing, wanting to do anything for it.

But she doesn’t need to—you can’t fucking hold on any longer.

“Mina—fuck—"

You slam into her, and finally burst.

Filling her ass with your cum, feeling it spurt into her, thick and hot. Pumping into her, over and over, getting wrung dry by her ass, cumming so hard it feels like your bones might shatter.

Cumming until your vision swims, until the architecture in your knees threaten to give out, until all you can do is hold onto her hips and keep her in place, keep her right there, impaled on your cock, until every single drop of cum has found a home inside her ass.

Until you’re so sensitive it’s almost painful. Until the orgasm has passed over the two of you and left you feeling like you might dissolve into nothing but pure sensation.

“Christ,” you manage to get out, the word tearing out of you like it’s being ripped from your chest. Holding Mina close—embracing her, seeing just how much she’s loving it. How thankful she is. Taking it all, soaking it all in, moans turning into whimpers that you’d swear are prayers of gratitude.

Body limp and strung out, fucked so hard she can’t even hold herself up anymore—Mina collapses into the bed, pulling you with her, your cock still buried deep inside her.

Like the first time, like every time, it’s a complete fucking disaster.

Tangled up in sheets, in each other. Sticky with sweat, stickier with cum. And Mina turns her head to look at you, just so pleased, and so gleefully satisfied.

You lean in and kiss her, slow and deep, resisting the urge to stir, to roll her onto her back and start this whole thing over again. Claim her once, twice, a dozen times more.

But you don’t. You just lay there, breathing into her neck, letting all of this, your orgasms, your bliss, your absolute contentment roll through you.

There’ll be time to keep going, to keep fucking her. Give her the same tour of your house that she gave you that first night.

Eat her out in the kitchen. Fuck her into the sofa. And yeah, introduce her to the balconies on the higher floors.

For now though, there’s Mina, lips parting with yours, looking at you with a smile that’s this original blend of lust and love and admiration. “You really know how to ruin a girl, you know that?”

You chuckle, picking a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “Just trying to scratch an itch.”

—

Everybody loves a love story.

And yours is packaged up so nicely, polished and made shiny and perfect for the public to see.

It's the type of story the media dies for—a tale of modern romance, woven through the glitz and glamour of celebrity life. The cold-blooded billionaire who had his heart stolen by one of the nation’s daughters, and then chased her across continents in order to get it back.

You and Mina, becoming the ultimate power couple—the kind that makes the paparazzi's cameras click in unison and tabloids sell by the millions.

Together at every high-profile event, her hand nestled in the crook of your arm, your thumb tracing lazy circles on her wrist—a secret promise of the bruises she’ll wear under her designer dresses. A whispered reminder of the things you’ll do to her when the lights go out and the world isn’t watching.

But nobody sees that. The public sees the smiles, the kisses, the sweet little glances that pass between you—and they eat it all up.

They'll never see the way she begs for your cock, the way you fuck her until she can't walk straight, the way she rides you until all you know is her name. They don’t know that it wasn’t love at first sight—it was lust, paroxysms of it, pure and raw and unbridled.

But here you are.

Mina, in your bathroom, smiling at you through the mirror. Dressed to the nines, looking like a fucking dream. Making it so obvious now that you wonder how you missed it at the start. The way she looked at you that first night, the way she looked. It was all there, laid out in big bold letters, all caps, telling you that this is what you’ve been searching for—what you needed all along.

That dress she’s wearing—some dazzling shade of green. Olive? Celadon?

“Emerald,” she smiles, catching you staring. “It’s emerald, darling.”

You grin back. “Then it should match.”

Mina’s eyes flick to the box in your hand, curiosity piqued.

“Got you something.”

You hand her the box—a simple, muted green velvet, lacking any markers or logos to give away the contents. Ergo, it’s really fucking expensive.

She takes it out of your hands. Opens it, and her breath catches.

“It’s—” Mina whispers, lifting a necklace from the box. A simple, stunning piece. A thin diamond band with a solitary jade teardrop hanging from the center.

"Yours."

Mina holds it up against the light, seeing how it dances through the stone like it’s alive. When her eyes come back to yours, she’s beaming—a smile so wide it makes you wish you had your phone ready to snap a photo.

“Help a girl out, would you?” she says, turning her back to you, sweeping her hair over her bare shoulder.

You step forward, kissing the skin there, feeling the softness of her neck, the pulse of her vein. Your hands come up to fasten the necklace around her, the coldness of the diamonds brushing against your knuckles.

“You know, there’s one thing I was wondering about,” you murmur, letting the jade rest atop her throat.

Mina giggles, tilts her head slightly to the side. The jewels sparkle. “Oh?”

“That first night. The gala. You came alone.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Mina repeats, amused. Happy to have her own little secret, the one thing you've yet to pry out of her between the sheets. She regards you through the reflection, a twinkle in her eye that says she’s been wondering what took you so long to ask.

“Yeah, I’ve never quite figured it out. I mean I know why you were alone. But why did you come at all? What were you doing there, just sitting all pretty and by yourself. It felt so wrong to me at the time.”

That makes Mina laugh, making you feel somewhat silly to even ask. She spins on her heels, facing you; the necklace sitting perfectly against her skin. She runs her fingers over the chain, ending at the pendant. Tapping it. Once. Twice.

And she doesn’t even need to ask you if it looks good on her or if it suits her because she knows. She can tell by the look on your face.

She wears it like a fucking collar.

“Why?” Mina says again, stretching the syllable out long and wide, until you’re staring at her lips, knowing you’re about to kiss her again, knowing that you may very well not make it out of the house tonight, likely not even make it out of the bathroom.

You’ll be ruining that dress, fucking her against the sink, pushing her up into the mirror, kissing into the top of her spine and repeating over and over again—mine, mine, mine.

“Because you invited me.”