with you staying over at the fushiguro household for the night, the air between the two of you had grown noticeably tense. because megumi knew exactly what that meant—that once his parents and sister were asleep, he had you all to himself.

that knowledge was what made him so bold, so daring, right there under the dinner table.

while toji chatted away with tsumiki about what was, judging by the occasional eye roll, probably boyfriends, and his mother asking about your day with a warm smile, your boyfriend was focused entirely on the heat radiating from your thighs.

his hand slid higher the more you spoke, his long fingers grazing the lace of your panties, feeling the dampness that proved you were just as desperate as he was.

maintaining his usual stoic, he watched your face, enjoying the way you struggled to maintain a conversation while he was practically tasting your arousal through the fabric.

megumi's gaze wandered back to his mother as she continued talking, but it wasn't long before it settled back on you. the gentle nudge of your foot beneath the table earned the smallest reaction, a subtle lift at the corners of his lips. and without thinking, he quietly propped his chin on his hand, his palm shielding the expression from the rest of the table.

“and when they were toddlers, can you believe megumi—”

you had gasped into your water glass when he finally pushed past the edge of your panties, his fingertips brushing against the your soaked folds. the moment he felt the slickness of your arousal, a tiny, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“are you okay?” what a tease.

now, back in his room, the atmosphere has completely shifted from subtle to blatant teasing. you’re still perched on his lap, your pussy clamped tight around his thick dick as megumi focuses on his monitor.

the contrast is maddening: the clicking sounds of his mechanical keyboard and the glow of the screen, paired with the wet, visceral feeling of him buried deep inside you.

the sensation is overwhelming. because he isn't moving, not yet, the heat is concentrated, a heavy, throbbing pressure that makes your internal muscles twitch and squeeze instinctively.

"you're so tight," he murmurs, his voice low and steady, barely audible. he doesn't look away from the screen, his fingers dancing across the keys with precision. "is it that good, just sitting there?”

“mhhmmm,” you whimper, your arms finding their way around his neck, your chin settling atop his shoulder as you lean into him

"you’re shaking, pretty," he observes, his voice flat but laced with satisfaction. he doesn't look away from the game, but he can feel you pulsing around him, milking him with every breath you take.

"i’m— i'm gonna cum," you squeal, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. you try to lift your hips, desperate to slide down and then push back up, to create the friction you need to tip over the edge.

but as you do so, his hand immediately snaps from the keyboard to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin to lock you in place. he doesn't move his dick; he just holds you there, suspended at the peak of your arousal.

"i didn't say you could cum yet," megumi mutters, his eyes narrowing at the screen as he quietly curses under his breath at yuji, who has somehow managed to get on his nerves yet again. "can you take this fucking seriously, bruh— stay right there. hold it."

"you’ve been teasing me for half an hour! megs— please! i can’t—"

"shhh," he cuts you off, finally glancing up at you. his eyes are hooded, full of a desire that contradicts his calm demeanor.

"i told you, you're staying still. if you can't handle it, maybe you shouldn't have gotten so wet at the table."

"i can't help it! ever since you ate me out, you’ve been teasing me. god— you're so big—"

“that’s the point.”

megumi gives a sudden, sharp jolt upward, his dick hitting your cervix with a force that makes you gasp and arch your back. the sensation is so intense it nearly sends you over the edge, but before you can collapse, he pins you down again, his grip bruising and possessive.

"just a few more minutes," he whispers, returning his attention to the screen, leaving you trapped on his lap, trembling and leaking onto his thighs, completely at his mercy while he finishes his round.

"i can't— i can't just sit here while you're inside me," you sobbed, the pleasure building to an unbearable peak.

he just snickers, a low, vibrating sound you could feel deep in your chest, shifting his weight to give you a slow, agonizingly deep grind that hit your sweet spot perfectly.

"if you're good and stay still and quiet, maybe i'll actually fuck you when the round is over. deal?"

“but—”

"besides, if you make too much noise, my parents might hear you. do you want them to know exactly what you're doing on my lap right now? or how wet you are for me?"

the thought sends a jolt of shame and arousal through you, making you squeeze him even tighter. he bites back a moan.

"no! i— i don't!" you stammer, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps.

"exactly," he says, his voice returning to that calm, dominant drone. "just sit there and warm me up. let me enjoy how tight you are."

you sink back down with a small sigh, your weight pressing you further onto him, the slight movement sending sparks of pleasure through your nerves. you are trapped, held captive by his strength and his indifference to your desperation, your body humming with a need that only he can satisfy.

“are you seriously fucking your girl while being on call with me, fushiguro.”

links: riding him, sitting on his face, gotta be quiet, he can’t get enough of your taste, what you send him while he’s away, what he sends you while he’s away

this is kinda short my bad hopefully the links make up for that ALSO my inbox has been filled with so many…..interesting….things…. plz why are we thinking about catboy megumi working at a maid cáfe cuz toji couldnt pay the rent i hate u all legit 💔💔💔

through the walls came the muffled sounds of conversation. you could hear toji grumbling under his breath about something, his low voice carrying through the halls before it abruptly gave way to a rough, booming laugh. whatever had annoyed him clearly hadn't lasted long. tsumiki's lighthearted voice followed almost immediately, and then came the soft, affectionate laughter of megumi's mom.

together, their voices blended into a comforting hum that made the whole place feel warm and full of life.

i mean, after being apart for so long, what parent wouldn't be happy to see their kids back home from college?

the only person missing? megumi fushiguro. and where was he? upstairs in his room.. with you. in his defense, though, he'd already spent the entire week catching up with his family. now, as far as he was concerned, it was time to spend some quality time with his girlfriend.

the air in his bedroom was thick with a tension that felt both fragile and heavy. downstairs, the muffled sounds of the fushiguro household, the clatter of plates and the low rumble of conversation continued, serving as a dangerous backdrop to the illicit act happening right now on his bed.

you were sprawled back against his cold pillows, your legs draped over his shoulders, exposing every inch of your cunt to him. because of megumi’s low sex drive, these moments were rare. he didn't crave sex with the urgency others did, and the gaps between your intimate encounters were often long enough that you almost forgot the sheer, devastating skill he possessed with his tongue.

though right now, you were remembering quite well.

"mmmh... what if tsumiki walks in?" you muttered, watching him through half lidded eyes before letting your head fall back against his pillows with a small sound escaping from your lips.

“she won’t.”

“your— hah! your dad?”

he opened his eyes just enough to meet your gaze, his slightly furrowed brows and narrowed eyes sending a silent warning your way; the silent equivalent of telling you to drop it. you got the message immediately and decided not to push your luck.

megumi was focused, his dark hair falling forward as he pressed his face against your folds for the third time that evening. he started slow, his tongue tracing a wet, deliberate line from the very bottom of your entrance, dragging upward through your slickness until he reached your clit. he didn't slurp or make loud, messy noises, instead, he used a firm, rhythmic pressure, sucking your swollen nub into his mouth with a precision that made your hips jerk involuntarily.

as he worked, his hands subconsciously began rubbing your thighs, his palms sliding up and down the soft skin of the back of your thighs in a slow, grounding motion.

a sharp gasp escaped your lips, echoing too loudly in the quiet room.

megumi slightly pulled away from your cunt with a small smooch, glancing up at you with those piercing eyes, his voice a low, warning velvet. "quiet down," he breathed, his breath hot against your skin, and pressed a small kiss to your folds. "they’ll hear you."

"i can't help it.." you whimpered, your fingers digging into the sheets. "megs, please— you know exactly what you're doing!"

"do i?" he murmured, pressing his mouth deeper into your pussy, letting out a low, vibrating hum that echoed through your entire pelvic floor. though, the sound was muffled by your flesh.

"forget how good you taste.. you're so sweet."

the admission only made your heart race more. you reached down, your fingers brushing through his dark spikes. "remember now?"

"hard to forget in the first place," he whispered, his voice vibrating against your clit. "you’re so wet for me, pretty..”

he leaned back in, but this time he was more methodical. he used his tongue to lap at your entrance, swirling in slow, heavy circles that made you feel like you were melting into the mattress. every time you tried to moan, megumi would increase the suction on your clit, effectively stealing the sound from your throat.

"oooh, fffuck— just like that! yeah—" you gasped.

his hands gripped your thighs tighter, pulling you closer to his face. "yeah? tell me how it feels."

"it feels.. too much," you squeaked out, your voice a strained whisper. "it feels incredible though— don't stop, please don't stop!"

megumi pulled back slowly, and as he retreated, a thick string of saliva remained connected, stretching from his lower lip to your dripping cunt for a heartbeat before it finally snapped. the sight was visceral and raw, sending a jolt of pure heat straight to your core.

before you could recover, he gathered a pool of spit in his mouth and spat directly onto your pussy, the wet glob glistening against your pink flesh. he followed it immediately with one long, slow lick that swept from your hole all the way to the top, coating you in his warmth.

you let out a choked moan, your mind racing. god, that was so erotic, you thought, your heart hammering against your ribs.

he wasted no time in burying his face back into you, but this time it was more aggressive, almost as if he were making out with your cunt. using his lips to seal around you, his tongue swirled and flicked with a relentless pace that pushed you toward the edge. he knew exactly where to press, exactly how much suction to apply to make your vision blur and toes curl.

"you’re so tight," he mumbled against your skin, his voice thick. "maybe i needa fuck you more, mmm?"

"it’s ’cause you're— you're too good at it," you managed to choke out, your hips beginning to buck.

“am i, now?”

“mmmh!”

as the pressure built, the world outside the room ceased to exist. you were spiraling, the warmth of his tongue against your clit becoming an unbearable pleasure.

your hand quickly darted out, fingers tangling firmly in his dark hair, and you pushed him deeper into your cunt, forcing his face flush against you. subconsciously, you parted your thighs wider, opening yourself completely to him. and your toes curled tight, your back arching off the pillows as the orgasm finally crashed over you in violent, pulsing waves.

through the haze of your climax, you felt megumi stop moving his tongue, but he didn't pull away. he stayed right there, his face pressed into your soaking wetness, staring up at you. he watched your expression, watching the way your eyes rolled back and your chest heaved, witnessing every second of your release without breaking eye contact. to him, you looked unbelievably beautiful like this.

as the tremors began to subside and you looked back down at him, he didn't move. he just let out a soft, huffed breath and smiled faintly against your pussy, a rare, intimate expression of affection, before closing his eyes and savoring the scent and taste of you.

"feels good?" he murmured, his voice vibrating against your clit.

you couldn't even form a coherent thought. your brain was mush, your body humming with afterglow. all you could manage was a broken, breathless murmur. "megsss.. why’d you stop? keep on—”

the moment was shattered by three heavy, rhythmic knocks against the bedroom door.

"oi, megumi," toji’s gruff voice boomed from the hallway, sounding impatient. "stop brooding in your room and get downstairs for dinner. now. you and your little girlfriend, both."

megumi groaned at the sound of his father’s voice and stiffened, finally pulling away with a wet pop. he sat back on his heels, wiping a stray drop of your juices from his lip with the back of his hand, looking entirely unfazed while you lay there trembling and completely undone.

"coming," he called back, his voice returning to its usual raspiness, though the glint in his eyes told you he knew exactly how much he'd just ruined you.

“can you sit on my dick after dinner? please?”

cockwarming drabble dropping soon fellas 🥳🥳🥳 jk……unless….. also im thinking abt writing for kashimo. does anyone fw that???? him have a tongue piercing??? i keep thinking abt that nerd armin fanart 🤤🤤🤤

With her out of the house, he could crack open a cold can of ravioli and wash it down with a beer for breakfast. He could track muddy boots through the house without worrying about getting scolded. He could light a cigarette while he took a piss if he felt like it, and he could spread out across the whole bed instead of waking up with an elbow in his ribs because she'd turned to violence to get all the blankets in her sleep.

Yeah...

He couldn't get her luggage into the trunk fast enough.

"Don't forget to water Seymour," she reminded him for what had to be the fifth time that day, still worried her Venus flytrap would be neglected during her days away. "Every day, Daryl. If I come back and he's shriveled up, I'll key your motorcycle."

Daryl scoffed. "Threatenin' me over a stupid plant, y'brat?"

She pointed a finger at him. "Seymour, not a stupid plant."

He rolled his eyes toward the sky.

From inside the waiting vehicle, a rock song blasted through the speakers while four women poked their heads out of the rolled-down windows, watching them with amused smiles. One still had rollers in her hair, and another was already nursing a drink like the party prep had started hours ago.

Daryl winced knowing what came next.

Then, as one, their glossy mouths opened in unison.

"HIII, MR. DIXON!!!"

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

The moment the car door swung open, he was hit with the nauseating scent of vanilla and cherry blossom body lotion. From the back seat, the bride-to-be—wearing a short white veil that would remain on her head until the end of the trip—made space for her, and the rest erupted into applause, cheering for the final member of the bridesmaid party.

"Don'tcha worry, sir," one of them said, eyes hidden behind cheetah-print sunglasses. "We'll take real good care of your girl."

"Yeah, Mistah." Another chimed in around a mouthful of gum. "We'll bring ha' back 'n one piece."

Daryl just grunted, loading the suitcase into the trunk before shutting it with a solid thud, then he offered her a hand to help her climb into the tall vehicle.

"This thing runnin' alright?" he asked, unable to switch off the mechanic part of his brain. The last thing he wanted was a phone call from the side of the highway because the engine had given out halfway through the trip.

"Yeah..." The blonde behind the wheel said with a grin that wasn't nearly reassuring enough. "That light's always on." She shrugged. "Don't worry."

"What light—"

"Daryl, it's fine," she interrupted with a chuckle before he could start diagnosing the vehicle right there in the driveway.

Daryl turned his attention back to her, his eyes softening just enough for only her to notice.

Instead of kissing her goodbye in front of a car full of women who would never let him live it down, he reached across her and pulled the seat belt over her shoulder, clicking it into place.

She smiled, her gaze dropping to his rough, calloused hand still holding onto the latch plate.

If there was one thing she'd learned since being with Daryl, it was that the words I love you came in many different shapes.

Sometimes it was bringing back her favorite candy bar from the gas station without her asking.

Sometimes it was draping his jacket over her shoulders after warning her to bring one herself, knowing full well she'd insisted she wouldn't need it.

And sometimes, it was fastening her seatbelt without saying a word.

"Enjoy your days as a free man, Daryl," she whispered, teasingly.

He smirked. "Don' y'doubt it."

He closed the door and gave the side of the vehicle a firm pat for good luck.

The blonde pulled away with a little too much enthusiasm, the vehicle making a sharp turn that came dangerously close to clipping his trash can before disappearing down the road.

Daryl watched it go until the sound of laughter and electric guitars faded into the distance, before he went back inside and kicked the door shut behind him.

His hands found his hips as he stood there, taking in the silence like he was admiring the view from the edge of a cliff instead of staring at an empty living room.

He took a deep breath.

'Bout time.

The sense of freedom lasted exactly three hours, twenty minutes, and seven seconds.

Because somewhere along the way, the solitude he'd wished for had backfired like a monkey's paw.

Intead of comfortable silence, the quiet pressed in from every corner of the house, making every little sound headache-inducing. The hum of the refrigerator. The settling of the water pipes inside the walls, even the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots all seemed louder than they ever had before.

He sprawled across the couch, arms draped over the backrest and legs stretched as wide as he pleased, only to hate it. With a heavy sigh, he sat up again and wandered aimlessly through the house, unable to settle anywhere for long until his his next attempt at relaxing.

The hell's wrong with me? He'd grumble to himself, annoyed down to his core that he was acting this way.

He tried to brush it off as worry.

She was halfway across the state with a car full of women who could probably end up on the evening news before a pot of coffee finished brewing.

Of course.

That had to be it.

It wasn't that he missed her, he was just... concerned, is all.

Because why the hell would he miss her?

Her perfume still clung faintly to his shirt. Her favorite mug was still sitting in the sink from that morning, waiting to be washed. Hell, there were still strands of her hair in the drain from her last shower, for crying out loud.

They'd barely been apart a day and she would be back before he knew it, yet the thought did little to settle the restless feeling in his chest.

Back on the couch, the TV droned on in the background, playing the soap opera she made him watch every evening. He still didn't understand half the dramatic plot, couldn't remember most of the characters' names, and yet somehow he found himself reaching for the remote and leaving it on out of habit.

Then, when even the sound of his own breathing started getting on his nerves, louder somehow than the TV, Daryl reached for his last resort for a loud distraction.

He called his brother.

Making his way to the kitchen, he cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear while pulling open the refrigerator door, absentmindedly picking at a loose piece of skin around his cuticle as it rang.

"Y'ello?" Merle answered. "Hell y'want, baby brother? I'm in the middle of a pool game."

The clack of pool balls and the chatter of a crowded bar carried through the line.

Daryl stared into the well-stocked refrigerator.

She'd meal-prepped his dinners for every single day she'd be gone. Even after he'd told her it wasn't necessary, she'd nagged him about eating something besides junk.

"Y'can keep a conversation goin' and still suck at pool, ya bastard," Daryl snapped as he pulled out the top container.

"Not when I got money ridin' on this game!" Merle snorted. "Hey, say hi to Buttercup fer me. She there? Pass her the phone... Need a sweet thang's blessin' right now."

Daryl peeled the sticky note she left off the lid.

His throat bobbed. "...She ain't here," he said quietly.

"Did she finally leave yer ass? 'Bout time! Maybe I can give her a ride next," Merle joked, and a second later, hell itself broke loose in the bar.

"The fuck?! Dirty shot! Y'touched the ball! I saw it—"

*Crash*

*Screaming*

"Nah! Y'mama—"

Daryl ended the call and tossed the phone onto the counter.

"Ol' good fer nothin'," he grumbled towards the phone, before he folded the note and slipped it inside his wallet.

Once it was late, and he had smoked his way through a pack of cigarettes instead of his regular one before bed, Daryl peeled himself out of his clothes until he was in his boxers before climbing under the covers.

He glanced at the time on his phone screen, her smiling face staring back at him from the wallpaper, and when the hour they had agreed on calling each other came, he finally gave himself permission to call first.

After the first ring, she answered, and a breath he hadn't realized he was holding slipped free.

He pictured her curled up somewhere with her legs tucked beneath her, absentmindedly twirling a strand of hair around her finger—the same little habit she always did during calls.

"Hi, baby," she hummed through the phone, her voice sweet yet unmistakably raspy after hours spent with loud mouths.

Before he could respond, a chorus of women echoed behind her.

"Hiii, Mr. Dixon!!!"

She immediately shushed them, but Daryl didn't even bother getting annoyed this time. "Yer gettin' ready for bed?"

"Yeah, though I'm not sure I'll sleep very well..." she chuckled. "I've become too used to your snoring."

He folded an arm behind his head. "That right?" He drawled, getting a strange sense of satisfaction from knowing she wouldn't sleep as well without him.

"Mhmm... How about you?"

He stayed quiet a second longer than necessary before letting out a forced chuckle. "With a bed all t'myself?" He huffed. "...Gon' sleep like the dead tonight."

He had lied through his teeth.

The days that followed felt like a time loop, one he couldn't break no matter how hard he tried.

Every morning, he woke up on the wrong side of the bed, literally and figuratively, as if his body had searched for her in its sleep until he found himself rolled into her empty spot, and there he'd lie for a minute, stealing what little peace remained in the scent still clinging to her pillow before forcing himself to get up.

His breakfasts became the picture of stubbornness.

Unwilling to eat anything other than what she'd normally make him, he survived on a cup of black coffee and a cigarette, both in one hand, while the other managed to mist the damp soil around Seymour before he headed to work.

At least the shop offered a distraction.

Engines were easier to understand than missing someone, though his mood didn't improve. If anything, it got worse. By the third morning, his crew had split into two camps: the ones who wisely avoided him, and the idiots who kept poking him with an imaginary stick, wanting to know what had crawled up their boss's ass that day. And the day before. And the day before that.

Though the nights were the hardest, because no matter how late he got out of work or how far he'd endlessly driven around, he knew she wouldn't be back home waiting for him.

Rather than facing the emptiness, he started joining Merle at the bar.

He didn't even go there for the alcohol; he just wanted noise. The click of glasses, the hum of the ice box, the thump of a dart hitting the target.

He even ended up in a fight one evening, dragging a man halfway over the counter after he merely asked why he hadn't brought his "arm candy" to the bar like he had before, the comment sending him back into the spiral he had come so damn close to escaping.

Peace only came when his head finally hit the pillow and the phone call connected hours later.

They rarely said much.

Most nights, it was enough to simply hear the other breathing as sleep crept in. She sounded happy on the trip, always describing her outfits in detail and about whatever disaster her friends had gotten into that day. Sometimes he chuckled. Other times he just shook his head and muttered that her friend group was trouble, which was rich coming from a Dixon.

He never said he missed her.

Never said he loved her.

But the truth of it was crashing down on him harder with every passing night.

He wanted her back.

Wanted the house to smell like her again, wanted her heels beside his boots by the door, wanted her voice echoing from another room while he pretended not to listen.

He wanted her so badly that some nights he came close to grabbing his keys, driving straight to where she was staying, and hauling her home over his shoulder like a caveman—keeping her wrapped up in his arms until the sun came up and this miserable, empty house stopped feeling like hell.

On the tenth night, he almost did.

Laying in bed, he set her books aside—the one she'd been halfway through reading before leaving—and pressed the phone a little tighter to his ear as it rang.

No answer.

His brows knit together as he tried again.

Still nothing.

A third time.

"C'mon, girl..."

At first, his mind settled somewhere reasonable.

Maybe she was in the bathroom, maybe she'd left her phone in the hotel room, maybe the summer rain pounding against his own windows had weakened the signal.

But then his thoughts took a darker turn.

She'd gotten into an accident.

She was hurt.

Scared.

Without him.

Before the images in his head could spiral any further, he was already on his feet. He yanked on his shirt, his jeans, shoved his feet into his boots without bothering with socks, and hurried for the front door. His hand had just wrapped around the knob when his back pocket vibrated, her name lighting up the screen.

The knot in his chest loosened so fast he almost tripped.

He answered before the second ring, and it turned out not to be a call at all, but a FaceTime.

"Jesus Christ," he barked, rougher than he meant to, squinting at the blurry image on his screen. "Y'alright?"

The camera seemed to be aimed at her forehead, while flickering lights in shades of red and purple flashed in the background while music pounded loud enough to rattle his speakers.

Then it clicked.

Here he had been losing his mind, while she was out in a club.

"Hello? Hello?!" She squinted at the screen, then hiccupped. "W-Why... Who's this? Why're y-you calling so much?!" She shouted over the pounding drums and gritty rock lyrics blaring around her.

It didn't take a genius to figure the rest.

From the slur in her words, the heavy eyelids struggling to stay open, and the unfocused look in her blood-shut eyes, Daryl knew she was absolutely wasted.

"Idio—" He took a deep breath. "Dammit, sweetheart, it's me."

"Sweetheart?" She frowned. "Don't call me that, you old pervert." She jabbed a threatening finger at the front-facing camera, blocking Daryl's view for a second before it wobbled away again. "I got..." She hiccupped. "...a man who'll beat you up!"

He was caught somewhere between annoyed and proud.

Annoyed that she was mistaking him for some stranger.

Proud that even in her drunken haze, her first instinct was still to threaten whoever was bothering her.

That's my girl.

He walked back toward their bed, watching through the phone as she moved through a crowd of sweaty, glitter-covered bodies until she finally found a place to sit.

She crouched down on the floor, the bare legs of another woman in snake-skin boots visible behind her in the frame—the music becoming distant enough where they could hear each other without yelling. With a relieved sigh, she slipped off her heels, rubbing her sore foot with her free hand after a night of dancing.

She sniffled. "W-wish Daryl was h-here to carry me," she whined. "Don't wanna do this shit no more..."

Daryl held back a smirk.

If there was any truth to the saying that drunk people couldn't lie, then maybe he could take advantage of the opportunity. Just for a moment, he could play along as some stranger and see what was going on in that unguarded, little head of hers.

"Yeah?" he asked, lowering his voice. "Who's that?"

"My partner..."

"And why ain't he there withcha?"

"Girl's only tri—" Another hiccup, "trip..."

Daryl caught her zoning out for a moment before her tear-streaked face brightened again, and she let out a delirious giggle. "I'm tired, but it's fun here, I guess..." she admitted. Then she paused, thinking. "Though I'm choosing camping for... for mine."

His brows knit together. "For your what?"

"For my bridal getaway, duh!"

Daryl choked, quickly turning away and patting his chest as if he'd swallowed wrong.

"T-that right?" he managed. "Did yer man pop the question?"

She shook her head.

"But..." He swallowed hard. "Y'want him to?"

She went quiet for a moment before she lifted her index finger to her lips, shushing him as if what she was about to say was a secret shared only between her and the mysterious stranger on her phone screen.

Daryl leaned closer to the screen, waiting for her to give him a simple yes or no answer, when the phone was suddenly snatched from her hand, resulting in him cursing out loud over the interruption.

When the camera turned, it revealed one of her friends, looking relieved, because apparently, they had been searching for her and now they were heading back to their room because the bride-to-be was throwing up.

The friend leaned closer into the camera, pierced nostrils on full display, then waved with a drunken smile.

"Hiii, Mr. Dixon!" The friend slurred, somehow still self-aware enough to recognize him. "Gon' take her to bed. Niiiight niiiight!"

He was ready to slip into the authority role he foolishly thought he had upon the group of women, a scolding already sitting at the tip of his tongue for being a bunch of drunken idiots. "Wait, hold yer damn horses—" But the call ended before he could get another word out.

He was left staring at his own reflection in the small black screen, along with the realization settling heavy in his chest.

She wanted to get married?

The next morning at the mechanic shop, Daryl wasn't in a bad mood exactly, just occupied with the work in front of him, grease slicking his fingers as he changed a tire, and the drunken words of a woman that he couldn't stop thinking about.

Wasn't it too soon?

What if her drunken words were just that?

Did he even want to be tied down?

He wasn't sure why the thought hit him so hard, as if those days apart hadn't already been enough of a wake-up call about how pathetically in love he really was, how the man he had been before she came into his life had long since hung up his coat.

He wasn't nearly as much of a loner as he used to believe, not if it meant denying himself the want to be with someone.

At least he had a few more days to sit with it, and maybe, when he saw her again, the knots in his head would finally start to loosen and make sense of it all.

But one thing about timing was that it never asked for permission.

As Daryl tightened down the last lug nut, someone called his name. The voice cut through the drone of air hoses, impact wrenches and idle engines, so unexpected that for a second he wasn't even sure he'd heard it right.

He looked over his shoulder.

The first thing he saw was a pair of raccoon slippers, his brows knitting together at the familiarity.

He knew those slippers.

His gaze traveled upward until it landed on her.

And everything else in the shop disappeared.

She stood just within arm's reach, looking like she had crawled out of hell on her hands and knees. Her hair was twisted into a loose bun, an oversized hoodie swallowed her frame, and those ridiculous slippers had replaced the heels she always insisted on wearing to face the outside world.

There was no dress, no makeup, just thick black sunglasses hiding what he guessed was one hell of a hangover, and a tired smile tugging at her lips.

She had never looked more beautiful.

"Surprise," she said sheepishly, her voice rough from the night before.

The wrench slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the concrete.

She gave a weary chuckle. "Turns out the bride-to-be got food poisoning..."

He slowly crossed the distance between them.

"Guess your vacation got cut short, Dar—"

He didn't let her finish.

He cupped the back of her neck with a grease-stained hand and pulled her right back where she belonged—where he wanted her to stay until their hairs turned gray and there were no more pages left on the calendar.

His lips found hers in a kiss so sudden it knocked her glasses askew. They tumbled to the floor as the loose bun she'd thrown together gave way, her hair spilling over her shoulders.

Her hands flew up in surprise, lingering there for a heartbeat before they settled against his cheeks, her eyes fluttering closed as she melted into the lips she'd missed.

He hadn't needed more days.

He'd only needed to see her again for his heart to finally catch up with what it had known all along.

The once-busy mechanic shop erupted behind them.

A chorus of hollers, whistles, and shocked laughter bounced off the garage walls at the sight none of them had ever expected to witness.

Their stubborn, gruff boss was making a scene worthy of a late-night soap opera.

One mechanic wolf-whistled.

Another let out a howl.

Many clapped.

Daryl didn't care.

He probably never would again.

He'd kiss her in front of the whole world if he felt like it. Be a complete fool in front of anyone watching. Because somewhere over the last few days, he'd stopped caring about looking tough and started caring about never letting her wonder how he truly felt.

Their lips parted, but he didn't let her go. His forehead rested against hers as she smiled up at him, all wide-eyed and shiny-toothed, clearly surprised he had done that in front of a crowded room.

"Daryl!" She laughed breathlessly. "What's gotten into you—"

"Marry me, woman."

Her breath hitched.

Gasps erupted throughout the shop.

And Daryl had never been more sure of anything in his life.

One Year Later

The sharp crack of pool balls echoed through the bar as another game broke across the green felt. Glasses clinked together, a ballgame played on the television above the liquor shelves, and the usual crowd nursed their beers with cigarettes dangling from their lips, smoke hanging in the air like fog.

Daryl stepped inside with his fingers laced through hers.

Meanwhile Merle leaned against the pool table, a cue stick resting in his hand while one of her friends entertained him. She twisted the blue chalk cube against the tip of the stick, her fingers moving in slow circles, shamelessly enjoying stringing the older Dixon along.

"That's it, sugar," Merle drawled with a crooked grin. "Put that wrist to good use..."

Then he spotted the couple and jerked the cue toward them.

"Over here, y'two!"

The four women turned in unison.

A year ago, Daryl would've winced.

Now he only shook his head, already knowing exactly what was coming.

"Hiii, Mr. and Mrs. Dixon!!!!"

She dissolved into giggles, hiding her smile against his shoulder before peeking up at him from under her lashes.

"Well," she whispered. "Guess they'll never let that go, huh?"

Daryl only shrugged, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "Ain't lettin' it go either, sweetheart."

Her smile softened, the twinkle in her eyes outshining the glint of the diamond on finger.

"Me neither."

🛞THE END 👠

Hope you like it, arstynana. Thanks for showing love to my silly fics!

Note: I love me some pathetically inlove Daryl who isn't much different from a dog when reader leaves. A day apart feels like weeks. Pacing around an empty house, looking for distractions the same way a lonely mutt might chew through a boot because it still smells like its owner.

Somehow ended the fic with a proposal I hadn't planned. Hell yeah.

Also, full circle? Sort of. The other fic started with a kiss and this one ended with one too, but roles reversed.

Reader's friend group is 100% inspired by Bratz Rock Angelz. She came back with a secret tattoo just for Daryl shhh 🤫

Other Mechanic bf Daryl works:

Red Heels & Changing Wheels

Teacup Biker

Moodboard

Dividers: @dividers-are-us

You could forgive your father for dragging you along with him. He meant well. But did he have to take you here? The ram statue protruding from the Danforth Country Club entrance peered down at you. You stood hesitantly beside the car as your father handed the valet the keys. Your fingers fiddled with the charm on your purse as you took in the state of the building behind your sunglasses. A building you had spent quite a lot of time in. Your father had been a member for as long as you could remember, bringing you to lounge by the pool while he had some business lunch, or attempting to teach you how to be good at tennis. You hadn't come back since you got engaged. An entire year without hearing the cries of the peafowl that roamed the gardens. Your fiance- well, ex-fiance- belonged to a different club and he had been adamant that you shifted your integration from the DCC to the one his family was a part of. You weren't exactly in love with him. The engagement felt more like a business deal than genuine romance, but he was a nice enough man who you thought was going to take care of you for the rest of your life. So you obeyed his command and handed in your membership card.

That was before you walked in on him fucking the chef. A simple mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But you had seen her bend over the kitchen island, and that had been enough for you to throw your (very expensive and slightly gaudy) engagement ring right against his bare chest. One plane ride later, and your father greeted you back home with open arms and a mission to make you feel better. Starting with a good lunch and a massage. You had been excited, until he turned onto the all-too-familiar brick drive.

Your heart skipped when you walked into the main building. Memories from the years came rushing back. The coin machine you and your friends had been able to swipe quarters from. The ballroom where you first kissed- No. You were not going to make your chest hurt even more by thinking about him.

Your father's touch pulled you from your thoughts. He rested his hand on your shoulder and gently guided you to the dining room.

"I'm glad you came back during the summer," He mused "They have a good seasonal menu this year." You mumbled out something in return as you stepped into the restaurant. A too-bubbly host greeted you by your names and gestured for you to follow him. You sat at a table by the window overlooking the golf course. The ninth hole. Because the universe was funny like that. If you craned your neck, you could see the secluded spot you had driven the golf-cart to only a year prior. Stolen kisses and marks on your thighs from the hot plastic seats. You tore your attention away and focused instead on the menu placed in front of you. Your eyes vaguely scanned the descriptions until you found something that sounded good.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite member," The gravelly voice made your blood still in your veins. Your shoulders tensed and you held the breath you had just taken. You knew that voice. You hated that voice. The voice that you still remembered vividly enough to dream about. The voice that was making your stomach flip even after a year of not hearing it. You swallowed the saliva that pooled on your tongue and looked up. Sure enough, there he was. Titus Danforth. With a hand on your father's shoulder and a smirk that you could never discern as amicable or hostile. Your father grinned up at him.

"Ah! Mr. Danforth, so nice to see you!" He said cheerily. "Wasn't expecting you to be out on the grounds now that you're in charge of the place." Your eyebrows raised slightly. That was new. Titus had told you about how he would eventually be in charge of the club, but he talked about it like it was a distant goal. Something promised but just out of reach. Titus saw your expression change and he puffed out his chest a bit. He wanted to impress you.

"I saw you checked in and just wanted to say hello."

"Well, I'm honored," your father nodded. He seemed to remember that you were there, too. "Oh! Right. Mr. Danforth this is my daughter, I'm not sure you've met before." He turned his eyes to you. "He took over for Chester." You nodded, trying to swallow the lump that hardened in your throat. "We're celebrating the fact I no longer have to fund a wedding." Your lips turned up weakly and you saw Titus' eyes narrow slightly. He blinked.

"Pleasure," Titus grinned, reaching out his hand. You gave yours to him, breath hitching at the familiar scuff of his callouses against your skin.

Twenty minutes later, your tongue was down Titus' throat. Your back was pressed against the wall of some empty service hallway. Titus explored your torso with his hands, pinning you against the beige brick with his hips. You could feel his hard cock grinding into the plushness of your thighs. He nipped at your lips, running his tongue along yours in the dirtiest exchange of saliva you'd ever participated in.

"Missed you…so much," he panted between kisses. One of his hands groped at your chest, running under your shirt to memorize the lace of your bra with his fingertips. "Wh…fuck, where have you been? Haven't seen you since-." Since he'd fucked you in that golf cart on the ninth hole a year prior.

"Got engaged." You responded, tugging on his silver curls. The way you knew he liked. He growled, half at the sting of his hair and half at the pain of your words.

"Why?"

"Because," You rolled your eyes, pulling away enough to actually talk. Titus' pupils were blown wide, black consuming the hazel circles that haunted your daydreams and your nightmares. "I'm the oldest. I have a lineage to continue. I needed a husband."

"But," He licked his red and kiss-bitten lips. "You had me. You could've-"

"Titus, be serious," You scoffed, trying to cover the twinge of yearning that tugged at your heart. "There's no way my father would approve of that. You're-"

"I'd make him." Titus assured, eyes searching your face desperately, eyebrows pinched up. "We'd figure it out. I'd treat you so much better than that asshole. He didn't deserve you. "

"You don't even know him or what he did."

"I don't care. It doesn't matter. I would." You sighed and brushed a curl away from his eyes. You didn't have the proper words to express your objections in the moment, so you just kissed him again. Softer. Slower. But not for long. All it took was one involuntary buck of his hips into yours and a soft whine from his throat and your fingers found the buckle of his belt. The expensive leather unclasped easily and you popped the button of his slacks. Titus broke your kiss and turned his gaze down to where you slowly pulled the zipper over the prominent bulge in his pants. His torso heaved with every second as you taunted him, pushing the fabric over his hips tantalizingly slow. Titus sighed as you dipped your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers. You wrapped it around his aching length, grinning when you felt him twitch in anticipation. You leaned in again, brushing your nose against his.

"Fuck me, Titus," You pleaded, eyes half-lidded and not even trying to cover the desperation you were feeling. "Make me forget about him." Titus was always good at following orders. Something in him snapped and he grabbed your wrist. He pulled your hand out of his boxers and tugged you a few feet down the hallway to a lone bench that rested there.

After pushing you down to sit, he dropped to his knees. He gathered the hem of your dress in his palms and pushed the fabric up around your hips to give him better access to what he wanted. He transferred the bunch to one of his hands, using the other to rip your underwear down your thighs. As if they personally offended him for covering his most coveted treasure. Titus held your eye contact as he licked the first stripe between your folds. It was obscene, open-mouthed and running along the entire expanse of your sex. His nose twitched up with delight at the moan that he pulled from you. The movement pulled up the corner of his top lip. A sneer in any other circumstance. Your hands found the crown of his head, needily pulling his face further into your pussy as he began to settle into his rhythm. The patterns surprised you. Somehow, after a year of not even seeing your face, he still remembered the perfect combination of licks and suckles to have you whimpering and whining and squirming under him. Something your ex-fiance could never accomplish. You didn't bother smothering your noises. You knew how much Titus loved to hear them. With every moan, he just worked harder. When you shifted your hips to try and get different friction, he followed dutifully. Anything to make you feel good. He had made that clear the first time he was between your thighs. And it wasn't long before you felt your orgasm catch behind your navel. It slithered around your abdomen, cinching the muscles tight as Titus tongue-fucked you like it was the most important thing he'd ever done. When it finally crashed into you, your thighs snapped around his head and your fingers pulled harder at his hair. He groaned against you, the vibrations only augmenting the intensity of your release. You rode your orgasm out against his face, rolling your hips along his mouth. And Titus stayed put, looking up at you with reverence as you used him to make the most of your pleasure. When you stilled, chest heaving, Titus pulled back from your core. He licked along the insides of your thighs, gathering every last drop of your arousal before wiping his chin with his fingers and sucking those clean, too. Like a man who didn't know when his next meal would be.

When he was fully satisfied, he stood. He stifled the grunt as his knees popped and you were too fucked-out to make an age-related quip. Titus reached over his head and pulled off his polo. Your eyes trailed down his torso, catching on the firmness of his shoulders and the greying trail of hair that accented his stomach. He kicked off his pants and hoisted you up from the bench. You grumbled in protest, but you were soon sat on Titus' lap. Your thighs bracketed his and he adjusted your arms around his neck. He helped you peel off your dress. You shivered at the sudden rush of cool air that surrounded your bare body. Titus was never one for wasting time. He guided you over his cock and helped you sink down onto him, inch by inch. Expletives filled the small gap between your faces as he stretched you open. You raked your nails over his shoulders, gripping onto him as your cunt struggled to accommodate him.

"So big, oh my…shit, Titus," You gasped, walls fluttering as you forced yourself to relax. Once you had taken him fully, Titus gave you a moment to adjust. One of his hands planted itself on the cold plastic of the bench. The other remained firm on your hip. When you nodded to him, Titus braced himself against the bench and began to move.

"Fuck," He hissed as he rolled up into you. His guiding hand pulled you up and down to meet each thrust. "Squeezin' me so tight, sweetheart." He went at his own pace, pulling halfway out and then pounding back into you. You accepted that you were simply along for the ride. His to use. Your head fell back and your hands pulled him closer to you. Titus' chin rested on your chest as he watched your face with devotion, committing each furrow of your brow and twitch of your lips to memory. When he shifted the angle slightly, pure pleasure shot up your spine and you let out a high-pitched keen.

"Ti-itus!" you gasped. He huffed and his pace quickened, hitting the spot over and over and over again.

"Feel good?" He cooed. Only a bit condescendingly. All you could do was whine and dig your nails in deeper. "Bet he never fucked you like this, huh baby?" Titus panted, eyes crazed. "Never fucked you so good?" Your pussy clenched around him.

"N-Never," You hummed "Feels so good, Titus. You're so good. Fuck you're so good!"

"Yea," he chuckled, unblinking eyes locked on the way your tits fell with each of your quick breaths. "Best you ever had, right? S'why you came back? Came back for me? Gonna cum on my cock the way you always do?" You nodded enthusiastically, weakly trying to bounce your legs to chase your second orgasm. "Yea, baby, c'mon. Cum for Titus." You obeyed with a shriek, thighs tensing as your release ripped through you. You felt a gush of liquid coat the junction of your bodies. Titus let out a mangled groan at the sensation. He didn't last much longer, fucking up into you with tiny whimpers as his face pinched together and he emptied himself as far as he could into your warmth. He gulped down quick breaths, jaw hanging loose as he blinked away the fuzziness at the edges of his vision. You couldn't have possible known that he hadn't cum since he last saw you. That your pussy was the only place worthy of receiving it. A year's worth of build-up finally released. His head fell back against the wall and he shakily wrapped his arms around you. He pulled you into him so that your cheek rested against his. Blood roared in your ears and you felt the pulsing of your heart in each muscle. You came down together, Titus pressing kisses to your neck as you scratched against his scalp. You had missed this, missed him, more than you had realized. And you suddenly felt stupid for even considering spending the rest of your life with another man. Titus, it seemed, was having similar thoughts.

"Will you at least think about it?" You barely heard his voice above the sound of your heartbeats. You took a deep breath, exhaling with a sigh and swallowed.

"Okay." You relented. Titus' eyes lit up with hope. He parted his lips to say something, but a ping from your phone interrupted him. You groaned as you pulled yourself off him, wincing as his softened cock slipped from you and caused a rivulet of his cum to make its way down your thigh. You hobbled over to where your dress was pooled on the floor, already feeling the soreness begin to settle between your legs. You found your phone and cursed when you saw the notification. "Shit, I gotta go." You searched briefly for your underwear before giving up and just tugging on your dress. "My massage starts in fifteen minutes." You turned back to Titus. Something tugged at your chest when you saw him. He sat there, hands nervously fiddling in his lap. He looked so…small. Not physically, of course, but there was something in his expression that made guilt gnaw at your ribcage. You crossed the hall and pressed a kiss to his sweaty forehead. He leaned into your touch and sighed. As you began to pull away, Titus caught your wrist. He pressed his thumb into your pulse point.

"Will you have dinner with me?" He rasped quietly. Not speaking too loudly out of fear that you might reject him. But you didn't. You gave him a kind smile and nodded.

The swell of your estate held the powers of the world. 

Your larger-than-needed study had been transformed from your desk and small seating area to a resemblance of a half-circle, chairs all facing the small, elevated space near the back. One chair sat on the upper lip, and you were all but draped in between its two armrests. Your spine pressed straight against the chair, your leg crossed over the other, and your hands gently folded at your lap. You gazed around the room as your fellow high families mingled together, loudly discussing business as though this were an ordinary meeting.

In the past two months, the council had met only once, the result of Grace Le Domas winning her game and wiping out her entire family. Due to that, she’d invoked a difference clause than the one you were currently waiting to announce. By dawn after that particular meeting, she and her sister had been killed, and the Danforths had been reinstated as head of the high families, gaining the seat back mere hours after it had been taken away. You had not been in attendance, but you’d seen the way Titus Danforth forced Grace out of hiding only to kill her first and then her sister. His acts of dominance throughout the hunt had impressed you, another reason why you’d specifically asked for his attendance. 

When he’d walked through the door, your insides sang at the waft of his papery-money and patchouli scent that screamed alpha in a way that had your stomach flipping and core pooling. With his salt-and-pepper curls and thick stature, his presence alone seemed to command the room, even if you were technically the one with power. You watched as he tried not to smirk every time someone glanced at the Le Bail sigil ring on his finger. 

While the rest of the families, the ones lucky enough to be promoted after the demise of the Wilkinsons, the Rajans, the Wans, and the El Caidos, vied for information as to why you’d gathered them in the first place, Titus seemed to not care. He drank from a whiskey glass and failed to join any boisterous conversations. Although, he did make it a point to catch your gaze every few minutes, his hazel eyes meeting yours in a stare that only ended when you looked away each time. 

You slunked into your chair, and your fingers tapped rhythmically against the other. To get your meeting started, you only needed one more person to make it official, and you knew he was ever one for dramatics. 

A sudden three knocks on the study door had your eyes chasing the sound towards the back of the room in time to see the Lawyer walk through, only followed by a shorter woman who carried the large, ancient black book that was always present during any meeting. As he walked, he caught the eyes and flared nostrils of those in attendance. Unlike everyone who presented with a second gender, gaining a special scent unique to their person, the Lawyer held no scent nor seemed to have the specifics of a second gender. 

His burning blue eyes met yours, and the corners of his lip stretched into a smile. He did not acknowledge anyone else in the room as he walked past, a rude gesture to some, but the Lawyer was notorious for carrying out the will of Le Bail without stopping. And today, you were a part of that will. He stopped within a foot of where you sat and outstretched a hand for you to take. 

His fingers curled around yours warmly as he spoke. “Mr. Le Bail remains to be very happy with you.” 

“All thanks to his good fortune and blessing upon me,” you said, the words familiar on your tongue, your honeycomb and orange scent blooming at the praise. 

You’d been in Mr. Le Bail’s circle of high standing for years. His blessing had been bestowed after your first hunt, the one that ended with you, an omega, standing in the middle of a blood bath of alphas and betas. You’d won your hunt against the odds towering over you. And you hadn’t cowered, hadn’t rolled over and offered your body as a means of survival. You’d taken lives, and Mr. Le Bail acknowledged your commitment to his cause. 

You became untouchable. 

Suddenly, hunts weren’t an obligation to join; they were a choice, and for the most part, you chose to stay out of them. Besides, you made sure to stick to the quota of sacrifices written in your personal contract, something not available to the rest of the families. You’d been leading as head of the Du Pont family for five years after your father, mother, and older brother died, their bodies bursting into a red, gooey mess. Their sentence had been given after you’d turned them in for a break of contact. Your lack of hesitation and allegiance to your benefactor over your family made Mr. Le Bail very pleased. 

To show his gratitude, he’d given you a personal clause for when or if you ever wanted to replace your family members. 

For a few years, you waited, wanting to build something for yourself, because at the end of the day, alphas, especially males, always found ways to disappoint you. Each one you thought might be a contender turned out to be someone you’d rather ask Mr. Le Bail to wipe off the face of the earth than ever think of giving him a bond. However, the first time you had the pleasure of setting your eyes on Titus Danforth, you had the feeling that he could be yours one day. His attitude and petulance made room for him to grow, and you knew that he’d be a fine alpha once he got out from under his father’s thumb. After winning back the high seat, his twin alpha-sister, Ursula, had taken more of the business side while Titus continued to have an affinity for hunts and smaller jobs that dealt with the darker parts of his family’s contract. When you’d been introduced during a smaller gathering, you swore Mr. Le Bail gave deep approval of him with just a touch of your hands. 

Suddenly, your want to build your family and empire had Titus Danforth at its center. You wanted him in your nest; you wanted to wear his mark on your neck; you wanted to carry and give him his heirs. Upon those deep-rooted desires, you contacted the Lawyer, asking that he trigger a meeting of the high counsel as more of a complementary act. 

The Lawyer let go of your hand and turned around to face the room. “Thank you all for being here on such short notice,” his voice carried loud enough that everyone quieted down to listen. “Since we have some . . . newer families, and this is the first gathering since you all have been promoted within the circle, I will introduce myself and then the others. I am the sole attorney for Mr. Le Bail and the Le Bail organization, which is led by a council made up of the heads of six families: the Danforths, the Bellinis, the De la Vegases, the Kassels, the Frasers, and Miss Du Pont.” 

Everyone’s eyes turned towards you, and you simply smiled. 

“The reason you all are here is because Miss Du Pont has decided to invoke a clause of her own.” 

“Is she allowed to do that?” the head of the Bellini family questioned with a sneer. “I thought that contracts were only triggered by death or Mr. Le Bail himself.” His eyes trailed down your body with disgust. “Especially since she’s an omega.” 

The Lawyer stared at him boredly and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You’d be better off knowing to hold your tongue, or, if you must, use the proper respect when addressing Miss Du Pont.” 

Near Mr. Bellini, Titus scoffed loudly before taking a sip at his glass. “Are you a fucking idiot?” 

“Excuse me?” Mr. Bellini questioned, head whipping toward the other alpha. 

Titus gestured up towards you. “Do you even know what Du Pont stands for?” He hummed contemplatively. “Probably not since you’ve already painted yourself as an imbecile, so let me spell it out for you. It’s French for of the bridge, and that omega you’re staring at happens to be part of the bridge right to Mr. Le Bail. So I’d think twice about speaking your mind around her when she’s more than capable of cutting out your tongue and feeding it to you.” 

You rolled your shoulders to ease the building tension that formed while Titus basically defended you and sang your praises. From the corner of your eye, you could see that the Lawyer was also less miffed about being interrupted than he would have been if it hadn’t been Titus who’d done it. You understood that since Titus took the high seat, he’d been in talks with the Lawyer about certain things, and maybe the two of them had grown to share a mutual respect for the other. 

The Lawyer huffed loudly, drawing attention back to him. “As I was saying, Miss Du Point asked me to call this meeting of the High Council out of courtesy to announce that she has, as is her right by Mr. Le Bail, invoked her mating clause.” 

At his word, the alphas sucked in a large breath as they now looked at you with eyes filled with hunger and want. You, on the other hand, were only concerned with one hazel set. To your liking, they were set right on you, swimming with hunger but twinged with something deeper. Your hips shifted to release any heated pressure you could find. 

“As per her clause given directly from Mr. Le Bail in an attest to his blessing upon her, Miss Du Pont has chosen seven eligible alphas between the ages of twenty-five and fifty from the higher and middle families of the inner circles.” The Lawyer snapped, and his helper brought over the book. He flipped through the pages and stopped near the back. “I will read the rules out loud before announcing the names.” 

He held the book out to read, and it seemed as though everyone was at the edge of their seats. 

“While the mating clause is active, a hunt from sundown to sunrise will be held on the Du Point estate. During this particular hunt, the alphas of Miss Du Point’s choosing will compete against each other to show their worth and status. They will be given permission to hurt, maim, or even kill the other alphas if the situation sees fit. Alphas are not permitted to use any alpha commands while hunting.” 

“And who will we be hunting?” you heard one of the sons from the De la Vegas family ask. 

The Lawyer went to reply, but you beat him to it, only offering a one-worded answer. 

“Me.” 

A pin drop would have boomed in the silence that followed. In his seat, Titus straightened slightly, and his eyes never wavered from your figure. 

“Yes,” the Lawyer confirmed, “the alphas will be hunting Miss Du Pont. But I shall add that if any harm comes to her, Mr. Le Bail will be most . . . unhappy.” He scanned the room to get his point across. “Moving on, the alpha who finds Miss Du Pont by sunrise will be chosen as the winner. However, if she is not found, she also reserves the right to pick an alpha of her choosing.” 

He glanced over at you, needing to get your approval to continue. You nodded slightly. 

“To aid in the hunt and encourage a match between Miss Du Pont and an alpha, she will take a heat-inducer before the hunt starts. And the seven chosen alphas will be given a rut-inducer as well.” 

A few rumbles began to fill the air as scents deepened with lust; Titus, however, continued to stay silent. 

“Now that the rules of the hunt have been read, I will now announce the alphas chosen to participate.” He handed the book back to his helper and took your list from her other hand. “From the lower families, who have already been sent an invitation, we have Arthur Howard, Enrico De Borja, Sima Yoa, Charles Orsini, Rhodes Ashford, and Byron Coventry.” 

“That’s six?” Mr. Bellini pointed out. 

“Glad you’re capable of fucking counting,” Titus shot back, but his grin was unmistakable behind his glass. 

The Lawyer also fought back a grin, but he hid it better than Titus. 

“And for the one alpha chosen from the high family . . .”

You watched as most of the sons and even some of the fathers sat up a bit straighter. It was almost laughable the way they believed themselves to be eligible for your hunt, especially since all of the fathers already had a mate and family. No one seemed to catch onto that there was only one alpha in their midst who held the power of the world in a single ring on his thick finger. 

“Titus Danforth.” 

Like the cocky son of a bitch he was, Titus held up his glass towards you in a grateful manner, but the way his scent overpowered the rest told you that he was more intrigued and interested than his appearance allowed. Around him, though, the rest of the families stood in an uproar; one even had the notion to start stalking towards your seat, but he stopped right at the edge the moment you felt a burst of flame from behind you, the light of his outline illuminating your skin. 

The Lawyer pocketed the list and clapped his hands, bringing the room back to order. “This is the will of Mr. Le Bail. If you have any qualms, you are always welcome to bring them directly to him.” 

A few of the alphas looked downright terrified. Titus continued to look smug. 

“This meeting is adjourned,” the Lawyer announced, holding out a hand for you to take again. 

You quietly slipped your hand in his and rose from your seat. Once the alphas looked calm enough to pass by, the Lawyer led you through their throngs. You avoided eye contact with each of them, and their gazes filled with growing resentment and lust did little to throw you off. Yet, when you dared to look in Titus’ direction, his eyes sent a shiver down your spine. You could feel his eyes on you even when you left the room. You let go of the Lawyer’s hand once the door shut behind you, leaving enough time for you to be gone once the families began to vacate the premises. 

"Would you excuse me for one moment?” you asked. 

“Of course. I’ll be in the lobby, and we can go over the final details over dinner,” he responded, already heading in the direction of the front door. He’d been over enough times to know his way around. 

You turned to the left and made your way to the small, hallway bathroom. Once the door locked with a click, you leaned your head against the grain, allowing yourself to breathe in normal air without the conflicting scents in the room. While your chest slightly heaved, you slowly dipped your fingers below the waist of your pants. Instantly, you were met with a wetness you knew you’d had since Titus entered the study. 

Before your father was sent to hell, you would have been disgusted to have such a reaction to an alpha, let alone just his scent. That was something your father had instilled in you, a reflection of his resentment in having an omega offspring. Your first heat had been spent alone and in pain, and your father only said that it would build character to show that you could never be weak. 

But oh, did Titus Danforth make you pathetic. 

Your bottom lip crushed between your teeth as you gently circled your enlarged clit, the swipes gliding easily with your slick. You didn’t know if the alphas had left, but the need to relieve pressure had you not caring. A small moan-turned-whine ripped through your vocal cords, and your unoccupied hand slapped across your mouth to muffle the sounds. Your thighs tightened around your hand, and you bent over when you dipped a finger into your core. The added digit had your stomach tightening and your fingers speeding up. You tried your best to stay quiet, but as you reached your climax, a true whine slipped through the slots of your fingers, inner muscles contracting steadily around your finger.  

You were left panting against the door, knowing you’d taken far too long for a normal bathroom break. Quickly, you tried to compose yourself, patting down your shirt and wiping some of the dripping slick on a random towel you tossed to the floor. The only evidence were your pruned fingers and slightly sickeningly sweet scent. 

With a shaky breath, you unlocked the door and stepped back out into the hall. However, you didn’t even make it two steps before you ran into something solid enough that you jolted off balance. Twin hands clamped down on your upper arms and held you steady, and one small sniff told you exactly which alpha had caught you after a moment of self-pleasure. 

“Titus,” you breathed as you looked up into his hazel hues. 

If he hadn’t smelled you through the door, you were sure he had now by the way his nostrils flared with each breath he took. 

Instead of answering, Titus continued to stare down at you until his gaze caught onto your raised hands that hand planted firmly on his chest after he caught you. His right hand released your arm in favor of grabbing the hand that, moments ago, had been stuck down your pants. He brought it up to his face before leaning in, nose trailing up each finger, chest puffing out in deep inhales of your scent. 

If he were any other alpha, you would have wrenched out of his grasp and slapped him across the face. But this was Titus, the alpha you’d been dreaming of only to wake up in a puddle and heat at your core, the alpha you wanted to build something with. 

Titus surprised you even further when his tongue darted out and kitten-licked at your fingerprints, the hot muscle contracting around your skin in languid motions. He never broke eye contact through his ministrations of cleaning you up. Once you were sure all remnants of slick had been lapped up by his tongue, he pulled away. By now, his scent was overpowering, but all it did was send another rush of need and want for him through your body. 

You thought he might kiss you with the way his face suddenly leaned in towards yours, but he stopped inches away from your lips, hot breath fanning over the tip of your nose. His hazel eyes were blown, and you were sure yours reflected his as well. If Mr. Le Bail hadn’t graciously given you the contract, you would have offered for him to take you there and then against the walls of your home.

But you had to follow the rules, play the game. And Titus knew too.

His mouth parted slightly. “I just want you to know,” he whispered, tone promise-filled, “it’s going to be me, omega, . . . who gets you.” 

Your jaw tipped up to the point your lips could have almost touched, and you smiled. “I look forward to it, alpha.” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Titus felt insatiable. 

It had only been a week since he’d had a taste of you, and the memory of your slick burned at the back of his throat every time he recounted the scene with a hand wrapped around his cock under the cover of night. 

He never knew how addicting an omega could be. All the women he’s ever been with were betas; he didn’t possess the patience to deal with the neediness of the fairer secondary sex or even with alphas for that matter—his own need for control made bedding the latter an exhausting affair. But now he was different, now he craved to have you again, drinking your scent and slick straight from the source. 

That specific brand-new craving washed over his body in waves as he stood with the rest of the lower families. The simmering heat of an upcoming rut due to the pill he’d swallowed almost thirty minutes ago, per the hunt’s rules, made his desires for you almost uncontainable, especially with how it warred with his disgust for the rest of the half-paked alpha pups that littered your study. But he knew he’d be able to act on both feelings as soon as they were all set free into your land. Then, he’d be able to make his disdain for these boys known in a much more visceral way.   

But he couldn’t help but think you’d done this on purpose, choosing to put him, an experienced alpha well in his prime, right in the middle of six alphas who probably didn’t know where to stick their knots. Easily, he’d be able to take each and every one of them down if the situation called for it, and he prayed that it would. His teeth itched with the want to sink them into deep jugulars and feel the slick of blood along his gums. His eyes grazed across the small crowd, and an unpleasant feeling crept up his throat when he couldn’t find you. Obviously, he knew you were probably preparing and wouldn’t even put yourself in the middle of this flock while pre-heat settled into your body. 

Smart girl.

He took another sip from his drink, the alcohol giving him a pleasant buzz to wash out the growing scent of pre-rut stink from the others. One in particular, however, had him almost gagging from it: Byron Coventry and his scent of wet leaves and sour apple. He was one of the most pathetic excuses an alpha Titus had ever come across. He wanted to break his little neck every time Byron opened his mouth, vulgar fantasies about you spewing from his teeth. But Titus kept himself in check; he was better than the rest, and he had nothing to prove. He knew he was the perfect mate for you, would even bet that Mr. Le Bail was also in contempt.  

He blessed whoever was listening when he spotted the Lawyer slowly making his way to the front of the study, the same place he’d been a week ago as he announced your clause to the rest of the high families. 

“Attention please,” he announced, effectively quieting the room once again. “The sun will dip below the horizon in approximately ten minutes. Miss Du Pont has been given those moments as a head start. Please take this time to prepare yourselves and whatever you have brought.” He steeled his blue eyes. “And just remember, if Miss Du Pont is harmed in any way . . . well . . . let’s just say you won’t see tomorrow. I know you all are very familiar with how Mr. Le Bail punishes those who break his rules.” 

The small crowd of seven scattered soon after, Titus going directly for his war hammer he stowed in the corner upon his arrival. Its heavy metal was a comforting weight in his palm. With it, he had never lost a hunt. He twirled it once before resting it over his shoulder. 

“What are you going to do with that old man? Knock her unconscious?” Bryon called out while shoving his guns into their holsters at his waist. “I’ll tell you that omegas are much sweeter when they’re awake to squirm a bit, especially when they get to fight back. Makes it all worth it when you get to just take them.” 

Titus rolled his eyes and scoffed. “This is going to go right through your skull.” His voice carried an assuredness that sent a visible shock and shiver through Byron. He stepped away and placed his glass back down onto the bar. 

The next seven minutes were tortuous, By now, every breath Titus took singed his nose as the overwhelming reek of rut permeated the air. Every so often, small growls would slip through clenched teeth, and Titus wondered if someone would explode into a violent frenzy before the hunt could even begin until the Lawyer reappeared at the entrance to the study this time. “The alphas will be let out one at a time, starting with the youngest and so on.” 

“The old man is going to fall behind,” Byron jeered with a snort. 

The Lawyer squared his shoulders. “Mr. Coventry, I can assure you that Mr. Danforth is more than capable. Do note that he also has never lost a hunt in the thirty plus years that he’s been a part of Mr. Le Bail’s circle. Not only that, but he also holds the highest seat of the council.” 

Titus stood a bit straighter, and the rest went silent as they lined up. Titus stood directly behind Byron, even though there was a twenty-year gap between them. He lowered his head toward the younger alpha’s ear. 

“If you even think of taking her by force, I will hunt you down well after all of this is over and personally escort you to the gates of hell myself.” 

He straightened as though nothing had happened, but the tell-tale whiff of fear further curdling Byron’s repulsive, aroused rotten scenet had Titus smirking. 

Just as Titus was the last to be left in the study, the Lawyer held out an outstretched hand, stopping him mid-step, to which Titus cocked a questioning eyebrow. Without saying anything, the Lawyer withdrew something tightly wound from his pocket and gave it to Titus. 

“A small gift, if you will,” the Lawyer stated with a wink. “Miss Du Pont sends her regards.” He stepped aside from the door and let Titus through. 

The handful of fabric Titus kept in his palm taunted him to unravel it as he walked. Before he could venture too far into the open grassy field that led to the forest licking the edge of your estate (much like his own), he paused, set down his war hammer, and brushed his thumbs over the fabric to straighten it out. His mouth went dry when he realized what he was holding. Another brush of his thumb came back wet, and Titus brought the digit to his mouth and sucked, the sweetness of your slick latching onto his tastebuds. 

He’d already been half-hard before under the effects of the inducer, but the smallest taste of you had his cock fully swelling and throbbing in his pants. 

You’d given him your underwear, and the thought of you running around with your cunt bare under whatever you were wearing had him pushing the fabric into his back pants pocket and stalking through the field with a fire under his steps. Tall grass flattened underneath his black hunting boots. Once the softer ground turned into hard dirt covered in leaves and twigs, he slowed his steps, taking deep breaths as he walked further. At the entrance, an onslaught of honeycomb and orange made him dizzy but also impressed. In attempts to throw the alphas off, you’d wiped slick across the bark of random trees in different directions. 

His chest finally rumbled at the thought of such a skilled omega, one that would be on par with his alpha. 

Not knowing where to start, he continued to step into the trees, their crowns shadowing him from the moonlight. He could smell a few alphas on his path, but they either dimmed or stopped abruptly. A few sticks snapped, and his head would whip in that direction, nose flaring to pick up any scents, but he knew you were too smart to be wandering around. By now, you probably had already found a place to hide, somewhere only you knew since this was your land. Instead of having the upper hand, the ball was in your court. 

Titus set out to find running water, a stream perhaps. Fresh water meant you could cross and mask your scent in the ever-changing bank, the mud helping to mask footprints. His ears picked up the sound of a trickle to the right, and he turned in the opposite direction. You would have also known that alphas would first go for the water, the oldest trick in the hunting book. If you were any normal prey, he would have had you in minutes. But you were practically his equal, the two of you holding some type of the highest blessings from Mr. Le Bail. 

By three hours in, Titus hadn’t found so much a trace of you, and he was starting to believe that you would be the one to last the entire twelve hours until sunrise. However, a small chirp from a couple yards in front of him had him pausing, war hammer poised in his hands. Another twig snapped, and he caught his first voice of the night. 

Only, instead of belonging to you, it belonged to someone entirely different, someone Titus had been keeping in mind to silence his bloodlust. 

“Come out, come out, omega,” Byron sang too loudly into the quiet atmosphere. “I know you’re close. That cute little noise you gave out—” He chuckled deeply. “Means your body is just begging for me.” 

Titus ground his teeth, and his jaw clenched tightly. His fingers gripped around the war hammer’s shaft to the point of white knuckles. He kept his steps soft, eyeing where sticks lay in his path, careful to step over them. 

“You smell so fucking sweet; I bet you’re just waiting to roll over and present. You’re going to feel so good around my dick. My knot’s been begging for sweet pussy for so long, and to think, the next one is going to belong to Mr. Le Bail’s pet.” 

Much to Titus’ horror, another soft chirp sounded at the same audible tone as Byron’s voice, meaning you and he were too close for Titus to be comfortable with. In any other circumstance, Titus would leave you to it; he’d seen the way you took down each and every alpha and beta in your hunt while barely looking like you’d broken a sweat. But this was entirely different. You were under the effects of a deepening preheat, something you’d gone into willing to find out which alpha would fight to keep you safe. And Titus would rather cut off his hands than let an alpha like Byron Coventry lay his eyes on you like this, let alone a singular finger. 

Thankfully, the man seemed to enjoy hearing himself rather than looking out for his safety, giving Titus the perfect cover to get in closer. Your thick scent grew sweeter the more he walked, and he wondered how long Byron would be able to control himself with the heavy pheromones of a fertile omega swimming in the air. Even Titus could feel his own self control waning. 

Byron gave off a low growl, and he continued stalking through the forest like a child having a tantrum. “Fucking show yourself. If you’re waiting for that old man, I’ll tell you now that you’ll be so disappointed with an alpha like him. I bet he couldn’t even get it up, much less pop a knot.” His torso twisted desperately. “I bet Mr. Le Bail is disappointed with you. He took pity on a sad, family-less omega. It’s a shame really that you’ll lose his favor the moment you mate with someone. You can’t be his if you belong to someone else, and baby, you’ll belong to me.” 

Like a whistle, a whine cut through the air like a knife, and Titus knew he had to act now. He threw caution to the wind and leaped out into the small clearing where the moonlight reached through the leaves. He’d been successful in getting an ambush on Byron, the younger alpha’s knees crumpling as Titus’ greater weight tackled him to the ground. 

Titus was met with a hard hand against his jaw, but he was faster. He wrenched the hand off and pinned the wrist down into the dirt. While Byron desperately tried to claw for his guns, the ones currently in the holster Titus ripped away from his belt and threw it behind him. Without looking away from Byron’s now terrified face, Titus leaned over and grabbed his war hammer, the sharp, pointed end facing the side of the younger alpha’s head, right above his ear near his temple. By the time Titus pinned him fully, his scent had deepened from papery-money and patchouli to a full forest singeing with fire. He leaned over and straddled Byron’s chest, knees digging into his arms to keep him still while holding Byron’s face toward the side, cheek down into the forest floor.  

“I did warn you,” Titus whispered, “that I’d put this right through your skull.” 

He didn’t even wait for a reply before brutally shoving the sharp end straight through Byron’s head, the tip cracking bone and giving way through brain matter like a hot knife through butter. Titus didn’t relent until the point came out the other side. Blood instantly spurted, thick drops hitting Titus’ chin and cheeks and neck. He closed his eyes and listened fully to the way Byron squirmed in the last attempts of his body fighting back, his soul not knowing that his brain had just been decimated. His huffs of anguish and small jolts were a full symphony to Titus’ ears. He kept a firm grip until Byron’s life force oozed out completely just like his blood and brain had. Once he was sure the alpha would never rise again, Titus pushed up from the ground, spine straightening as he went quiet, only his panting remained the only sound in the air. He grabbed onto the war hammer shaft and yanked the pointed end out, Byron’s body following before slipping back down to the earth. 

Titus knew he was dead, but that didn’t stop him from swinging his weapon over his shoulder and bringing the mallet end back down. Byron’s face gave way under the force, the rest of his skull and skin splattering across the ground. Titus straightened as he stood to his full height, ears alert to catch the smallest noise from where you hid. 

“Come on, omega,” he whispered. “Tell me where you are.” 

He was gifted with another chirp directly in front of him. When he looked over, he met your wide but pleased gaze, the bottom of your face hidden by a tree that gave way into a divot in the earth. He wouldn’t be surprised if you had a nest of some sort, but his curiosity would need to be pushed aside for now. Even from where he stood, he could tell that you were beginning to fade into the beginning stages of your heat. 

Without waiting, Titus rushed over, and you gave him yet another chirp in return at his eagerness. His senses swam when he finally halted in front of you, dropping down to his knees to be at your eye level. 

You whimpered loudly when his scent finally hit your nose, finding key hints of a metallic twang you knew well to be blood. You’d heard the short-lived dual between him and Byron, and Titus would personally be rewarded for taking him out. And now that you had him on his knees in front of you, you weren’t going to let him go like you had to last week after he’d found you in the hall. 

“Titus,” you whimpered. 

He shuffled on his knees until he slightly hovered over you but still kept his distance. Unlike most, Titus had read the clause and understood that even if he had found you, you still held the ability to refuse his advances. It would hurt him, yes, and he’d have to lock himself away to ride out his rut, but if you did, he’d stay to make sure no other alpha found you before dawn. 

He waited for you to say something, but all you did was chuff and hook your ankles into his strong forearms, thighs contracting as you began to pull him inward. 

“If you don’t do something,” you hissed, “I will get myself off and make you watch.” 

Titus responded with a warning growl that had your head tilting back to bare your neck once the sound met your ears. He took a hold of your ankles and secured them around his hips. 

“No need to get so nippy,” he scoffed. “I’ll give you what you want, but you need to say please. Manners are important after all.” 

You echoed his scoff, making sure to push it to a louder degree. “I bet you’ve never said fucking please once in your life.” 

He tsked while his hands busied at the dirtied hem of the dress you wore. “You’ll be surprised to know that I have, in fact, said please on multiple occasions.” He looked up into your eyes. “Let me hear you say it.” He paused with a deadly smirk. “Please.”

Saliva pooled around your tongue, and you quickly swallowed it down. “Please.” 

“Good girl,” he muttered before fully lifting your dress to display your bare lower half. He didn’t even attempt to hold back the groan building in his throat at the sight of your moonlit, glistening heat. 

Without the added layer, your scent was so thick Titus could taste it on his tongue. 

“You’ve been like this since your headstart.” He didn’t pose it as a question since your slick-soaked underwear were still stuffed in his back pocket. “Just sitting here, waiting for an alpha to come find you and—” 

“Waiting for you,” you interrupted, not once flushing in embarrassment at your confession. “There was never going to be a different alpha, Titus. It was always going to be you no matter what.”

Titus set the hem of your dress to drape across your lap, and in the next breath, he leaned forward until his mouth met yours in a searing kiss. There was no time for lazy motions since your heat was building with every moment, so Titus impatiently mouthed wetly at your lips. Your hands planted themselves on both of his cheeks while he bent so low you didn’t have any other choice but to slowly lean back against the earth. His size towered over you, and he could easily kill you right then and here; the thought had your hips bucking wildly into his, and you moaned loudly against his teeth. He ripped back at the feeling, saliva dripping from his mouth. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, “I need to taste you.” 

A high-pitched whine flew from your lips as he leaned back in to mouth and suck at your scent gland. He didn’t dare break the skin, knowing your bed lay waiting back at the estate to grow a bond, but he did allow himself to lick hotly across it. 

“T-Titus—fuck—please, I-I need—” 

He nipped carefully at the skin next to the gland. “I know what you need.” 

His right hand glided across your hip and over your thigh to dip near your core. The first brush of his fingertips against your outer folds had you keening. In return, Titus rumbled, the two of you communicating at the deepest instinct possible. He slowly dragged his fingers through your slick until they pressed into the hardened bud of nerves that sent lightning ripping up your spine. In a gentle yet firm circular motion, he fiddled with your clit, drawing out more moans from the depths of your lungs. 

“Titus!” you screamed out into the forest. 

“There she is,” he muttered, lips moving downwards, hips folding to allow him to get his face near your core. Before going any further, he took the largest inhale possible and moaned deeply. He had half a mind to run his chin and cheek through your slick, wanting to get your scent embedded into his pores. 

But that was something for a different time. 

Now, he needed to finally taste you right from the source. 

His tongue peaked out from his lips and dragged upward from your fluttering hole to your clit, the pressure making your back arch beautifully. He drank and drank and drank your slick like a dehydrated man in a never-ending desert. Each swipe had his mouth full of the scented and sweetened lubrication that your body pumped out in preparation for you to take a knot—his knot. 

Just the thought had him groaning, and the vibrations almost sent you over the edge. You needed to hold onto something, and your fingers quickly found his curls and yanked at his roots. The sting seemed to spur him on, so you pulled harder, keeping his face buried between your thighs. 

“Titus,” you panted heavily. “I need—fingers—oh, fuck, finger, please!” 

“So polite,” he spoke into you with a smirk and raised eyebrow. “I knew you could do it.” 

He gave you exactly what you wanted in the form of his thick pointer finger slipping into your innermost parts. If he were an inexperienced alpha, he probably would have cum from imagining your oh-so tight muscles contracting around his cock. 

The additional pressure and finger thicker and longer than your own had you catapulting towards your climax. 

“So fucking tight,” he grated, finger thrusting in and out in wet squelches. “How am I even going to fit my knot into here?” 

“Titus, I’m close; I’m—” you squealed. “Alpha!” 

Without warning, Titus thrust in and curled both his pointer and middle fingers against that soft spot deep inside and sucked hard on your clit simultaneously. You had no warning. You howled with a dropped jaw as you came, eyes rolling back deeply into your skull. Your back arched completely off the ground, but Titus pressed you back down with a large hand splayed across your lower belly. He kept up his thrusting but softened his licks into savored movements as you came down from the high. He only stopped when you pushed a hand against his forehead, a silent signal that you needed a minute. With a wet pop, he pulled his fingers out of you and brought them to his lips. He shoved both of them in his mouth while maintaining eye contact with you, your slick permanently etching into his tongue. 

Once done, he leaned back over you for another wet, opened-mouthed kiss. Shoving his tongue into your mouth, he fed you the lingering taste of your sweet, honey-like arousal. His other hand cupped your cheek, holding you in place against him. Your skin felt scorching and feverish against his fingertips, and it dawned on him that the orgasm he just gave you hadn’t been enough to hold off your heat. No, instead, it’d been the spark to light the inferno within your belly. 

And now he was here, cock straining against his pants and body being consumed by a rapidly approaching rut with an unmated omega seconds away from a full blown heat beneath him. He swiftly yanked the hem of your dress back down before gathering you into his arms. With cracking knees, he staggered off the ground into a standing position. 

You whined confusingly at the sudden change in position, completely out of it due to your overtaking heat, and he gently hushed you with a soft rumble of his chest. 

“I need to get you back,” he growled, taking a large step in the direction of your estate. His hands held you tightly against him. “Need to fuck you; need to knot you; need to have you baring my mark by sunrise.” 

His words added fuel to the already burning fire in your core, and you couldn’t help the anticipating whimper that followed. Because the moment Titus got you back to your room, to your nest, all cards were off the table and he was free to take you as he pleased, to take you as his mate. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You curled further into Titus as he practically kicked down the door to your master bedroom. 

Getting back to the estate had been thankfully uneventful. Either the Lawyer knew enough to send the rest of the alphas packing, or the utter stench of Titus’ possessiveness that infected your scent had them backing away without a second thought. 

Whatever it was though gave you and him a clear path with Titus stopping at nothing until he got you where he wanted. He had carried you the entire way, but after he closed the door behind him with his foot, he set you down. 

“Strip and get in your nest,” he uttered, making sure no trace of alpha command seeped his timber. 

You obeyed without thinking, instincts taking completely over the longer you drank in his scent. The dress ripped off in one try, leaving you completely bare. Goosebumps raised across your flushed skin. Your bedroom had been prepared, much cooler than normal, to combat your elevated temperature while you went through the highs and lows of your heat. The cooled air pebbled your nipples into stiff peaks as you walked over to your nest, knees hitting the soft blankets while you crawled into the middle. 

Behind you, Titus locked the door and double checked for any weaknesses, instincts roaring at him to keep you protected, keep you all to himself. Under no circumstance would he allow anyone—alpha, beta, or even omega—to interrupt the two of you. After making sure the lock would hold, he turned back around to the sight of you outstretched across the sheets looking straight out of his most dirty dreams, right hand already swirling around your clit, fingers barely dipping into your hole with legs spread wide while your left hand pinched and grabbed at your breasts. 

Titus began peeling off his muddy and bloodied clothes as he walked closer. He kept his boxers on even if he knew they’d be off in moments because he needed you to want this, to want him, and more importantly, to beg for it. Even if his alpha screamed at him to take, take, take, he wouldn’t dare enter your nest without permission. He stood next to the bed near your torso, watching and waiting for you to let him in. 

Through lidded eyes, you looked over and mewled, “Alpha, please. Need you in here with me.” 

That’s all he needed to scramble through the blankets of your nest. 

Titus immediately took his place over you, slotting his hips between your legs and beginning to grind against you. Your thighs parted wide for him automatically and wrapped around his waist.

While Titus focused on covering your neck in as many marks as he could at the moment, your fumbling hands reached for his length, eager to get what you’d been truly craving. A whine, high pitched and pathetic, left your lips when your way was blocked by his underwear. The material was already soaked through, covered in the tantalizing scent of your slick mixing with his precum. 

“C’mon, darling,” Titus’s low voice rumbled through you where his lips were pressed to your neck, right over your scent gland. You longed for his teeth to sink in, and your incisors itched to leave your own mark on his neck. You wanted to be his and you wanted him to be yours. “Tell me what you want.”

“Titus!” 

“Mmm,” he hummed, his cock throbbing at how you so deliciously said his name. He was still mouthing over your scent gland but being careful to keep his teeth to himself. “Use your words.”

Your mind was growing fuzzy, the burning heat that left you aching for him was starting to hurt. You were so empty. If he didn’t hurry this up, you’d have to take matters into your own hands, and you knew in your frenzied state, you’d be unable to satisfy either of you.

“You, need you,” you were pawing at the fabric that kept you from what you really wanted.

“And what do you need from me?” 

“For you,” the frustration and neediness you were feeling sharpened your senses for just a moment. Your hand squeezed around his length through his briefs.  “To claim me.”

Titus groaned at the pressure and the aggression sharpening your scent. He loved to see you deadly and dangerous, a beautiful juxtaposition to your omegan sweetness.

“I will claim you-”

“Now,” you squeezed harder, your voice dropping into a growl. “Don’t be a fucking pussy. I thought you were a big, strong alpha. Maybe I should have found someone else to get the job done.”

“Shut up,” Titus’s hand closed over your neck, fingers digging into the sides. 

Your lips opened, dying to egg him on, but no words came out. The sheer force of his command had rendered you speechless. Your eyes rolled back in pleasure. Yes. This was what you needed. You wanted your alpha – and he was yours, there was no doubt about it – to take what he needed from you. He was the most powerful man in the world, an alpha who made other men tremble in their boots, and you wanted to see him become a slave to his baser instincts, with no choice but to indulge in everything you had to offer him. You wanted him to take it, to make you his.

“Oh, so that’s what you wanted, huh?” Titus laughed as your clarity faded away, your eyes glazing over and your chest heaving with every gasping breath. “You want me to command you? To take control? To make every decision since your empty little brain is too dumb to do anything except beg for my knot?”

Though your paralyzed vocal chords wouldn’t let you make a sound beyond a pathetic whine, your lips moved, pleading inaudibly.

Yes, yes Titus, please.

His hips jerked forward, rutting into your hand. “You want me to fuck you until you cry while you just take it like the good omega you are?”

Titus’s order was wearing off, allowing a squeak that vaguely resembled a ‘yes’ to fill the minimal space between your bodies. His chest rumbled as he hummed in delight. The fingers wrapped around your neck loosened and lifted as Titus backed away from you. He settled on his knees between your spread thighs, knocking your hand away from where you were halfheartedly trying to stroke his cock. Under normal circumstances, Titus would have scoffed and berated you for such a pisspoor attempt at pleasing him, but with his rut looming on the horizon, the clumsy squeezing was working him up much more than he’d like to admit.

He carefully pried your hands away from him, holding them tight. Head tilting, he took a moment to look over your body. You were flushed and panting, staring up at him with desperate eyes and a hungry expression. Your nipples were hard and your breasts heaved with every breath. His eyes trailed down, taking in the softness of your abdomen, the flare of your hips, and the perfectly soft, bare skin between your legs, baring your cunt to his hungry eyes. He’d have to hide your razors in the future, but for now he was grateful to see every inch of you. You made the perfect picture of a needy omega in the throws of heat.

Letting go of your hands, he slid his own over your thighs. His mouth watered at the silky smoothness of your skin beneath his palms. He wanted to trace every inch of you with his tongue, but right now there were more pressing matters.

“Get on your hands and knees,” he patted the outside of your thigh.

“No,” your ability to speak was returning. “Titus, like this-”

“Get on your hands and knees,” he let the power seep into his words as he shuffled back on his knees. “And I will give you everything you desire.”

You were unable to resist the order, and your body was turning over before you could protest. Even though you’d chosen the blankets specifically for their softness and comfort, the fabric grated against your skin, shooting unpleasant sparks through each of your nerves. Nothing felt as good as his skin on yours.

“Please,” you whimpered. You settled into position, shaking arms struggling to hold up your body. The emptiness in your cunt was terribly painful now at this point.

“Present.”

You let out a loud and obscene moan as Titus forced you into position without lifting a finger. The arch in your back deepened, hips tilting and thighs spreading wide to give Titus the perfect view of where you needed him the most. Your arms gave out, your face pressing into the blankets against your will, but god did it feel good. Despite the contortion and the strain it should have caused your muscles, it felt so good, like this was how you should always be. Like any other placement of your limbs was unnatural and wrong.

He knew that the combination of your heat, his commands, and the eroticism of the situation the two of you found yourselves in were the driving forces behind your obedience, but it still stroked his ego. A beautiful omega, a powerful woman in your own right, bending over for him and begging for his touch. It was addictive. Titus knew he’d crave this everyday for the rest of his life and, after he claimed you, he’d be able to have it.

“So good for me, omega,” his hands cradled your ass. You whined at the touch, trying to push back into his touch, but he tutted at you. “Stay still, darling.”

“Titus,” you turned your head so your cheek pressed against the mattress. Titus’s command to present meant that you were unable to lift your head up, but you still tried your best to look over your shoulder at him. “Please, it hurts!”

“Shh, ok,” his knees nudged your thighs open wider as he took his position behind you. The throbbing tip of his cock parted your folds, stroking through them from top to bottom. You mewled, but the hand on your ass kept you from trying to push back. “You want me to claim you as mine?”

“Yes!” Your fingers tangled in the sheets.

“You want to wear my mark?” Titus’s hand moved, tracing your spine to curl around the back of your neck. His thumb swiped over the swollen gland there. “Right here?”

“Yes!” Every point of contact between your bodies burned.

“And you want me to put my heir right here?” His hand glided down over your back and around to your stomach until it stopped just over your mound, pressing into the skin.

“Yes, Alpha, please!”

His words were whipping you up into a frenzy, your muscles twitching as you held your position. You needed him more than you needed air.

“You want me to mount you and fuck you and fill you up until you can’t think about anything but my cock?”

“Yes, yes, Titus-”

“Then take it.”

Titus thrust forward, sinking in until his hips met your ass. The entire length of his cock buried inside your cunt, barely inflated knot included. 

Your eyes rolled back into your head, mouth falling open as your legs shook. Finally having that empty ache soothed was enough to push you over the edge. You came, your shaking legs spreading even wider to accommodate his body pressed behind yours. You were too far gone for words now, mewling and drooling as your eyelids fluttered. A pleasant buzzing filled your ears, almost drowning out Titus’s groans at your tightening and spasming walls.

“God, fuck,” he panted. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, pressing against your cervix and forcing a sob of pleasure from your throat.

He had taken the edge off, but it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough until the entire world could see his mark on your neck and his child growing in your stomach.

Titus had the presence of mind to give you a moment to adjust. He thought he was showing you some kindness before he lost all of his self control as his rut took over, but that was the last thing you needed. His hands had found their place on your hips, holding you steady, but he could feel you trying to push back against him.

“Greedy little thing,” Titus withdrew, slowly dragging his hard length along your walls until only his head remained tucked within your core. He slammed back in, your body jolting forward from the force of his thrust. “I tried to be nice, but you just want it so bad, huh?”

Titus’s body folded over yours. His chest slotted against your back, pressing you further into the sheets and pinning you down. The change in angle had you gasping. He was rutting deep into you as he growled and groaned. It felt blissful to have him piston in and out of you while his body covered yours. 

“S’this what you want?” One of his hands tangled in your hair, pulling your head back and to the side to bare your neck to him. He nosed over the skin, his warm breath ghosting over your scent gland sent shivers down your spine. 

You let out a garbled moan that might have been a yes. His teeth scraped over the gland and you tightened around him again, walls trying to suck him deeper.

Titus chuckled, his other hand moved up to slide two of his fingers between your lips. They closed around them immediately, your tongue sliding between them, stroking along them like you longed to do with his cock.

“Silly little baby,” Titus’s tone was mocking, but he was breathing nearly as hard as you were. “Just needed something in your mouth.”

His teeth clamped down on your shoulder, inches away from where you longed to feel his fangs pierce your skin. Even if it wasn’t a true claiming bite, the pain was still blissful, mingling with the extreme pleasure of his unceasing thrusting into your cunt to throw you over the edge once again.

“Yes,” he didn’t slow down, even as you cried out around his fingers and your nails ripped through the sheets as you scrambled for something to tether you to reality. You held on, the sound of the fabric tearing joining your desperate noises and the obscene, wet pops of his rapidly swelling knot being forced in and out of your entrance. Through your rhythmic clenching, it was almost painful to be stretched so wide, but you needed to feel it grow even bigger. “Cum on my cock. Just like that.”

Despite his hard and fast thrusts taking the edge off your heat, the emptiness within you was growing more and more demanding. You needed his knot so badly.

“Knot!” The plea clawed its way out of your throat, muffled and barely coherent around his fingers. “Knot, please Alpha!”

“Don’t you know better than to speak with your mouth full?” Titus growled into your ear. The low vibrations of his cruel words rumbled through his body into yours.

“Please, please, please,” you were crying, fat tears rolling down your cheeks to mix with the drool leaking out around his fingers, until he pulled them out. You were finally able to speak, but the only words you could force out were some jumbled variations of please and Alpha! 

“Yeah?” He was getting close. The knot at his base growing more and more every second as he worked himself up to the edge. “You need your alpha’s knot?”

“Yes!” You tried to reach back to grab at him, but Titus’s hands caught yours, holding them together in between your bodies. He was bigger and stronger than you and you were unable to free yourself. “Please! Please, please, please, please.”

“I’ll give you what you need,” he was breathing hard, thrusting even harder into you as his knot grew. “Be a good omega and cum on my knot. C’mon, you can do it.”

With one final thrust, he bottomed out. His knot swelled to its maximum size, locking him deep inside you. Titus’s teeth sank into your scent gland. His canines broke the skin, a swell of your sweet blood coating his tongue and gums, and both of you came together instantly. You could feel the bond snapping into place while his cock twitched and emptied deep into your cunt.

Titus’s groans were muffled into your flesh, but your moans flowed freely, intertwined with pleasured purrs that rumbled through your chest. Your body jerked and thrashed beneath his as the sheer amount of ecstasy blazing through your bloodstream rendered you nearly mindless. Through the bond, you could feel his pleasure, too, as it solidified, your minds and souls linking. It only worked to drive your own orgasm into overdrive. 

You sobbed his name, squeezing hard around his knot. Every throb of his cock spilled more and more of his release into you, until you felt too full. Titus’s cock was big on its own, but with his knot the size of your fist filling you up as well, all of the cum he was still pouring into was stretching your body beyond the limits you’d thought possible. 

He still hadn’t let go of your neck, but he’d released your hands, and they flopped to the mattress. Your strength was sapped, all of your energy going to the involuntary milking of your inner walls clenching tightly around his knot.

“A-alpha,” you whimpered. “Too–too full!”

“Oh, fuck,” Titus’s teeth finally withdrew from your gland when his hand traveled down to settle over your stomach. The skin of your normally flat stomach was slightly distended, a combination of his cock, his knot, and the obscene amount of cum he’d pumped into you. He groaned, and you whimpered in response when his cock jerked and another, new wave of his spend spurted out. “Fuck, omega, you’re so full of me. Such a good omega for taking it all. You’re going to give me a pup in no time.”

A wave of tremors washed over you. Your knees slipped against the blankets that were slick with sweat.

“Let’s get comfortable,” Titus gently maneuvered your locked together bodies until the two of you were laying back to chest. He curled around you, making sure to avoid tugging on his knot. “We’ll be here for a while longer, darling.”

Lying down took the pressure off your muscles, allowing you to fully relax and enjoy the comfort of your new mate’s embrace. Despite the discomfort you still felt—especially as his release still trickled into you—you couldn’t help the contented purrs that continued to rumble through your chest.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” the sound reverberated through your body into his, echoing through your bones and lighting up the most base instincts in Titus. He longed to make you purr like this for him every day for the rest of his life. “My pretty little mate.” 

He leaned back enough to eye his mark. It was red and angry and the perfect shape of his teeth, but it was his—you were his. After a lifetime of waiting for a mate, and after a week of waiting to claim you, there was no doubt that he’d be yours for life. His tongue darted out and lapped hotly across your raised skin, drawing a pleased hiss from behind your teeth. 

“Mine,” you happily sighed. “My alpha.” 

The two of you lied there, basking in the warmth of your shared bodies, hands wrapped around each other and clinging to wherever you could reach. However, it didn’t take long for the quelled, white-hot neediness to grow and simmer back under your skin. Even before Titus’s knot had gone down, your hips began rocking against him, shooting a fresh wave of pleasure through you both, the feeling much more intense than it had at the beginning. The bond was to thank for that. 

“Easy,” Titus grumbled. “Knot’s not gone yet.” 

“Don’t care,” you gasped when it notched firmly at your hole, allowing a small glop of his and your mixed essence to spill, aiding in the short back and forth thrusts you were trying to pull out of him. “Need you again; need it to take.” 

Titus laughed lowly, already in the process of rolling you back over to hover over your spine. “Oh, it’ll take, omega. By dawn, you will be carrying our heir.” His hips jerked, and he pushed his cock back in, his knot disappearing from view into your cunt. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

99.96%.

‘Oh’ was right.

Just his name sends a thrill down your spine.

Your fists clench in your lap, and before you know it, you’re nodding at the woman. “I would…like to meet him, please.”

.

.

.

Name: Fushiguro Toji

Age: ?*

Occupation: ??

Category: DILF

Primary likings: Rough. Manhandling. Doggy. (For a more detailed report on sexual proclivities and medical assessment, please see Page 8 onwards…)

*Got offended when asked (assumed mid-thirties).

One date that lasts about an hour.

One date that lasts about an hour - that’s all it takes for the boiling tension between you and ‘Mr. Fushiguro Toji’ to bubble over. Perhaps it was due to the shared knowledge that you two were scientifically identified to be perfect sexual matches, perhaps it was the way those vine-green eyes swept over you leisurely, appreciatively, as you walked into the romantic dinner date arranged by the agency.

It seems Toji had entered himself into the BIG BANG THEORY PROJECT on accident after believing it was a normal matchmaking agency.

“—so imagine my surprise when I get there n’ all the questions are about what positions I like to stick my dick in?” He’d gruffed over the candlelit dinner - French cuisine, was it? A few of the other patrons glared at him, but Toji paid no attention. “I mean- I went along with it, of course. Already paid about twenty yen, hmpf…but I hadn’t actually planned to go through with this bullshit until-”

Those intense eyes of his flickered to you once more.

“-I saw that application of yours- of course.” And you felt the inchoate desire in your stomach give a strange twist—“A 99.6-”

“99.96%. Actually.” You interrupted, gnawing on your bottom lip.

“Interesting.” Toji smiled and leaned back into his chair. “Really interesting.”

And perhaps it was—

“Don’t tell me I’ve fucked ya speechless already when I haven’t even put it in?”

You’re snapping back to your senses- enough reminiscing about those first few minutes of meeting the man that was currently hugging you close to him - crushing you against his sultry sweat-sticky abs - not in a gentle display of affection, but such a lecherous embrace. Tacking his toned pelvis against your ass. Letting his engorged tip push-push-push between your pussylips and sliiiiiiiide down all those tender innards. 

Toji keeps you from moving even a single inch as he shuffles you into doggy position. The bed whines just as you do. “S’this your favorite?” He watches from the corner of his eye as you nod. “Yeahhhh, mine fuckin’ too, girlie.”

And, in emphasis, he’s circling one roughened palm over your right ass cheek—giving just a brazen little smack. 

“Mine fuckin’ too, girlie.” 

“I mean, there’s a reason they matched us.” You huff at him.

“Yeah- and I’m about to find out.” Toji mutters. And you’re hearing him before anything else - the soft creaking! of that shitty love hotel bed, dipping, as he shuffles even closer—the sultry lil’ smooch of his wet tip kissing your hole. Thump-thump-thump—you can count every pulse. His or yours? “Bite the pillow.”

“Why would I need to- ohhhh, mpf-”

The answer to your question comes swift and merciless - because in one fluid motion Toji has his cocktip burgeoning inside, and his hips plastering to yours. 

He keeps both hands - warm and slightly gnarled with callouses from whatever shady line of business he was in - firmly upon either side of your waist. Using his massive strength to jerk you back—just a little…But it feels like Toji was pumping thoroughly into your deepest core.

He was usin’ the little flare underneath his tip to stretch that snug channel- stretching and stretching that first ring of muscle. And then bashing his cockhead in so roughly that you start to wonder whether he was having issues controlling himself—you’re feeling Toji let out a little cracked groan as he feels your walls quiver around him. And then he’s pushing his hot cock in aaaaaaall the way as deep as it could go- “Aaaaaaatta girl. That’s a good girl. Now for the fun part…” 

You furrow your brows half-heartedly. “This isn’t already the fun part?” Earning yourself the oh-so-lascivious punishment of yet another spank on your right cheek; and then a few more probin’ pushes of his cock. “I was just—oh-” Your toes curl as he hits a particularly good spot without even trying.

“It is.” Toji responds. “But it’s just about to get a whole lot more fun.”

You’re shivering as one of his fingertips paint the line down your spine, immediately followed by a string of kisses as far as he could go. But, of course, you never did expect Fushiguro Toji to be so gentle—did you? You never wanted him to be, did you?

Because his lips hover ‘round the soft skin of your right shoulder—and without warning, he’s biting. Your mouth opens in a soundless scream.

With a grunt that sounds as though it’s been dragged from the primal depths of his throat, Toji jerks your hips back into his with a plap! of skin-on-skin. And almost before that, he’s suddenly starting to pummel and pummel those rugged hips of his into yours, utterly molding his thick cock into your goopy insides- coating every inch with a layer of his slick—

“Because.” Toji gruffs out in an animalistic way - he angles his head and licks a long stripe up your neck. “Because- it took me a loooooooong time to get matched on that damn program. A long fuckin’ time.”

“Oh-” You’re yelping as he tugs your arms from underneath you- and you’re collapsing face-first into the soft strawberry-scented pillows. Collapsed doggy. 

And before you know it, Toji straightens up and lets the heel of one of his feet rest on the corner of your shoulder. “Tch- way too fucking long.” This angle lets his cock penetrate even deeper, and his bouldering tip pushes into every single slick-filled orifice inside. “How long should it take to find a pretty babe f’me who likes it rough—” And he fucks you rough. “-who likes it hard—” And he fucks you hard. “-who likes me disrespectin’ this pussy like she deserves. Now how hard should that be, hm?”

And you’re unsure whether he was genuinely expecting a response or not - but you’re letting out a blabber of something you hope is comprehensible either way. “I—mmm, notthathard-”

“Exactly.” Toji huffs out a short breath of laughter. Then his hands are on you—pushing on the base of your spine and arching you in ways you didn’t even know were possible.

“O-ohhhhhh, harder-”

“Thought you said it wasn’t that hard? And throw in a little manhandling-” Arching. “Just a little dumbification.” Making you drool. He reaches his foot - just a little, just softly - up to put pressure on near your neck n’ restrict your air flow—he leaves you gasping and choking with every thrust. “A little choking- heh.” He looks you over. “Maybe a few daddy issues-”

“Hey!”

“And then you’ve got it. Perfectly matching. Now that shouldn’t be so hard, hm?”

But you can’t quite answer.

Because Toji’s fucking you so good- he’s thrusting his cock into yours like he wants his pelvis melded to yours ass. He’s crushing and draaaagging your limp body down the bed and into his strong arms. 

It’s almost as if your bodies are communicating with a secret language, because whenever you’re bouncing back he’s angling juuuust right to swab into your g-spot, when you’re jerking forwards he’s chasin’ after that syrupy-sweet pussy of yours. Candied with glittering globs of his pre. 

Creating a swatting sound so loud, creating a pressure between your legs so hard, that your ears start ringing—“Oh, p-please…”

“And y’know the only difference between you and me?” Toji’s still steamrolling his dirty sentences- and you can barely blink your eyes open past all the pleasure he’s giving you. But you must manage to make some noise of question, because he continues. “That agency categorized me as a DILF. And you’re no MILF…yet.”

A shockwave runs down your spine.

“Th-that means…”

Toji leans in and huffs. Clammy breath. “So that profile said something about a breeding kink?”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 100.1% (?) MATCH!

“You’ve done it. I’m ah…not quite sure how- but you’ve done it.” Dr. Shoko breathes. And although the words are in her usual impervious tone of voice, there’s a quiver there at the end that, after weeks of appointments with the doctor, you’ve learned to pick out as foreign. 

Dr. Ieiri Shoko never wavers.

You’re leaning in and attempting to peek at your file. “Is there something wrong, doctor?”

“Not unless you count breaking the program’s metric wrong.” She slides over the file - face down as though the documents inside would snap at her if she wasn’t careful - and you’re immediately flipping it open. Your eyes widen as they’re immediately drawn to the bold, underlined number of a 100.1% match shown at the top of the first page—you’re then meeting Shoko’s own widened gaze.

“Huh?”

“That’s putting it lightly.” Shoko opens her drawer and takes out two caplets of Extra Strength Tylenol and chugs them down—no water. She closes her eyes for a second to let them pass down her slender throat, and once she opens them again she’s immediately looking down at the file - as if hoping it had disappeared in the time. 

But no such luck for Dr. Ieiri Shoko today.

She lets out a prolonged sigh and leans back in her chair. Enough time has passed that the two of you could forgo such formalities in the presence of the other, “I just…I just don’t know how that could happen. Mathematically and scientifically, it just doesn’t make sense. And yet, the program never makes a mistake- never.”

You understood her plight - you’d looked over (and passed on) your fair share of matches, and the highest you’d gotten was a 78% match with some guy called Atsumu Miya—you just had this nagging feeling that you’d find a greater match.

A stronger…chemistry with someone else.

And so you’d passed. And passed. And passed, until you were starting to feel that perhaps you’d never find a match greater than the 90% or even 80% statistics that the site often boasted. That is until…

Name: Nanami Kento

Age: 27

Occupation: Office worker

Category: Gentleman with a big D.

Primary likings: Service dom. Fitting. Milk him. (For a more detailed report on sexual proclivities and medical assessment, please see Page 9 onwards…)

Your eyes linger on those last two words of his Primary Likings section: milk him…

And immediately you’re feeling a thrill shoot up between your legs—causing them to squeeze together, causing Shoko’s eyes to quickly flicker down at the miniscule action. “Hm.” She types something on her keyboard - and you assume she’s shooting an email to one of the matchmakers in the program. “Maybe that’s what they mean by a match of 100.1%…”

White-hot embarrassment curls around your heart. “What? Oh, you’re incorrigible-”

“And you’re glad.” She smirks. “This is what you’re been waiting all this time for, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes…” You’re looking down at the passport-sized photo of Nanami on the front page. It was seemingly some sort of office photo he must’ve used in his resumes as well; and there he stood all sharp and aloof - almost bored - in a form-fitting suit and his blond hair pushed back smoothly, deep-set eyes almost piercing through the photocopied paper. Like an utter gentleman. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe.”

.

.

.

“It’s okay, darling, you don’t have to take it all—”

“But I want to, Kento.”

There’s something so sensual - so utterly fucking erotic - about the way Nanami looks when he’s on the verge of pussydrunkness. Sprawled out on the love hotel mattress. Jawline dotted with your recently-made hickies. His thick thighs are tensing and untensing—just as you’re straddlin’ his hips just a little wider and taking in Nanami’s rock-hard, drippin’ wet cock.

A meek blush creeps up the man’s cheeks once you cup them.

You’re lifting Nanami’s handsome face up to meet yours, and keep such looong, loving eye contact as you’re sliding your hips down and gulping one more inch after inch. Thick inch after inch. 

The poor man’s breath catches and he’s letting out a little whimper as Nanami’s hot girth fills you up tantalizingly. “Oh sh-shit—”

Your body arches into his. “Mmm, with such a big, pretty cock like this - how could I not?”

“P-pretty…” He repeats. Those golden-hazel eyes of his widen behind his glasses, and you swear you see them welling up with tears as you take him. “But darling, what if it’s too big?”

“It could never be too big.” You cock your head with a sultry smile. “We’re a 100.1% match, remember? That means…”

In emphasis, you’re swervin’ your hips down in a semi-circular motion that makes him drive even deeper.

“-every part of us matches.”

And then poor Nanami Kento - overworked, underpaid, going off of nothing but instant coffee and the smell of freshly-baked bread from the bakery near the office - is being ridden to heaven by your devilish hips. Up and down. Up and down. The way you’re digging your nails into his shoulders…the way you’re pushing your nipples up against his pecs, rubbing…the way you’re clenchin’ around his tip - right where he was the reddest and hottest and most sensitive - every time he probes inside.

A too-loud moan erupts from his lips—and Nanami immediately attempts to clamp his mouth shut.

But there’s no use. You’re watching with a knowing smile as you’re fucking such lasvicious moans n’ ribbons of spittle out of him. With every single squeeze. 

Spit drips down the side of his mouth- and he shivers as you lean in and lick it away. “S-so that means…” He whispers. Almost to himself. Those pretty eyes of his keep starin’ down lovingly at the area you two were connected. “-this lovely lady is made for me?”

“If by ‘lovely lady’, you’re referring to my pussy…” You reply coyly. You throw your arms around him and tug on those precious golden curls at the nape of his neck. It makes a sexy grunt escape Nanami’s lips. “Then why don’t you find out?”

And Nanami doesn’t know why- he can’t help himself.

It’s just like…the more times he’s thrusting inside your cunt, semi-thrusts, the deeper he’s delving between those sweet pussylips, the more addicted he’s getting to it.

He’s reaching up and pressing down where he was fitting inside.

“Oh.” Nanami’s eyes grow heavy. Drunk on lust. A twinge of pain runs up your core as he squeezes a mere inch more, “Oh. I-is this okay?”

“Keep going.”

And he’s stretching you so much you can’t even begin to describe—

“Shiiiiit-”

“Does it hurt? I hope it doesn’t hurt-”

“No no- oh, more-”

“It’s true—” He spits. Beads of sweat plaster his temple, and his features twitch in pure carnal ecstasy as you squeeze your pretty legs tighter around him. A vein makes itself prominent on his neck. “Fuck, it’s true- she’s taking me so well-”

With a single thumb, he spreads apart your pussylips n’ watches his inches slip inside.

“And she’s so hungry for it, too.” Nanami looks up at you. “Do you think she’s been hungry for it all this time, my love? My cock?”

“Oh, I bet.” Throwing your head back—you’re practically plastered against Nanami’s surprisingly toned front. “Keep going, keep going, keep going, please- Kento—”

“Anything for you.”

And to be honest, Nanami Kento never saw himself as the wild type in bed. 

For starters, he was a busy man—spreedsheets were his regular partner, and powerpoints were his mistress. And perhaps that was the exact reason Shoko, his lifelong friend, had signed him up for this stupid program. As much as Nanami had howled and huffed about the ethics of signing one’s friend up for this and ‘but he needs to work that day so he doesn’t need to do overtime…’ lo and behold there he found you.

Well, more like you found him.

Showing up so pretty and perfect for your first meeting in Shoko’s office—and when he’d seen that match measurement of 100.1%…Nanami felt a sudden flare of madness: that perhaps this entire thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Your second meeting had been in this cramped love hotel. 

And Nanami had meant to wine and dine you- he’d meant to…but here he was. Hand clamoring to clasp either side of your hips - leaving crescent nail marks. Hips pushing off the mattress in animalistic little jerks—not even propery fucking inside, just yearning to feel the carnal squeeze of your cunt—

He hits that one spot. And he knows he does.

Because Nanami’s feeling his rotund cockhead push apart your pussylips n’ then slip somewhere deeeeep inside - one velvety bundle of nerves that makes you moan uncontrollably. Just a few inches more and he’d be hitting your coveted cervix…

And he does, but it feels like whiplash.

Because soon enough Nanami’s flipped the two of you over so that the bed dips with your combined weight, with you being manhandled onto your back, and Nanami’s cock wedging deeper into your cunt than it’s ever gone before. Inch by inch. It’s a hypnotizing mix of pain and pleasure as he marks every nook, cranny, and crevice inside you with silky dollops of pre. 

He finally fits.

And Nanami lets out a massive gasp - several - as though he’d just finished a marathon once he does so. “100.1%” He throatily repeats - whilst it feels like you’re squeezing him strong enough to milk him. You’re letting out a botched moan as he nudges against your cervix with the top of his smooth tip, smearing sprays of gooey precum—as if he’d go even deeper if he could. 

“I wonder what the 0.1% is, my love?”

You’re not getting out of here alive.

♡ GETO SUGURU - 98% (UN)MATCH!

“This is so stupid- we have no bed chemistry.”

“Absolutely no chemistry.”

“Seriously no chemistry.” 

“Not even an ounce of chemistry.”

“Then why’re you inside me?”

“Why’d you ask me to be inside you?”

“I’m the one asking the questions here-” You scoff—but you know he’s got you cornered. And by the smug expression on Geto Suguru’s stupidly handsome face, he knows that too. 

Unfortunately for him - you’re never one to back down. And so you’re slightly lifting your hips off the sweat-sodden mattress, not giving the man a second of warning before you’re clamping your silken walls down haaaaard ‘round his cock—and you try to ignore just how good - and familiar - it feels to have him inside you.

There was the thickness of his cockhead - flared the most at the base and perfect to jostle apart your slutty channel like you wanted so badly. There was one- two- three of his most prominent veins, curved down the middle of his shaft and rubbing against your pulsating soft spots. There was the arch of his erection that meant he’d not only be pushed against your cervix- but also up at the roof of your cunt. 

His breath hitches, and he’s letting his head throw back. Cute. 

And you never did expect to be matched with your stupid ex on that stupid sexual matchmaking program.

Let alone actually have sex with him again.

Let alone this be your fourth round.

Name: Geto Suguru

Age: 28

Occupation: Prefers not to say

Category: Morally grey.

Primary likings: Degradation. Spitting. Choking. (For a more detailed report on sexual proclivities and medical assessment, please see Page 69 onwards…)

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” Dr. Shoko had commented. “Maybe a little check-up-”

“No.” You’d responded. “I’m ah- fine. It’s just—what sort of a category is that?”

“You’d be surprised what our clients are into.” She looked at you with amusement. “And, it seems, you as well.”

You shrunk in the clinic seat in shame.

And the most infuriating part of all…was that the damn program had been correct. 

Geto managed to string your body n’ your pleasure along as if it took him no effort—he’d memorized all your sweetest spots inside and it seems he’d never forgotten, he’d never hesitate before spankin’ on your throbbing clit because he already knows it’s going to set your body alight, he’d thrash and thrash his hips into yours because he was fucking angry. And you were, too.

So why did the two of you break up in the first place? Ah, let’s just say…that plans of world domination and date nights don’t go together that well.

But Geto, it seems, was a changed man (or so he said).

He’d dissolved his cult that he always refused to call a cult (or so he said). He was back to self-studying and mending his relationships (or so he said) except, of course, his one with you…

“Stop thinking about what an asshat I am, you always get that look when you think about what an asshat I am.” You’re hearing Geto scoff from above you—and he has the audacity to lean down and prod your furrowed brow relaxed. “S’gonna make me soft.”

“Join the club, I’m already dry.”

With a single - perfectly shaped - brow raised, Geto creeps his right hand down your side—letting those soft fingertips of his just lightly caress the front of your cunt. Your utterly sodden cunt. “That’s not what this pussy’s telling me?”

You’re scrambling onto your elbows. “Communication issues for two years and suddenly you’re the pussy whisperer?”

“Yes. Good that you’re catching up-” That very hand comes up to push you down—“Down, gorgeous- let’s do it my favorite position, hm?”

You scoff. “I don’t remember your favorite position.”

“Oh yeah? Then why’re you halfway down to a full nelson?”

And it was true—ah, for all your supposed pride and dignity, and the pep talk that you’d given yourself before the agency-organized dinner date that you would totally not fuck Geto Suguru no matter how handsome he looked…

But dammit, he’d worn his long hair down.

Of course, the two of you argued over your romantic dinner. Squabbling. Bickering. Making the server hold in his laughter every time you (admittedly immaturely yet albeit justifiably) swiped something off of Geto’s plate when he wasn’t looking; whatever one wanted to call it.

Of course, the two of you ended up at the love hotel a few minutes away from the restaurant; whatever one wanted to call it.

And currently you’re basking in the saturated, sickly-sweet strawberry scent bursting out in plumes from the love hotel pillows. “Eugh- I hate this smell.”

“Oh shush, you’re underneath me.” Geto got himself settled in the full nelson underneath you- and he doesn’t waste a single second before collectin’ a few trickles of slick on his right palm. He then grabs himself and coats his shaft in all the gossamer substance—pushing his perky tip against your hole. And then inside.

“O-ohhhhh—” Your voice cracks.

“Shut up, you’ve taken me more.” Geto spits- and at that very moment, you’re embarrassed to say that a carnal part of you twitches. And soon enough, he’s getting absolutely slathered in all those dewy droplets of sap that he’s missed so much since the break-up—absolutely claiming him, is what Geto likes to think. “And heh- based on what I read on your profile…me telling you to shut up just made you wetter-”

“A coincidence.” You sputter. “S-surely a coincidence.”

“Hmmm? And is it a coincidence that almost all those cute kinks on your profile were ones that I got you into?” He purrs- purrs.

“Not all- hngh, of them-”

“Maybe, but let’s be real, gorgeous—” And then Geto trails off - and it’s never a good sign when Geto trails off. Because that means- smack! As expected, his fingertips come slammin’ down until your clit’s swelling just a bit more, and his hips don’t slow down for a single second. You’re wincing as he keeps steamrolling. “-this pussy learned most of her tactics from me.”

What arrogance. Although you couldn’t lie- seeing Geto so worked up sent pangs of pleasure searing through every fibre of your body. And your favorite method to get him to shut up was to-

“Clench.” He’s gritting his teeth—hissing his words out through them, as he bucks his hips upwards- meeting your flutterin’ walls head-on with a sudden thwack! at your cervix. “Yeah- don’t think I don’t know about your secret technique-” Geto sounds crazed as he whispers in your ear, tone hitching and warbling with every second. But he still keeps going. “-and who taught you that clenchin’ so hard- clenching with the force of your core- feels so good?”

“I-I…” Saliva seeps into your mouth twofold now that Geto’s increasing his pace. He reaches over n’ licks that little splatter- 

“I-I-I-I…” Geto mocks. “I don’t think you’re being truthful, girl~”

“It was you—” You’re yowling- attempting to stand upwards to perhaps get ahold of yourself - but the only thing you’re succeeding in doing is urging Geto to wrap his left arm around your neck and draaaaaaag you right back down. 

You gasp at the sensation of his thick biceps; the firmness and strength held within them; the curves and dips of his muscles. “And who taught you that getting choked like this feels good?”

You’re so woozy- fuck, your head’s throbbing and you’re feeling the wadded-up remnants of cum Geto’s left behind from previous rounds. Harder and harder. Rougher, his balls keep slapping against the front of your sodden folds. “You…”

“And who taught you that this pussy feels better when m’being mean?”

“You—”

“And who’s getting back together with you?”

“You- wait, what?”

“Heh.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 92% MATCH!

Name: Kamo (Itadori) Choso

Age: ?*

Occupation: Student

Category: Hey, hey, hey EMO BOY!

Primary likings: Subbing. Getting pussydrunk. Shooting blanks. (For a more detailed report on sexual proclivities and medical assessment, please see Page 14 onwards…)

*Client became nervous after seeing the diagrams of sexual positions in the following forms and could not answer (EDIT: Later confirmed 23 but spiritually 150 (?)).

“Him?”

Dr. Shoko sits statuesquely before you. No change in her expression. Not even the slightest twitch in her fingers as she flips through your documents one more time.

After a moment of silence, she takes a deep breath and asks. “Erm- my apologies, but would I be right in assuming that you’re not attracted to hi-”

“No—no, no, no, no, no-” 

“Ah- well, that’s one way to pass on a match-”

“No- that’s- that’s not what I meant.” Red-hot embarrassment, shot through with a spike of excitement once your eyes drop down to the profile of the man once more, curdles in your chest. And you’re sure you look quite frantic attempting to rescind…perhaps everything you’ve blurted out in the past five minutes. Dr. Shoko raises a brow. “Of course, I’m attracted to him.”

A knowing smile tugs at her lips. “Oh?”

“Yeah- of course.” You cough out. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Piercings glinting on his ears, snakebites on his lips, and a nervous - almost sheepish, but with a bring-your-daughter-home-at-2AM defiance - expression on his face. Just your type. “He’s perfect, actually.”

Dr. Shoko puts her documents down on the table and crosses her legs. “Then what seems to be the problem?”

“It’s just…I kinda know him?” You’re wincing. “We go to the same university- he does Japanese History, and I’ve seen him ‘round in the Anime Club.”

She hums. “Mm, you seem to know a lot about him.”

You almost sputter- “J-just as much as the average person would…But the thing is that on campus he just looks a little…different? I guess? Imagine your typical nerd—glasses, vests, knows one too many things about Tolkien, cute.” Dr. Shoko throws you a look—nerds were a close second on your list of types, okay?! And you’d always believed Choso was cute even before all this sprucing up.  “Anyways. That sort of thing.” And then you’re taking a second look at the photograph on his profile - maybe the distance would help you see him clearly? And nothing. “And now…”

Everything else matched up.

It was just in his photograph where he looked like he belonged in an early 2000’s emo band.

You let out a slight gasp. “Is he catfishing m-”

“No. Although that would be a little entertaining to see…” Dr. Shoko mutters that last part to herself- “However, Mr. Kamo has shown up to every appointment in exactly this style. Could it be that perhaps he prefers one style for university, and the other in private?”

“Probably.” You sigh. And you see that look on her face- you know that look on her face. “Oh, fine. We both know I want you to match us.”

.

.

.

“Fuh-fuck pleeeease—” Veins, reddened and irritated, snake down the expanse of Choso’s neck - and you’re not surprised. Not when Choso kept twitchin’ and bucking with every single fwop! of your cunt slamming down onto his hips, letting his cock rover deeeeeply inside.

Oh-so-deeply.

You’ve got the poor man sat up against the headboard of this crappy love hotel. You’ve got his face pushed between your tits, as you’re bouncing your hips up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

Cute suctioning noises let off where he’s glued his mouth to one of your tits, letting his cheeks hollow as he suckles. “Please- ngh.” Unabashed tears roll down Choso’s cheeks, “Do you really think I can cum again?” Ending his sentence with a single jagged thrust inside your gooey depths.

“But of course.” You purr—purr. It’s enough to make Choso shudder, ravenous cock twitching. “Because I said so. And what did I say about me saying so?”

“M-mommy’s always right when she says so…” He responds- cheeks burning such a sweltering red. 

“Hah…” Leaning down you kiss him- at least, it starts off a kiss. But soon enough you have your tongue sliding across his bottom lip, playing with the sexy snake bites that pierce through the nerd’s lower lip. Always with his nose stuck in a book—you’re kicking yourself for not noticing the holes sooner. “Not so tough now, are you?”

You’ve been teasing him for what feels like eons - but in reality has been about two…maybe three…maybe seven rounds cooped-up inside this love hotel - now; and it’s enough to set Choso on all sorts of edges. Choso can’t speak. Choso can’t form a single thought. Choso can’t control his body- what the fuck he can’t…Unable to stop himself from constantly yearning that sweet pressure that comes from striking the flat surface of the back of your pussy—

His hips are stinging. But he’s still pushing and pushing and pushing. 

“Just one more, then?” He asks. Tears in his eyes.

“Awwww- you really are an emo boy. I can’t believe you had the entire campus fooled for years now.” You snicker- watching as his eyes narrow…first in exasperation, and then in ecstacy as you’re squeezing ‘round his cock. “Mhm. Just one more- mommy has to reward you for losing your virginity, doesn’t she?” You ask. Expectedly, Choso nods and nods.

That had been the entire reason for his participation in this program, it seems - the poor thing wanted to get some experience. And you couldn’t blame him—nor be nice to him. According to his profile, Choso liked it when he was fucked hard- no experience and already thinking like a freak, huh? He was definitely your type.

Tapping at your chin in an exaggerated display of thinking.

“But mommy’s wondering….where is my nerd gonna cum?”

His eyes go wide. Breath hitching, “Please-”

“I mean- maybe you could pull out and I could milk you onto the blanket—?” Dramatically, the other man’s lower lip quivers as a sob threatens to break through. So many rounds and he still hadn’t cum inside - you’d gotten him everywhere: on your stomach, on your tits, between your thighs, on your tongue. Everywhere but inside. “Hmmm. Nope.”

He perks up.

“How about my mouth again?”

Choso shakes his sweaty head.

“I wanted to- hngh—” It’s so tough for him to speak when he’s actively trying not to fall apart at the seams.

“Oh, what’s that?” Your eyes go wide. “Don’t feelin’ my mouth wrapped around your cock, Choso- is it?”

He shudders at the mere imagery of that. Every single thrust had him threatening to spill inside—those gossamer ribbons were flooding your entrance n’ starting to drip down your thighs. “No-”

“No?”

“No, no, no, no—I love your mouth-” He sputters. “-m-mommy…” And even though it’s already been so long, Choso was still wearing those chunky rings depicting skulls and such on- gliding them up and down your back soothingly. “I love every part of you. But I just really…really…really wanted to cum inside this time-” Peeking up at you through tear-stained lashes. “…if that’s okay with you?”

He looked so pretty, it was hard not to cave in then and there.

But you had to stand firm. “Nuh uh…I don’t know.” Tapping at your chin once more. “M’honestly a little hurt that you’d hide this emo side of yourself, Choso.” Leaning down to whisper into his ear- his silver studs glint. “Especially when emo boys with big dicks just make me sooooooo fuckin’ wet—”

Choso startles as though he’d been electrocuted. “I-if I’d known that then I would’ve told you in a heartbeat, mommy-”

“Ah, sweet-talking me now?” You wave. “What other secrets are you hiding, Mr. Kamo Choso?”

And it’d been a rhetorical question, something to make your poor boy squirm—honestly! But perhaps you should’ve expected that with Choso’s fried, pussydrunken brain he wouldn’t have caught onto the toying tone of your voice. That he would’ve blushed- and confessed.

“A-actually the only reason I joined was to get experience-” You raise a brow as you’d already known that. “-so that if- when I actually found the courage to ask someone out, then I’d be less likely to disappoint them in bed…”

Your lips quiver. “Oh, Cho.”

And then you’re wrapping your arms around Choso’s head - pushing his face deeper into your clammy tits, skin-against-skin - you’re running your fingers through his hair, soothing, as Choso keeps fuckin’ away into you.

You whisper against his clammy forehead, “Cum inside, baby.”

And he does with a broken groan—long, lengthy ribbons of cum decorating the interior of your cunt. “Th-thank you, mommy.” He whimpers.  They cling onto the outer ring of your entrance- which Choso has to push inside with a flicker of his thumb. The heat floods you instantly - bursts and bubbles of warmth spreading from your core, every single time that Choso twitches with another pang of pleasure- and his cockhead bursts out in cum.

Choso might be an utter sweetheart, but his cock was not-

He thwacks! out a few more creamy wads, and when he’s finally done and shooting blanks- Choso accumulates those dollops on the tip of his cock all to smear them at the bottom of your pussy. That sweet, sweet cervix.

“C-can I tell you another secret, baby?” He sobs.

“Of course, Choso.”

“You. It’s you.”

You free him from your embrace to look at him properly.

“It’s you that I’ve been wanting to ask out.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - HE MATCHED?!

“Wait- who…?”

“The King of Curses.” Dr. Shoko responds with a straight face. Too straight. You needed her to crack a smile- you needed her to tell you that this was a joke. “At least—that’s what he calls himself, and we did have to track down his records to find out his actual name.”

Name: ITADORI (RYOMEN) SUKUNA

Age: 32

Occupation: ‘It’s complicated’.

Category: Rough n’ tough

Primary likings: ROUGH. Partners in lingerie. DP. (For a more detailed report on sexual proclivities and medical assessment, please see Page 55 onwards…)

“What does he mean by his occupation being…‘it’s complicated’?” You squint at the man’s profile.

“He wanted to put ‘King of Curses’ for that, too.” Dr. Shoko takes a long swig of her coffee. “Goodness knows I couldn’t figure that out even with a PhD. But it’s a lot more flattering than putting ‘Loitering’, isn’t it?”

“He loiters.” You ask.

“Hopefully a forgivable crime.” She nods.

And, sure, you didn’t give a shit about the loitering—what instead caught your attention was the little matchmaking measurement that was on the top of the page. Or at least supposed to be. Instead of a percentage like all your previous passes had, this time was greeted you instead was a simple note: MATCH MADE!

And underneath it was a few semi-erased notes from who you assume to be the matchmakers spelling out- ‘Thank goodness.’ ‘We thought the day would never come-’ ‘Take him off our hands, please!!’

Dr. Shoko catches you staring at them and promptly shuts your file for you. “It’s just ah- your match seems to have a bit of a…reputation here, you see?”

You ask, “A reputation? Is he some weirdo?”

“Well that’s one way of putting it…” She mutters to herself-

“What was that-”

“Nothing!” Dr. Shoko clears her throat, and smooths her mask of professionalism. “To be quite frank with you, Sukuna was one of our first clients—and we’ve been operational for quite some time now, and yet Sukuna never matched with anyone. If it wasn’t an extremely low percentage, then a match didn’t get past the interview stage- especially because Sukuna himself can be a little…intimidating. At one point we just started showing him the profiles first, expecting pass after pass.” She gives you a meaningful look. “But for the first time, it seems, the King of Curses has found himself interested.”

You don’t know how to interpret the little quirk of a smirk on her lips. “I see.” Flipping the file back open, you’re taking in those smoldering crimson eyes, that pink hair. He was handsome, that was for sure- and he sounded like such a character.

You can’t help but find yourself, perhaps, a little interested as well.

“But of course, it’s completely up to you. And I can pass this one and get some more matches lined up if-”

“Nah. No need to pass, Dr. Shoko.”

.

.

.

“Now do a little spin f’me- atta girl.”

Just about three dates - and you’d discovered that the pink-haired man honestly wasn’t too bad. A little eccentric- alright, very eccentric. He spoke in extremely old-fashioned Japanese and knew far too much about cannibalism, but other than that you thought him to be just fine. Handsome, too.

Just an hour into your romantic dinner at that one fancy French restaurant downtown. Just a glance at the nearby love hotel before you’re both huddling inside one cramped room, Sukuna tugging off his coat before he bore you with a strappy black lingerie set.

It barely covered…well, anything.

And that seemed to be just how he liked it.

Not even needing to tug those panties of yours to the side before he’s pressin’ his plump tip against your pussylips. Both so sensitive that the contact makes you hiss—and your eyes are rolling to the back of your head as soon as he starts to enter. “O-ohhh-”

“Hey- hey—” Of course, it’s not long before you’re feeling one of his roughened hands come and lightly tap your cheeks. It makes you snap out of your little daze and discover that Sukuna had entered a few inches - barely halfway through - but it still felt like he was touching your deepest throat. “Ya have the King of Curses right before you and you’re not even looking at him? Tch-”

Without warning, he pummels just a little deeper. Just a tender caress of his zig-zagging veins along your wet channel-

“C’mon, woman—” Sukuna grumbles. “Literally what could be so interesting inside the back of yer skull? Look at me- look at how well m’fucking you.”

“S-so good…”  You’re blabbering out, as soon as your senses are returning. Because the stark sensation of Sukuna streaking your insides was mind-numbing - you don’t think you’ve ever taken anyone this big before. 

“Never?” Fuck- you said that out loud?! His smirk makes your heart race- honed canines all on display. “Well buck up, brat.” He taps the side of your hips - and too late does it register as a signal to fuck your hips back down onto his pummeling ones. Funneling your cunt so fucking tight with all his inches. “Because if it takes you this long ta take me regularly, then we might just be here all night trying to get you to take…heh-”

The hairs on your body raise. 

You bite down on your lower lip. “Your…second one?”

Sukuna chuckles. “No.” Reaching upwards - not caring if it’s making your hamstrings scream so deliciously at the stretch - Sukuna leans his sticky forehead against yours n’ kisses your lips. Tongue and all. He finally whispers as he parts, “It’ll be yours.”

And just a few more thrusts, a few more whack-whack-whacks! of his thickened cock reaching your deepest depths possible. He was just so big and his thrusts were just so vicious—you’re floating through a haze of pleasure when you feel it…that cold press of silicone against your precious orifice.

You’re jerking up with a yelp. “Shit- hngh, you’re putting it in now?”

“Hah? Duh.” Sukuna scoffs. “Why? Unless you don’t wish to-”

“I’m just wondering what took you so long.”

Sukuna seems stunned for one second- two. Before the King quickly snaps out of it to pleasure the sopping line of your cunt with his silicone dildo—“Dirty girl.”

Because what’d intrigued you the most on his profile was one thing: double penetration. And Ryomen Sukuna took it seriously—he’d slathered that impressive size - molded after himself, he’d told you - with a passion fruit-scented lube before starting to crown it at your entrance. The very same pussy he was stuffed in, too.

His cock throbs away wildly inside you as Sukuna squeezes- and squeezes. And you wince at the mixture of pain and pleasure - that utterly wiiiiiild stretch making your mind dazed. “Keep going.” You beg. “P-please- keep going, Kuna—”

“Kuna?” You can’t tell if he’s feigning outrage or he’s serious. He tugs your body into his- using one of your lingerie straps. “How ridiculous- fuck, and just for that- don’t expect me to go easy on ya, brat.”

And then it’s both. At the same time.

He started off nicely—surprisingly. He started off just shuffling his thick, throbbing cock behind and stuffing the orifice of your cunt with the purple-colored dildo. He started off so-

And then you’d gotten just a tad too mouthy and Sukuna’s letting the globular, slick-glazed edge of the dildo rover all over - aaaaaall around the first ring of your entrance, and then smearing apart your channel to search for your sweet spots inside. Competing - fucking competing - with his own cock to massage your spots the best. It takes one hand clawed onto your hip n’ pinning you down with all his weight to actually squirm the dildo inside you.

Shivers run down Sukuna’s spine as he feels his sensitive shaft rub against the firm silicone. Uuuuuuup rubbin’ his skin against the material. And down. Uuuuup and down. Uuuuup and down. 

Fucking you twice over. 

Such looooong and lecherous slides of your overstuffed pussy- “Look at her go.” The King drags you back using a strappy ribbon from your lingerie, glances down and snickers. “She’s just so hungry, huh?”

“C-can feel you all the way in my throat.” You whimper.

“That’s nothing, wait till you feel me in your cervix.”

And he’s bottoming out. Twice. 

“Fuck, how I’m glad you found me.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - INFINITY% MATCH?!

Dr. Ieiri Shoko sits before you in her office, and she looks as though she wished she was doing anything but.

Now, you’re sure this wasn’t anything personal - after all, you’ve met with Dr. Shoko for numerous appointments prior, and each time she’d been cordial if not nice. You’ve filled out all your forms. You haven’t been late to an appointment. You made sure during each appointment to be open-minded and thoughtful about your potential matches.

So…what?

What could have happened in the thirty-six hours between your last appointment (six passes that day) and the sudden frantic phone call you’d gotten this morning regarding the BIG BANG THEORY PROJECT? You’d rushed over - still half-asleep and attempting to tug on your pants - as soon as you could, sure that perhaps today would be the day you find your perfect match and-

“Ehem- today is the day you’ll be looking over your perfect match.” Ah- what? Still jolted by Dr. Shoko’s sudden change in demeanor, it takes a second for the excitement to hit you. 

You gasp. “Seriously? A perfect match?”

“Well…perfect would be overselling it…” She mutters to herself- and then catches your look of confusion. “Ah- mathematically and scientifically, the numbers are perfect of course. A 99.99% match.”

“Then, what seems to be…”

“It just seems that your match is a little-” Dr. Shoko waves her hands in the air, searching for the word. 

“Eccentric?”

“No.”

“Odd?”

“No.”

“Crazy.”

“Almost.” She sighs, looking far more exhausted than the last time you saw her. Far more exhausted. The bluish splotches beneath her eyes crinkle as she grimaces, “Apologies. I’m not that good at describing Lovecraftian monsters.”

You chuckle- before you realize. “Wait, what?”

“But—onto the profiles, we don’t have all day and I have about thirty more appointments.” She shoots you a look. “And none of them above 60%, I fear.” Then turning towards her second door - the one connecting her office to one of the building’s laboratories - she calls. “You can come out now!”

The door clicks open immediately- as if whoever was on the other side had been waiting impatiently to be called, fidgeting, hand already on the door handle.

And in walks a tall, white-haired man—although he couldn’t have been more than thirty or so, wearing a sterile white scientist’s coat and thin-rimmed glasses. There were a few Digimon stickers on his shoes, and his name tag read: PROF. GOJO SATORU.

He was cute- you had to give him that.

Dr. Shoko takes one look at your face and sighs.

You’re immediately straightening up. “E-erm, hello.” And the man bows rapidly- sputtering out greetings and introductions a mile a minute, that you don’t even catch them. “Ah…I believe you have my match profile?”

The other woman smacks her forehead. “He is your match profile.”

You gape. “What?”

Gojo practically beams- fuck, he really was too cute. He immediately reaches over and grasps your hand—then unabashedly kisses the back of it. Such a loud mwah! “Your pleasure to meet me, sweetheart.”

From the corner of your vision, you see Dr. Shoko download a resignation letter template. “Please…you’re all he’s been talking about for the past two days-”

“Like a true romantic~” Gojo trills.

“-pass on him and put us all out of our misery…please. I beg of you.”

You look at the miserable Shoko- and then you look at Gojo.

.

.

.

“So…” Gojo’s breath sticks to the side of your neck, utterly syrupy, and his cock sticks to the goopy insides of your cunt. 

They wouldn’t have been able to pull him out with a wrench, he can tell you that much-

Because you were swallowing him up whole—little mewls leaving the gap between your lips, little dribbles of slick going down the corners of your mouth - ones he’s nearing towards and licking right off your face. Gojo’s chunky glasses crush against the side of your temple. His fingers dig deeper into your soft flesh. “-it seems I have fallen victim to my own creation.”

Gojo Satoru had you pushed against his clinical desk; it’d been long since Dr. Shoko had wrapped-up your first meeting (and gone to take a lay-down on her examination bed). Meanwhile Gojo had valiantly volunteered to give you ‘an insightful and educational’ tour around the laboratories.

The first place he took you to was his private office.

…The first place he took you to, neither of you could keep your hands off each other.

“Th-the program?” You’re babbling. Your hands grasp the edge of his desk- a plumage of documents soar upwards as you’re struggling and failing a few times- he was just fucking you so good. “How are you falling victim—”

“Because when I wanted to figure out a way to lose my virginity, I didn’t expect it to be this good—!” Gojo bursts out in confession. And you’re feeling the full impact of his statement- and the rough slam of his cockhead against the back of your pussy.

“S-so this was all…” Your mouth gapes - and you’re not quite sure whether it was because of the sudden confession, or the increasing force of his hips. “-a scheme to pop your cherry?!”

“Erm, actually- I wouldn’t say scheme—” Gojo huffs. Those thick-framed glasses of his kept sliding down his nose due to the force of his thrusts, and he was smearing his pretty face against your shoulder to keep pushing it up. “I am- was a virgin, heh…”

He takes a glance down at where the two of you were sloppily connected - those swollen folds of yours spread so wiiiiiide open around his long cock - and instantly, he’s hypnotized.

For a beat.

Two.

“—Satoru.” Honestly- you have to give him a good clench to snap him back to his senses. Otherwise you’re sure he would’ve kept funneling you full of his cock until one or both of your bodies gave out—he just seemed addicted. Tingling with desire. He wanted you. He needed you. 

Every single second he was reeling his hips back- Gojo was angry just until he could rover his thickened inches back inside n’ bash your very cervix. Again. And again. And again and again. 

And Gojo’s pushing his glasses up with a huff. “What if I was having a telepathic conversation with your pussy?”

You gape. “Shoko’s right, you’re crazy-”

“Yeah yeah-” He sighs as if he’s heard that one before. Many, many times. With a roll of those blue eyes, Gojo keeps explaining - not slowing down for a single split-second. “I was a virgin with too much time between my extra credits and three honors degrees, okay? So instead of being a lunatic and going out to actually meet people, I did what any sane person would do…” 

“Create the BIG BANG THEORY PROJECT-”

“I created the BIG BANG THEORY PROJECT!” It was almost…cute just how passionate he was getting. And it certainly helped that the more excited he got, the more his twitchin’ tip splurged out precum. Flinching it into all sorts of little hidden spots inside you—“A cutting-edge matchmaking system that pairs partners’ sexual proclivities-”

He leans against you- and it feels like a furnace, in the best way. Gojo’s blushing cheek against yours. Gojo’s aching cock against your cunt. 

He’s scouring the silken depths of your cunt and ramming into that one spot- “The Gräfenberg spot.” Gojo titters to himself. “Erm- I did my reading…” By now he wasn’t even pulling his hips off of yours- glued to those stinging ass cheeks of yours, he’s plasterin’ every nook inside you with his precum. “And the fact that we’re a near-100% match must mean one thing—” 

Gojo cums from pure excitement.

He cums from pure excitement. White-hot pouring into the depths of your cunt, slathering it in an oily layer of his cum.

You almost don’t dare to ask. “And wh-what does that mean?”

“That next I must make a pregnancy program!”

Too caught up in the moment; the two of you don’t register the light buzz of your phone.

A text from Shoko.

A/N. IDK why working on their profiles was so unserious shsdhsd-

"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.

You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.

The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.

What has he done?

"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.

Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.

"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"

Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?

“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”

Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.

Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.

"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."

"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."

Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?

He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.

His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.

“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.

He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.

He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.

There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.

“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.

Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.

“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”

His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.

“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.

Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.

“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”

His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.

“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”

Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."

A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.

"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.

Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.

Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.

"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.

He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.

He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.

You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?

Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.

You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.

"Don't go." He whispers.

Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.

"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.

He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."

You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.

He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.

"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."

His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.

"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."

He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.

"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."

The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.

"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.

"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."

You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.

You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.

Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.

You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.

Apparently, today was its much-needed day.

Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.

Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.

"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"

He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.

Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.

Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.

Okay, sure. You could work with that.

He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.

Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.

He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.

You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.

"Spidey." You whisper.

He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.

"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.

His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.

"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."

His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."

"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."

His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.

"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."

It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.

You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.

It gets demolished within seconds.

As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.

You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.

Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.

"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.

His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."

You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.

"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."

His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.

"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.

If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.

"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.

Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.

“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”

It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.

"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.

If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.

You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."

Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"

His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”

Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.

He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.

He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.

"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."

His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.

You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.

"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.

He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.

The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.

It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"

"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."

The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.

You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"

"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"

"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."

You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."

"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."

"That's not true." You hum.

He blinks slowly, processing your words.

"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."

He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.

"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.

The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"

"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”

He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.

It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.

“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”

"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."

Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."

"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."

"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."

His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.

"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."

Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.

It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.

"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.

You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.

"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."

His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."

"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"

He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."

His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."

Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."

"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."

You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.

He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.

"Spidey." You call out.

He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.

"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."

He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."

Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.

You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.

You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?

Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.

You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.

"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."

"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."

Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."

"Why?"

"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.

You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."

His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"

"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.

"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.

"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."

You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?

You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.

Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.

Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.

"Peter. Peter Parker."

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You sigh “I found Luffy...”

Nami pinches the bridge of her nose “Of course he has to scream…”

Usopp points ahead “Hey! Who’s that?”

Standing on the roof of a small restaurant there’s a tall man wearing an orange cowboy hat with two strange faces on it.

Freckles and a confident grin on his face.

He jumps down easily “Luffy!”

The two laugh as they crash into each other in a hug, making everyone smile automatically.

Well… everyone but you.

Because the second he lands in front of Luffy...your heart stops and you freeze.

That can't be...

He turns his head and his eyes meet yours.

Your brain suddenly throws you years into the past, in a small port town, with rain outside and a crowded tavern.

Too much drinking and too much laughing.

A handsome stranger with freckles. His smile… his voice asking “Want to get out of here?”

The next morning his jacket was on the floor and your clothes everywhere. And you remember leaving before he wakes up because staying felt too embarrassing.

He was…

‘Did he tell me his name...? No… Or maybe he did and I forgot? Oh my god… Please don’t recognise me… please.’

Ace blinks once, then his eyes become just a little wider.

‘He remembers. HE REMEMBERS.’

Luffy grabs Ace by the shoulders “Everyone! This is my big brother, Ace!”

Ace waves “Nice to meet you all.”

Everyone starts introducing themselves.

“I’m Nami.”

“Vivi!”

“Usopp!”

“Sanji.”

“Chopper!”

Luffy throws an arm around your shoulders and Zoro’s “This is Y/N and this is Zoro! They just really like bodyguarding!”

Zoro just gives him a small movement of his face while you just smile and then offer your hand, saying “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

Ace stares at you and doesn’t shake your hand.

‘Please don’t.’

Then he says “…Didn’t we meet before?”

Your soul leaves your body.

Sanji immediately steps between you “Oi.” his smile disappears “That’s a strange thing to say to a lady you’ve just met.”

Usopp quietly leans toward Nami “Is he about to say ‘We met in my dreams’?”

Nami whispers back “If he does, Sanji will kick him into another country.”

You laugh… maybe a little too loudly “Haha! No, I don’t think so!”

Ace tilts his head, still staring “Really?”

“Yep.”

“Huh…” he scratches his cheek “That’s weird.”

‘Please stop talking. Please stop remembering.’

He looks genuinely confused “You look really familiar.”

You shrug “Maybe I have one of those common faces.”

“Yeah… no.”

Luffy laughs “Y/N is easy to remember!”

“That’s not what I—” Ace stops himself.

You silently beg him with your eyes: ‘Please. Don’t.’

He notices and then his eyebrows move up slightly.

A few minutes later everyone enters the restaurant.

Ace immediately starts eating.

Actually he destroys food, just like Luffy. Plate after plate disappears.

Sanji watches with horror “He’s almost as bad as Luffy…”

“Almost?” Luffy asks.

“Don’t make me compare you two.”

Ace laughs “Sorry.”

Another mountain of food arrives.

You quietly sit between Nami and Chopper. Far, very far, from Ace.

Perfect and safe until Ace casually gets up, walks around the table and sits right across from you.

‘Why? WHY?’

He smiles politely “Mind if I sit here?”

“Actually…”

“Great.” he sits.

You blink.

He eats another piece of meat while looking at you every few seconds and you pretend to not notice, but of course you’re failing very badly.

Then, as everyone is busy fighting over dessert, he speaks quietly enough that only you hear “You’re really sure we’ve never met?”

Without looking at him, you answer, “Pretty sure.”

“Huh…” another bite “Because I have a really good memory.”

You get nervous and instead of thinking, you say, irritated “No you don’t.”

He says nothing and just keeps watching you.

You drink your water too quickly and so you cough.

Chopper immediately jumps up “Are you okay?!”

“Y-Yeah!”

Ace hands you his cup without thinking “Here.”

Your fingers touch for one second and another memory flashes through your head.

His hand holding yours, his laugh and his warm skin.

You immediately pull back “Thanks.”

Ace narrows his eyes.

Then something around your wrist catches his attention, a tiny faded scar, very small, almost impossible to notice.

His eyes suddenly become wide.

Years ago… that night you met you accidentally cut yourself while trying to open a bottle with a knife, he had laughed and then gently cleaned the wound himself.

That’s how it even started.

You almost choke again.

Ace slowly looks up, right into your eyes.

He figured it all out.

A slow grin appears on his face, not teasing but a little shocked and definitely a little amused.

He leans forward just enough that only you can hear, again “...Oh.”

You smile through pure panic “What?”

He whispers, “Now I remember.”

You whisper back immediately “No, you don’t.”

“…I definitely do.”

Your smile becomes painfully stiff “You definitely don’t. It wasn’t me.”

Ace tries very hard not to laugh, and unfortunately Luffy notices “What are you two whispering about?”

You both answer at exactly the same time “Nothing!”

Everyone at the table turns to look at you in silence.

Usopp slowly points at the two of you “…That’s suspicious.”

Ace coughs into his fist, while you suddenly become very interested in your drink.

Sanji’s eyes move from Ace to you and then back to Ace.

His eyebrow twitches “…I don’t like this.”

Ace smiles innocently “Neither do I.”

You kick him under the table, hard enough that he nearly bites his tongue, but somehow he still has the nerve to smile.

The group leaves the restaurant together.

Vivi looks around seriously before turning to everyone “We should split up for now and look around for information. We might hear something useful.”

Nami nods “Good idea.”

Luffy stretches his arms behind his head “Sounds easy enough!”

Then he suddenly turns toward Ace “Ace! Are you joining us?”

Ace’s eyes flick to you for the shortest moment, and a smile slowly appears, the kind of smile you already hate.

He simply says “Why not.”

‘Oh no.’

The groups begin forming naturally.

Nami gestures toward you “Come on. Let’s check the market.”

You take one step toward her.

“I’ll go with you.” Ace’s voice comes from right behind you.

You stop and very slowly, you turn around. You look at him like he just suggested walking through the desert barefoot and ask him “Don’t you want to spend time with your brother?”

Ace glances over.

Luffy is already dragging Zoro and Chopper toward a food stand “LOOK! MEAT!”

“I’m not carrying you if you eat too much.” Zoro grumbles.

Chopper smiles innocently.

Ace chuckles “Seems like he’s having fun with the green head and the reindeer.”

You let out a long sigh and before you can answer him, Sanji suddenly appears between the two of you and says “She’ll go with me.”

Ace raises an eyebrow “Will she?”

Before either of you can continue Usopp rushes over with tears already forming “WHAT ABOUT ME?!”

He grabs Sanji’s arm dramatically “Please don’t leave me aloneeeee!”

Sanji groans “You’re unbelievable…”

For exactly two seconds his attention is on Usopp, and that’s all Ace needs to reach over, grab your wrist, and start walking.

“Come on.”

“W-Wait, Ace!”

You stumble after him.

Behind you, Sanji finally notices “OI!”

Nami cups her hands around her mouth “Back at the Merry in one hour! Don’t be late!”

Ace waves without even turning around “Got it!”

A few minutes later the noisy streets become quieter and the crowd grows thinner.

You finally pull your arm free “You can let go now.”

Ace does immediately, and then he looks at you, his teasing smile returns “So…”

He slips his hands into his pockets “Why are you pretending not to know me?”

You freeze “I…”

Your voice comes out much weaker than you wanted “I don’t remember you.” a pause “Maybe you’re confusing me with someone else.”

Ace laughs quietly, making your cheeks warm.

“Oh, dear.” he shakes his head “I remembered you the second I saw you.”

He smiles softly “You think I’d forget that night? Forget you?”

Your face immediately burns, so, without another word, you walk past him very quickly… anything to hide your expression.

He follows “For the record…” he speaks casually, like he’s discussing the weather “it was probably the best night of my life.”

You almost trip but he continues “I remember everything about it. I remember your laugh, your body, the way you—”

“STOP.” you spin around, grab his arm, and pull him into a narrow side alley before anyone can hear.

The street is cool and shaded and, most importantly, empty.

You immediately point a finger at him “Okay, listen.”

You lower your voice “I didn’t know my captain would have been your brother!”

Ace crosses his arms, still smiling.

You throw your hands into the air “You never even told me your name! So every time Luffy talked about ‘Ace’, I had no idea it was you!”

Ace scratches the back of his neck “Didn’t you ever see my wanted poster?”

You stare at him, then narrow your eyes “Did you see mine?”

His confident smile disappears and he thinks for a second, then sighs “…Fair point.” another second passes “Who actually spends time looking at other pirates’ wanted posters?”

A tiny smile almost escapes you but instead, you shake your head “Exactly.”

You take a deep breath “Look...”

Your voice becomes quieter, more serious “No one has to know what happened years ago.”

You meet his eyes “Just forget about it.”

Without waiting for an answer, you walk away and Ace follows after some seconds “What if I don’t want to?”

You don’t answer, because your attention shifts to a little boy sitting on the ground nearby. He sniffles while rubbing his knee and a basket of fruit has fallen beside him.

You kneel immediately “Hey.” your voice becomes gentle “Are you okay?”

He nods, even though tears still fill his eyes.

You notice a small scrape on his knee, nothing serious.

You smile “You’re very brave.”

You help him stand, brush the sand off his clothes, and hand him the fruit that rolled away.

The boy smiles shyly “Thank you, miss.”

“Be careful next time.”

He nods happily before running away.

Ace hasn’t moved, he simply watches the whole thing quietly. His teasing smile is gone.

You walk past him, without even looking at him, your voice is calm and cold “Do whatever you want.” a few more steps “I just don’t want the crew to know.”

Finally, you glance back over your shoulder, your expression is firm “Can you do that? Can you just keep your mouth shut?”

For the first time since ever, Ace is at a loss of words and just nods before you keep on walking.

For the rest of the hour you don’t give Ace a single chance. Every time he opens his mouth you’re already walking away.

A merchant selling spices? You go ask for information. An old woman carrying water? You go ask things like “Sorry to bother you. Have you heard anything about the palace?”

A fisherman. A traveler. A baker. A family.

You move from one person to another without stopping and Ace simply follows, hands in his pockets, watching and waiting.

Every now and then he opens his mouth only for you to immediately interrupt.

“Thank you for your time!” you say and leave.

He sighs.

Five minutes later… he tries again “Y/N—”

You turn toward another stand “Excuse me! Can I ask you something?”

Ace rubs his forehead “…You’re doing this on purpose now.”

You smile sweetly “Doing what?”

“Ignoring me.”

“I’m helping my crew.”

“You’re hiding.”

“Working.”

“Running away.”

“Gathering information.”

“Coward.”

You stop, turn around and smile at him, obviously irritated by that and you say “Idiot.”

He laughs “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me today.”

You stick your tongue out before walking away again.

Half an hour later Ace has somehow become your unwanted shadow.

You ask another shopkeeper a question, Ace leans against the wall nearby.

You help an old man pick up dropped vegetables, Ace helps without even being asked. You thank the old man and Ace is already carrying the heavy basket for him.

The old man laughs “You two make a lovely couple.”

You almost drop the vegetables “WE AREN’T!”

At the same time Ace smiles “Thank you.”

You elbow him hard.

“Ow.”

“Good.”

A few streets later a little girl runs into you by accident and then she immediately hides behind her father.

You kneel “It’s okay.”

The girl peeks out and she notices the flower tucked behind your ear, a flower the old man gave you as to thank you for your help. Her eyes sparkle “Pretty…”

You smile and take the flower out “Do you want it?”

She nods excitedly and so you gently place it in her hair.

The girl beams while her father bows gratefully before walking away.

Ace watches quietly.

When you stand up you meet his eyes and he’s smiling.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“Am I not allowed?”

“No.”

“That’s rude.”

“You’ll survive.”

He chuckles “Maybe not.”

The sun begins to lower.

You sigh “We should head back.”

Ace nods.

Then after following you in silence, Ace finally speaks and his voice is softer than before “I don’t think Luffy would care much about us.”

You stop walking immediately and, slowly you turn around, the smile is gone from your face “This is where you’re wrong.”

Your voice is calm “Because there’s no ‘us’, Ace.”

For the first time all day, his smile disappears… he actually looks offended, which surprises you, because you expected another joke.

“There was.” he says and pauses “And there is.”

Your heart skips.

He takes one slow step closer “Otherwise...” he points gently toward you “...you wouldn’t be panicking this much.”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, so Ace continues “You really think none of them noticed?” he takes another step closer “Or that they won’t notice?”

Your brain completely stops working.

Ace folds his arms “See?”

You finally find your voice “I’m not panicking.”

He raises one eyebrow “Really?”

“Really.”

“You’ve avoided looking directly at me for almost two hours.”

“Because you’re annoying.”

“You’ve called me an idiot three times.”

“Only three?”

He laughs “Actually...” he pretends to think “Four.”

You cross your arms “You deserved all four and even more.”

“Probably.”

He smiles again, but smaller this time “Still doesn’t explain why you’re nervous.”

You point a finger at him “I’m nervous because you keep talking about something that happened years ago without us even knowing our damn names!”

“A very nice thing that happened years ago.”

“Ace!”

A woman walking past glances at you both and she smiles knowingly saying “Young love.”

You almost combust “NO!”

Ace rubs the back of his neck “...Maybe?”

You stare at him “Whose side are you on?!”

“Mine?”

“Wrong answer.” you start walking again, much faster.

Ace easily catches up “You know...”

You refuse to look at him “No.”

“I haven’t actually lied today.”

“Good for you.”

“Everything I said was true.”

You don’t answer, because a small, dangerous part of you believes that too, everything he said. That night wasn’t something you regretted and meeting him now is embarrassing and unexpected, but… you could never forget his laugh, his freckles and even how kind he had been afterward, before you ran away.

You just never expected to see him again, especially not as your captain's older brother.

You shake your head to stop overthinking everything again.

Beside you, Ace steals another glance and thinks “She’s even cuter when she’s flustered.” and that thought definitely doesn’t help him.

By the time the Going Merry comes into view the sky has already turned orange.

You both stop to look at each other.

“…They’re going to kill us.” you mutter.

“Probably, you’re late and got no information.” Ace agrees far too cheerfully.

You climb aboard.

The second your feet touch the deck—“YOU’RE LATE!” Nami’s voice echoes across the ship.

You flinch “Sorry!”

“One hour!” Nami points accusingly “I said one hour!”

Usopp crosses his arms dramatically “We thought desert bandits kidnapped you!”

Chopper nods rapidly “Or giant scorpions!”

Sanji walks over but his eyes immediately land on Ace and then on you.

His eyebrow twitches “Everything alright, my lady?”

Before you can answer Zoro speaks, without even opening his eyes “Took you two long enough.”

You blink “…What?”

Zoro lazily shrugs against the mast “Figured you two wanted privacy.”

Silence.

Your face goes warm “W-WHAT?!”

Even Nami turns toward Zoro “You noticed too?”

“It was obvious.” he replies simply.

“OBVIOUS?!” you squeak.

Usopp gasps dramatically “WAIT! WERE YOU TWO ON A DATE?!”

“NO!”

Sanji slowly cracks his knuckles “…Ace.”

Ace lifts both hands innocently “Hey, don’t look at me.”

He is honestly trying not to laugh, but he’s failing miserably.

You point at him “Don’t you dare smile.”

That only makes it worse because a laugh escapes him and soon he’s laughing so hard he has to hold his stomach.

You glare “You’re the worst.”

“I’ve been told.”

Between laughs, though, he catches your eye for a second and the teasing fades as his smile softens, almost worried, as if he’s silently asking: “Did I push too far?”

The look disappears before anyone else notices, except you… and somehow, that soft, worried glance embarrasses you even more than all of the teasing did.

The teasing slowly dies down.

Mostly because Vivi claps her hands together “Alright.”

Everyone looks at her.

“Did anyone find useful information?”

The smiles disappear and you let out a quiet sigh “No…”

For a second, nobody says anything.

Then Ace speaks “Yeah...”

Everyone looks at him and he scratches his cheek casually “She talked to almost everyone we passed but we didn’t find anything interesting.”

You know exactly why he says it… it’s his quiet way of telling the others not to misunderstand and let them know you weren't distracted by him but you were actually doing your work.

Nami nods “That’s a shame.”

Vivi sighs “At least you tried.”

The conversation moves on and then they begin talking about the next plan.

You glance toward Ace and without saying a word, you give him the smallest smile and a tiny nod as if to thank him.

He gives you a small smile back.

A little while later, Sanji ties on his apron “Dinner will take a while.”

He points his spoon toward everyone “So stay out of my kitchen.”

Luffy immediately tries to sneak closer “Can I taste—”

“NO.”

Luffy pouts dramatically, making Ace laugh “Still the same.”

The brothers sit together on the deck.

Luffy begins talking so fast that half his words don’t make sense.

Ace somehow understands every single word.

The two laugh, shove each other, and argue over food they haven’t even eaten yet.

You find yourself smiling at their cuteness… Luffy looks so happy and Ace laughs with his whole face.

Without realizing it you keep looking for a little too long.

“So…” a voice beside you makes you jump.

Nami and Vivi are both smiling.

Nami crosses her arms “He’s hot, huh?”

You nearly inhale your own saliva “WHAT?!”

You cough so hard Chopper turns around “Are you okay?!”

“Y-Yeah!”

Vivi tries very hard not to laugh and then she says innocently, “We meant his Devil Fruit.”

Nami nods “He’s fire.”

The two of them burst into laughter while your face burns and you say “You’re terrible.”

“Your face says everything.” Nami grins.

You immediately point across the deck “Look! Luffy is eating before dinner again!”

Luffy hears his name and turns around “Huh?”

Then he notices everyone looking at him “What?”

Nami smiles innocently “Y/N thinks Ace is hot.”

...

...

...

You freeze “NAMI!”

Luffy’s eyes become huge and he looks at Ace, then at you and then back at Ace, as a massive grin appears “REALLY?!”

Ace nearly drops the apple he was holding and playing with “What?”

Luffy runs over “Y/N! You like Ace?!”

You wave your hands wildly “NO!”

“Are you sure?”

“YES!”

“Because he’s pretty cool!”

“Luffy!”

“Maybe you can join the family!”

You cover his mouth immediately “STOP TALKING.”

Luffy muffles something against your hand. Ace is laughing so hard he has to look away… even Zoro snorts.

Thankfully Sanji saves you from more humiliation… dinner is finally ready.

Sanji places enormous plates on the table.

Luffy and Ace race toward the food.

“MEAT!”

“HEY! THAT ONE’S MINE!”

“YOU ALREADY HAVE THREE!”

“SO?”

The brothers begin stealing from each other’s plates making Sanji sigh “Animals…”

You quietly sit beside Vivi… unfortunately the only empty seat left across from Ace.

He smiles when he notices but you pretend to be fascinated by your soup.

Dinner is loud.

Usopp tells another exaggerated story as Chopper believes every word.

Zoro eats silently.

Sanji keeps serving Nami, Vivi and you.

Everything feels normal… until Usopp suddenly looks at Ace “So…” he points his fork “What was Luffy like as a kid?”

Ace laughs “Hungry.”

Everyone nods “Makes sense.”

Ace smiles “He’s always been like that.”

Nami tilts her head “Was he always this reckless?”

“Even worse.”

“HEY!” Luffy protests with his mouth full.

Ace begins telling stories about little Luffy, making everyone laugh, even you.

Then Nami asks “And your crew?”

Ace’s smile grows and talks proudly about the Whitebeard Pirates. About how loud they are, how everyone argues and how Whitebeard treats them like family.

You listen carefully, it’s nice hearing him talk and he looks…happy.

Then Ace starts asking questions too “So...”

He looks around the table “What’s it like traveling with Luffy?”

Usopp immediately answers “Terrifying!”

“Fun!” Chopper says.

“Expensive.” Nami sighs.

“Good.” Zoro mutters.

“Wonderful!” Sanji smiles.

Ace laughs and then his eyes move to you “What about you?”

You blink.

He's waiting for your answer.

You clear your throat “It’s…” a small smile appears “…never boring.”

Luffy grins proudly “SEE?”

Ace keeps looking at you, like that answer matters more than the others, and it makes your stomach flutter.

Later, at some point of the dinner, Usopp suddenly asks, “Does your crew have girlfriends or boyfriends?”

Ace nearly chokes on his drink “That’s... random.”

“I’m a curious romantic!”

Ace laughs “Some do.”

Then he casually asks “What about you all?”

Usopp dramatically sighs “Unfortunately… we’re all tragically single.”

“Speak for yourself.” Sanji says, placing a hand on his chest “My heart belongs to every beautiful lady.”

Nami rolls her eyes “That’s not how that works.”

Everyone laughs and Ace smiles before he asks THE question “Anyone here secretly in love?”

Silence.

Then every head slowly turns… toward you.

Your eyes widen “Why are you all looking at me?!”

Usopp shrugs “You looked at Ace for, like... five minutes earlier.”

You nearly fall off your chair “I DID NOT!”

Nami innocently hums “Maybe four.”

Vivi smiles into her drink “It was definitely more than three.”

You hide your face behind your cup “I’m changing crew.”

Luffy immediately raises his hand “You can never leave!”

Ace watches the scene with a smile and then, very casually and very innocently, he asks “So…” his eyes meet yours “None of you secretly have someone waiting for you somewhere?”

The table suddenly becomes much quieter.

You know that question wasn’t really for everyone… it was for you.

You lower your cup, your cheeks are warm again “…No.”

Ace nods once and the corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly “Good to know.”

You kick him under the table, hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

No one notices as they're all too busy answering the question… everyone except Vivi and Nami.

The two women exchange one very amused look but neither of them says a word.

They don't need to.

The way you keep avoiding Ace’s eyes and the way Ace keeps finding them anyway, is becoming harder and harder for everyone to ignore.

Dinner slowly comes to an end even if Luffy is somehow still eating.

Sanji has given up asking where all the food keeps disappearing. Usopp and Chopper are arguing over which desert animal would win in a fight.

Zoro has already fallen asleep against the mast. Nami and Vivi go over maps one last time before calling it a night.

One by one everyone disappears below deck and eventually, the Going Merry becomes quiet.

Sleep doesn’t come.

You quietly go onto the deck, careful not to wake anyone.

The desert night is surprisingly cool.

You lean your arms on the railing and groan quietly at the thought of that loooong day “I don’t think I’ve ever been this embarrassed in my life.”

“Really?”

You jump so hard you nearly fall overboard but a hand catches your elbow before you lose your balance.

Ace.

He lets go immediately “Sorry.”

You press a hand against your chest “One day you’ll give me a heart attack.”

He grins “Worth it.”

“No.”

“Maybe.”

You roll your eyes and then you just sit and Ace sits beside you… not too close but not too far… enough that your shoulders almost touch.

For a while neither of you speaks but the silence isn’t awkward anymore.

Ace looks up “Nice sky.”

You nod “Much better than the desert during the day.”

“Definitely.”

He yawns and you laugh “Already sleepy?”

“Always.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“It’s a talent.”

You smile “I’m not sure sleeping counts as one.”

“It does if you’re really good at it.”

You snort “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve heard that today.”

“More than once.”

“Mostly from you.”

You smile again, without thinking.

After another comfortable silence you sigh “Everyone really liked embarrassing me today.”

Ace laughs quietly “Well…” he looks out at the sea “At least they think you just have a crush.”

You hide your face in your hands “Please don’t remind me…”

Then he continues and his voice is calm, almost thoughtful “They don’t know that you made me spend the most beautiful night of my life with you...”

You slowly lower your hands.

“…and then left me alone like that without even telling me your name.”

You blink.

“…making me search everywhere for you...”

Your breath catches.

“…only to randomly find you in my little brother’s crew.”

You stare at him as he keeps looking at the sea, like he didn’t just completely change the conversation.

You quietly ask “…You searched for me?”

Ace looks over and a small laugh escapes him. He rubs the back of his neck and then nods “Yeah.”

Your heart skips.

“I looked around the island for days.”

Your eyes grow wider “Days?”

“Mm.” he smiles sheepishly “But I never looked into pirates.” he points at you “You told me you were just a traveler.”

You immediately answer “Because I was!”

Your voice echoes a little louder than you intended so you freeze and then take a breath before you continue much more quietly “I mean…”

You look down at your hands “I never even thought about becoming a pirate before meeting Luffy.”

Ace nods slowly as a knowing smile appears “Yeah.” he laughs softly “I get it.”

You tilt your head “You do?”

“That’s how my little brother’s influence works.”

You laugh and the smile stays on both your faces for a while.

Then Ace speaks again but quieter this time “Can I ask you something?”

You nod “Sure.”

He looks at you “…You never looked for me after that night?”

You freeze.

He scratches his cheek awkwardly, then laughs once, but it sounds... nervous and then he asks “Was I so terrible?”

Your head snaps toward him “What?!”

You immediately shake your head and without even thinking the words leave your mouth before your brain can stop them “You were even too good!”

Silence.

Your eyes slowly become wider.

Ace blinks, then the corners of his mouth start lifting.

Your entire face catches fire “I…” you stand up so fast you almost trip “I should go. It’s late.”

You turn around but then a warm hand gently wraps around your wrist, not pulling hard but enough to stop you.

You look down at the hand and then at him.

Ace is trying not to laugh.

He gives your wrist the tiniest tug “Sit.”

You sigh dramatically “…Fine.”

You sit back down beside him, but this time you refuse to look at him.

After a long silence you mumble, “…That was embarrassing.”

Ace smiles “Nah. I’ve been embarrassing myself all day.” he chuckles “This was nothing.”

You finally glance at him and see he’s smiling at the stars, looking completely relaxed.

For some reason… that makes you laugh.

Ace smiles a little wider when he hears it.

The tension that had followed you around the entire day slowly disappears.

Then you feel like answering his question from earlier “About what you asked earlier…”

Ace tilts his head “Hm?”

You take a slow breath “I didn’t look for you.”

He stays quiet, waiting for you to continue.

“…But it wasn’t because you weren’t… good.”

He immediately grins “I figured after your little confession.”

You cover your face “Can we pretend I never said that?”

“Never.”

You sigh dramatically “Worth a try.”

He chuckles.

You look back at the sea “It was just…”

You struggle to find the right words “I never did anything like that before.”

Ace’s smile fades into something gentler.

You continue quietly “I’d never had a… one-night stand.”

The words feel strange to admit out loud.

“I don’t even know why I did that.” a small laugh escapes you “Maybe the drinks.”

Ace smiles “Maybe.”

You shake your head “When I woke up…” you look down at your hands “…I panicked.”

A long pause “So I left.” the memory still makes you cringe “I didn’t even stop to think.”

You laugh awkwardly “I just grabbed my things and left the island.”

Ace listens without saying a word.

“Later…” you shrug “I was way too embarrassed to go back and look for you.”

You smile weakly “Eventually… I hoped I’d just forget about it. Obviously it didn’t work.”

His eyes lift to yours and you laugh softly before you continue “It wasn’t just that night that made me think about you.”

Ace blinks.

You look out at the ocean again “It was everything. The before… when we met.”

A small smile appears “You were funny. You listened. You were kind.”

You laugh quietly “Honestly… at first I thought you were going to be a jerk.”

Ace places a hand over his chest dramatically “I’m wounded.”

You smile “You had that confident smile and that smirk.”

“I still do.”

“Exactly.”

He laughs.

You shake your head fondly “But you weren’t.”

Your voice becomes softer “You were nice before.” a pause “You were sweet during it.”

Your cheeks warm immediately and you cough it off “…And afterward too.”

Ace looks at you quietly.

You continue before you lose your courage “I don’t believe in love at first sight.”

He nods slightly.

“Never have. So I convinced myself…” you sigh “…that you only wanted it to be one fun night.”

Ace opens his mouth but you gently stop him “I know now that I was wrong.”

Finally you look directly at him “I really panicked today when I realized… that you were the Ace Luffy always talked so much about.”

Ace rubs the back of his neck “He really talks that much?”

You laugh “Constantly.”

He groans “Sounds like him.”

You smile and then your expression softens “…But…” you meet his eyes “I’m also happy we got to clear everything up.”

Ace scratches his cheek, looking oddly embarrassed, then he laughs “Wow.”

You blink “What?”

“I’ve never heard you talk this much.”

You gasp dramatically and then you lightly punch his arm.

“Ow!” he laughs anyway “Violence!”

“You deserved it.”

“Probably.” he smiles impossibly softly.

“I’m glad I found you, Y/N.” his voice is barely above a whisper “…Even after all this time.”

Your smile slowly grows and neither of you looks away.

Then Ace shifts, turns his whole body toward you and lifts one hand toward you.

A playful smile returns to his face “Why don’t we reset the game?”

You tilt your head.

He clears his throat dramatically “Hello.” he offers his hand “Nice to meet you.”

A tiny bow follows “I’m Portgas D. Ace.”

His grin grows “You’re cute.” a beat “Are you single?”

You burst into laughter and then, still smiling, you turn your body toward him too.

Your knees almost touch.

You take his hand “I’m Y/N.”

You pretend to think “…And yeah… as a friend of mine with a very long nose likes to say…”

You sigh dramatically “…I’m terrifyingly single.”

Ace laughs so hard he almost loses his balance “That’s a tragedy.”

“The greatest one.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand and neither do you.

The laughter slowly fades, and only smiles remain.

Then, very quietly, Ace asks “Do you kiss on a first date?”

You grin “Apparently… I kiss and do much worse with complete strangers.”

Ace lowers his head with a laugh “Then…”

He looks back at you “…We’re lucky we’re not strangers anymore.”

You nod “Yeah.”

The word comes out almost as a whisper.

Slowly the distance between you disappears. You meet him halfway.

Your lips brush softly against his.

The kiss is slow and gentle. The complete opposite of the first one you shared that first time, because that night had begun with curiosity, and this one begins with honesty.

When you pull away you’re still smiling and so is he.

Ace rests his forehead lightly against yours “Hi.”

You laugh quietly “Hi.”

The next morning, when everyone gathers for breakfast, you and Ace are sitting on opposite sides of the table.

You don’t look at him and he doesn’t look at you, or at least that’s what you’re both trying very hard to make everyone believe.

“Morning.” you say politely.

Ace nods once “Morning.”

Short and simple.

Luffy looks between the two of you “…You’re weird.”

“We’re always weird.” you answer a little too quickly.

“Not this weird.”

Ace calmly drinks his coffee “Maybe we didn’t sleep much.”

You nearly choke on your bread but he doesn’t even glance at you and yet yhe corner of his mouth twitches.

For the rest of the day you both become surprisingly good at acting.

When the crew is together you barely speak. If Ace asks the group a question, you let someone else answer. If you have something to say, you direct it at Luffy or Vivi instead. If your paths cross, one polite nod.

Nothing more.

But… the problem isn’t your words… it’s everything else.

Every time someone makes the group laugh your eyes automatically search for each other.

Whenever one of you disappears for a few minutes, the other somehow always ends up wandering in the same direction.

Later that afternoon you volunteer to refill the ship’s water barrels.

You lift one bucket.

“Need help?”

You don’t even turn around “No.”

Ace laughs “You answered before checking who it was.”

You sigh “Because I knew.”

He steps beside you “I’m offended.”

“Why?”

“You didn’t even sound surprised.”

You pick up another bucket “You’ve been following me for three days.”

“Has it only been three?”

You give him a flat look “Ace.”

He grins “Y/N.”

You try to walk past him but he casually reaches out and catches your hand for just a second. His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles.

You look down at your joined hands and then back up at him. He’s smiling and you can’t help smiling back and then you just say “You’re impossible.”

“You keep saying that.”

Footsteps.

Both of you hear them at the same time and your eyes widen. Without thinking you shove him away, hard enough that he stumbles backward.

“Ow!” he whispers loudly.

“Someone’s coming!” you hiss.

Ace barely has time to recover before Chopper appears “Oh! There you are!”

You immediately lift the bucket “Just getting water.”

Ace nods seriously “I was... supervising.”

Chopper tilts his head “Why?”

Ace opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

You bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing.

The same thing keeps happening again and again and again.

You see Sanji busy, so you volunteer to help him by bringing vegetables from storage.

You kneel to pick up a basket.

Ace quietly appears behind you “Busy?”

“Very.”

He leans closer… close enough that you can feel the warmth of his shoulder.

“You haven’t smiled at me in...” he pretends to think “…almost fifteen minutes.”

You roll your eyes “What a tragedy.”

He lowers his voice “Maybe you should fix that.”

You smile despite yourself “There.”

“Much better.”

You hear Sanji calling from upstairs, asking if you’re ok.

Without hesitation you place both hands against Ace’s chest and push him away.

He stumbles into a barrel.

“…You know,” he mutters, rubbing his shoulder, “you’ve pushed me away a lot these last few days.”

“Because you keep sneaking up on me!”

“I’m starting to take it personally.”

Another day… you’re standing alone, enjoying the wind.

Ace quietly walks up beside you and neither of you says anything, just your fingers slowly brush against each other.

Then he hooks his little finger around yours, such a tiny gesture that makes your heart melt.

You glance at him and quietly hook your finger around his too.

A soft smile appears on both your faces.

Then—“Y/N!”

Usopp’s voice echoes across the deck, so you both immediately let go at the same time.

“…You know,” he says under his breath, “one day you’re going to throw me overboard.”

“Good.”

“Cruel.”

“Careful. Someone might hear us.”

By the fourth day the crew starts exchanging looks, because your acting has somehow become even stranger.

Ace treats everyone exactly the same, except you. With you, he’s almost too polite.

“Could you pass the salt, Y/N?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A long silence follows.

Usopp slowly looks at Nami. Nami looks at Vivi. Vivi hides a smile behind her cup.

Sanji narrows his eyes. Luffy keeps eating.

Finally, Zoro opens one eye and looks at you and then at Ace before he quietly says “…You two are terrible actors.”

The entire table goes silent.

Your heart stops and Ace blinks once asking “…What do you mean?”

Zoro shrugs “Nothing.” he closes his eye again “Just saying.”

You and Ace exchange the quickest glance in history, then immediately look away again.

Neither of you notices Nami trying very hard not to smile, or Vivi quietly hiding a laugh behind her drink.

The following morning is peaceful, which usually means something is about to go wrong.

You are down in the Merry’s small storage room, quietly counting what little food is left.

“…Three bags of rice…”

You move one aside.

“A few vegetables…”

Another pile.

“…And Luffy definitely stole half of the dried meat.”

A familiar voice answers from behind you “He absolutely did.”

You don’t even have time to turn around.

Ace wraps his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you gently against him.

“Ace…”

He laughs into your hair “Finally.”

You can hear the smile in his voice.

He turns you around before you can protest and his face is much closer than you expected.

“You’ve been avoiding me all morning.”

“I’ve been working.”

“Same excuse as always.”

You open your mouth to answer but instead, he leans in.

His lips are only a breath away from yours.

You place a hand against his chest “Ace.”

He stops for exactly one second, then he tilts his head with a mischievous grin and instead presses a quick, warm kiss against the side of your neck.

You shiver “Ace!”

He rests his forehead against your shoulder with an exaggerated sigh “Damn it…”

Another sigh “I can’t take this anymore.”

Despite yourself you smile and then gently push him back but not very far, just enough to look at him and say “This is too dangerous, Ace.”

He pouts immediately. You can’t believe the feared commander of the Whitebeard Pirates is looking at you like a disappointed puppy.

Several quiet seconds pass, then his eyes brighten “I’ve got an idea.”

You already don’t like that smile “…That’s never a good sign.”

“Do you want to go on a date with me tonight?”

You blink “…What?”

“A date.”

He says it as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You stare at him “How? The crew is going to ask questions if we suddenly disappear together.”

Ace crosses his arms confidently while a smug grin spreads across his face “Don’t worry.”

He taps his chest “I’ve got the perfect plan.”

You narrow your eyes.

He continues “…Just let me handle it.”

You sigh “That’s somehow even more worrying.”

He laughs softly “Everything’s going to be okay.”

You sigh again “Oh. Now I’m definitely worried.”

Lunch arrives and everyone gathers around the table.

Luffy is already eating before Sanji finishes serving. Usopp is telling another impossible story.

Everything is normal… the only strange thing is Ace who’s unusually quiet.

Every few seconds he glances at you and then smiles to himself.

You kick his foot lightly under the table, he looks up and you mouth “What are you planning?”

He smiles wider and after a few more minutes Ace suddenly clears his throat “Hey, Luffy.”

Luffy doesn’t even look up “Hm?” still chewing.

Ace speaks with complete confidence “I’m taking Y/N on a date tonight, so don’t worry about her.”

...

...

...

Silence.

Somewhere at the table a fork hits the floor with a loud clink.

You freeze completely.

Luffy calmly swallows another bite of food, reaches over and steals meat from Nami’s plate as he simply says “Okay.”

He keeps eating, like nothing unusual was said.

Ace slowly turns toward you with the proudest smile you’ve ever seen on his face.

You slowly stand up and point at him “Are… you crazy?!”

Your words finally break the spell that froze the crew.

“WHAT?!” Usopp shouts.

Sanji slams both hands on the table “HOW DARE YOU!”

Then he spins toward Luffy “AND YOU!”

Luffy blinks “Hm?”

“How can you just say ‘okay’?!” Sanji clutches his chest “My dear Y/N can’t go out with...” he glares at Ace “…another man!”

Nami immediately smacks the back of his head “Sit down.”

Sanji obeys instantly “…Yes, Nami-swan.”

Nami turns back toward Ace, much calmer but also much more dangerous “…For how long has this been going on?”

Ace doesn’t hesitate “Way before she even became a pirate.”

Your head snaps toward him “Hey!”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them “We agreed that doesn’t count!”

Ace smiles at you warmly “It counts to me.”

His voice is so casual it almost doesn’t register. 

Then he adds “That’s when I realized I wanted to see you again.”

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out and slowly you sit back down.

You stare at your plate, you take your fork and roll a piece of food around without actually eating it.

Your face is burning.

Luffy finally looks up “Oooh!” he points between the two of you “Before we became brothers?”

Ace sighs dramatically “Not that before, idiot!”

“Oh.” Luffy nods “Got it.”

Usopp suddenly shoots to his feet “WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT!”

He points wildly “YOU TWO KNEW EACH OTHER?!”

“WHEN?!”

“WHERE?!”

“HOW?!”

“WHY DIDN’T ANYONE SAY ANYTHING?!”

You immediately pretend your lunch has become the most interesting thing in the world.

Ace, meanwhile, answers every question with surprising patience.

“Years ago.”

“Different island.”

“We lost touch.”

“Found each other again here.”

Usopp gasps after every answer as if hearing the greatest adventure ever told.

The whole table erupts into questions, even Chopper joins in.

You don’t answer a single one, instead your eyes drift toward Luffy.

He’s smiling and watching Ace with the happiest expression.

Nami notices where you’re looking and she lowers her voice, quiet enough that only you can hear her “…Did you think Luffy wouldn’t approve?”

You don’t answer immediately but then the noise around the table fades into the background, and from your left Zoro speaks without even looking up from his food “He’s happy if you and his brother are happy.”

He shrugs “Isn’t that obvious?”

You look at him in surprise.

Zoro keeps eating and drinking as though he hadn’t said anything important.

A small smile appears on your face and then you let out a quiet breath “…I guess I worried for nothing.”

Across the table Ace is laughing as Usopp fires another impossible question at him.

His smile is bright and relaxed… lighter than you’ve seen it since the day you met again.

He catches your eye for just a second and smiles only a little wider, and without realizing it you smile back.

A little later, Nami casually slips an arm around yours “Come with us.”

You blink “Where?”

“Shopping.”

“What?”

Vivi smiles “For tonight.”

Before you can protest, Luffy appears beside you “Can I come too?”

Nami sighs “Why?”

He shrugs “I’m bored.”

The markets of Alubarna are crowded with fabrics, jewelry and colorful clothes.

For the next hour you become Nami and Vivi's personal doll.

“Try this one.”

“Too fancy.”

“This?”

“Too plain.”

“Turn around.”

“Not bad…”

Luffy sits on a nearby crate eating fruit and every now and then he looks up and says “That one looks nice.”

Nami blinks “…You actually have an opinion?”

“Yep.”

He points toward a simple outfit hanging nearby, it isn’t flashy, just comfortable and elegant without trying too hard.

Very... you.

You change into it and when you step out Vivi smiles first and says “There she is.”

Nami nods “Ace isn’t going to know what hit him.”

Your cheeks immediately warm.

While paying, Vivi quietly asks, “So…” she smiles “How did you two actually meet?”

You hesitate and then you tell them everything… not every little detail, but enough.

When you finish neither of them laughs and neither of them judges.

Vivi’s expression softens “…That’s actually really sweet.”

Nami nods “A little messy.” then she smiles “…But sweet.”

You laugh “Messy is one way to describe it.”

Luffy suddenly speaks up “Ace told me.”

You look at him “About what?”

“That you were scared I’d be upset.”

Your shoulders tense.

Luffy frowns, genuinely confused “Why would I be?”

You blink.

He grins “He’s my brother.” then he points at you “You’re my best friend. You’re family.” another grin “That sounds awesome.”

You feel something unclench inside your chest.

Luffy laughs “As long as he doesn’t make you cry.”

A pause and his smile becomes surprisingly serious “Otherwise I’ll punch him.”

You laugh so hard you almost cry but say “What if he’s the one crying?”

Luffy laughs harder and answers “Means he deserves it!”

This makes you laugh again.

The sun begins to set and the sky turns orange.

You return to the Merry just before dinner.

Ace is already waiting near the dock and the moment he sees you he forgets to breathe.

You stop a few steps away, suddenly feeling shy “…Hi.”

He stares for another second, then smiles “Hi.”

He scratches the back of his neck “…You look beautiful.”

Your heart immediately forgets how to function “Thank you…”

He offers his arm dramatically “May I steal you for the evening?”

You laugh and loop your arm through his “You may.”

Nami, Vivi and Luffy who were with you simply waves at the two of you. You wave back then you see Luffy is about to yell something but Nami hit him and shit him up before he can do anything.

The date is... simple.

A small restaurant tucked away from the busiest streets, with warm lanterns and good food.

Ace insists on pulling your chair out before you sit.

You raise an eyebrow “Trying to impress me?”

“Is it working?”

“…Maybe.”

He places a hand over his heart dramatically “Victory.”

You laugh.

Most of dinner is spent talking about simple things, like favorite foods, childhood stories, places you want to visit, and dreams.

Every now and then your hands brush across the table.

After dinner you walk slowly through the quiet streets, neither of you seems in a hurry for the night to end.

Ace suddenly clears his throat and a teasing smile appears “…So…”

He looks ahead “Should we get a room?”

You glance at him and he’s clearly joking, trying to make you nervous or something.

Instead… you simply nod “…Okay.”

Ace stops walking “…Wait.” he looks at you, then points at himself “…Really?”

You nod again and his confident smile completely disappears “…Are you sure?”

You smile softly “I’m sure.”

He tells you to follow him and then a few minutes later… he leads you through a different street and you notice a small inn.

“…For someone who was joking…” you smile “…you found an inn awfully fast.”

Ace immediately waves both hands “Hey! It’s not like that!”

He laughs awkwardly “I was staying here before I met you guys.”

You giggle “Mhm, sure.”

He blinks “…You’re teasing me?”

“Maybe.”

“…You’re evil.”

“I’m learning from you.”

The room is quiet and for a moment, it’s obvious neither of you knows what to do or say and by the tenth gaze you give each other, you both laugh at exactly the same time.

And like that, the awkwardness disappears.

You step closer, lift a hand to his cheek and kiss him softly.

When you pull back, you smile and say “I loved the date, you can relax.”

He lets out a nervous laugh “I’m trying.”

After he stares at you for a moment, he finally closes the distance and kisses you with softness but also with a bit more hunger than before.

As you kiss him back, the kiss deepens and then you feel his hand going down, to where your shirt ends. He grabs it and pulls it off you, slowly and gentle.

Then he breaks the kiss and looks at you again to ask “Are you sure?”

You have no strength to talk, so you just smile at him and nod.

He nods back and then he removes his own shirt.

The rest of the evening passes wrapped in quiet affection, gentle kisses, and the warmth of finally being together without fear or misunderstandings between you.

It’s totally the opposite of your first time together but it still has that much tension, maybe even more, amplified from love too, now.

Later, you fall asleep curled up in each other’s arms.

The next morning, you wake up first, and careful not to disturb him, you quietly slip into the bathroom and start the shower.

A few minutes later the bathroom door suddenly opens.

Ace appears like a mess, his breathing is uneven and his eyes are wide with panic.

You blink, then it clicks and your expression softens immediately “…Wait. You thought I left again?”

He doesn’t answer, he only gives a small, embarrassed nod, making your heart aches.

You reach for his hand “Hey.” and you smile gently “I’m here.”

He looks at you for another long second and you smile again “Come here.”

You gently tug him toward the shower and the warm water falls around both of you.

Neither of you says much, you simply stand together, close enough that your bodies constantly touch.

Ace wraps his arms around you and then you wash each other’s hair, laughing quietly when he gets soap on his nose.

He cleans you with soap and he steals little kisses from every part of the body he’s cleaning… from your forehead, your shoulder, your cheek, making you smile every single time.

Just tenderness.

When you finally leave the inn later that morning, hand in hand, neither of you knows exactly how you’ll make it work with two different crews sailing different seas, but somehow, neither of you doubts that you will.

After all, you’ve already found each other once against impossible odds.

Your first encounter had been right at the front door, where Robby and Jack were positioned to greet the guests.

This, you were prepared for.

Jack's his best friend. There was no way he wasn't going to be at this wedding. So, you plaster a smile across your face, and put on the show of a lifetime.

Jack's easy. You've always liked him. He was Best Man at your own wedding to Robby.

It becomes more of a struggle when your eyes land on the man you thought you'd be with for the rest of your life. "Michael," You nod curtly, decidedly not going in for the hug you had with Jack.

He holds a hand to his chest in faux-offence. "You wound me, sweetheart. I thought we put the animosity to bed with the divorce settlement."

There hadn't been much to settle. No children, and Robby let you keep the house. The only thing he let you give him was your engagement ring.

The sight of it made you sick. A reminder of all the ways you failed each other.

At the time, it felt like an attack - like he was trying to one-up you, prove that he could be the bigger person. Eighteen months on, you're endlessly glad you didn't have to try and find another place to live while your world was crumbling around you.

"You look good," he continues, and when your gaze meets his, you know he's being sincere.

"I should get inside," is your reply. "I promised Dana I'd grab seats for her and Benji."

And with that, your first interaction with Robby in twelve months comes to a close.

*****

Glancing quickly at the seating chart, your heart sinks when you see your name scrawled next to Michael Robinavitch. Normally Best Man is up beside the couple, but the Mohan-Abbots had opted for a sweetheart table.

Meaning you're doomed to four hours of your ex-husband's company. And what's worse: you're enjoying it.

Robby's always looked good in a tux, but the charm offensive is at its highest today - pressing a kiss to your cheek in greeting, dealing out the compliments in spades, and refilling your glass each time it starts to get low.

"Remember ours?" He asks, voice quiet as he leans over to you during the first dance.

"Of course I do. We danced to Roy Orbison and then my heel snapped halfway through, so I had to go barefoot for the rest of the night."

"That was a good day," He muses, expression unreadable as he watches Jack and Samira. He looks almost... wistful?

"Yeah, it was. Pity they weren't all like that."

Against all the odds, COVID had been one of the better times for you and Robby. Freshly married, where the work had been absolute hell, you'd found solace in each other.

Things were good, until they weren't. Until Robby couldn't outrun his demons anymore, and then stopped trying entirely.

"Yeah, uhm, about that..." He says softly. "I wanted to apologise."

This you weren't expecting. Arching an eyebrow, you turn towards him. "For what?"

"For everything," Robby murmurs, his gaze finally dropping from Jack and Samira to his own hands. He swallows hard, his jaw tight as he traces the line of his thumb. "For checking out. Giving up on us."

Your hand tightens around your wine glass, as you search his expression - looking for the catch, the deflection. You find none. "It's in the past now, anyway." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "We just... weren't meant to be. And that's fine."

"Mhm," is his only response. As if unconvinced.

You're not even sure you've convinced yourself, much less him, and against your better judgement, he talks you into a dance.

Were it not a wedding, you're positive you'd be able to resist him. But when it feels like everybody around you is perfectly happy and coupled up, you find it incredibly easy to slip back into Robby's embrace.

You still have some sense.

Keeping his hand firmly on your waist, rather than slipping downwards to where it used to settle, you try and think of anything but the man in front of you.

The potential melanoma that you saw in clinic last week.

Not the wrinkle lines that crease at Robby's eyes.

Your shopping list for next week.

Not how warm he feels against you.

The fact that you're running out of Black Honey.

Not anything to do with Michael Robinavitch.

You tap out after a ballad, unable to take the proximity to him anymore, and excuse yourself to go mingle with Dana and Perlah.

The rest of the night is spent willing yourself not to look back over at him.

*****

"You know, it'll be us next," Robby says, voice low as he watches you say goodbye to Samira.

"By us, do you mean your ex-wife?" Jack asks, eyebrow arched. "Because I hate to break it to you, brother, but you've already done that. And it went up in fuckin' flames."

"It would be different this time," Robby shakes his head.

"Yeah? How?"

"You'll see." Robby pats Jack on the back, and gets to his feet, moving to intercept you as you make for the door. The stairs down from the venue are pretty steep, and he clocked your Louboutins during dinner.

He bought you that pair on your honeymoon. He wonders if you remember.

"Need a hand?"

He can see that you're about to decline, before taking a sample step, and letting out a sigh. "Yes, please."

Robby tries not to let the contact get to his head too quickly as he slips an arm through yours. He hadn't even realised until tonight just how much he's missed you.

Truly.

The days after he moved out of your shared house had been some of the worst of his entire life. After about six months of no-contact, he'd finally decided that he needed to get his life together, and move on with things.

Get back on the horse, as Jack put it.

Except now it's eighteen months on from the divorce, he's been on exactly zero dates, and all he can think about is winning you back.

"This is purely because I can't walk in these shoes," You warn. "Nothing more."

Robby's jolted from his daydream and back to reality. Right. You don't want him back at all.

He's gotta find a way to change that.

Number two. Nineteen months post-divorce. A persistence.

After Jack and Samira's wedding, you're not expecting to see Robby again until they start having kids and you're invited to the baby shower.

That doesn't appear to be the case when you watch his motorcycle pull into the parking lot of your clinic exactly one week later.

A notch appears between your brows immediately, but you're still in the middle of a consultation - you have a feeling that your patient wouldn't be too thrilled with you leaping up to investigate.

Instead, you assure her that her mole has not, in fact, grown three centimetres since you saw her last week. It takes multiple pictures and two rulers before she'll even consider that it may be stress-related.

By the time you're finished, the last person you want to deal with is your ex-husband.

At least it's a paeds clinic after lunch. The children tend to be much easier to handle, and usually have straight-forward presentations. Eczema, contact dermatitis, or psoriasis for the teens.

All things you can do in your sleep.

But first, lunch. And getting Michael Robinavitch to leave.

He's leaning over the desk at reception, one of his more charming smiles plastered across his face as he talks to Pippa at reception. “I was just wondering if you knew when she'd be finish– oh, there she is. No need. Thanks for all your help.”

You've known Pippa for two years, and you've never once seen her crack a smile out in the lobby. She's practically grinning at Robby.

Uh oh.

This is bad.

Still scowling at him, you reach for the collar of his shirt and tug sharply, forcing him to fall into step behind you as you head for your office.

You don't need to air all your dirty laundry in the middle of your practice.

As soon as the door clicks shut, you're spinning on your heel. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Robby just shrugs. “You said you work Fridays usually. Thought you might like some company for lunch.”

“You know - ex-husbands don't usually just hang out with their ex-wives.”

“When have we ever been ordinary though?” He's exhaustingly chipper today - a far cry from his demeanour during the latter years of your marriage.

You take him in, trying to work out if this is all some big practical joke. After trying to tell yourself that the Abbot-Mohan wedding was a fluke, you grudgingly have to admit to yourself that Robby does look good.

He's got exactly the right amount of scruff going for him right now, he's lost the alcohol bloat, and he seems like there's less of the world's weight on his shoulders.

“I don't think this is a good idea.”

“Lunch is always a good idea,” He replies easily. “Three meals a day, and all that.”

There's no way out of this. Once Robby sets his mind to something, he's going to get it. Sighing heavily, you reach for your bag and jacket. “Only if you're paying.”

“Always, sweetheart.”

You fight the urge to remind him that your salary exceeds his by about 40k a year these days, with all the private work.

Even when you were married, you were still the official breadwinner of the family. Skin pays more than emergencies.

“And don't call me sweetheart.”

You're expecting some kind of quip, or snarky remark, but he just nods, and offers you his hand. “Got it.”

“We're not holding hands.”

Another nod, and he follows you out of the clinic and onto the street. You pretend to miss the looks exchanged between your staff.

A few of them know Robby already, and you're betting the ones that don't are wondering why you've been keeping him a secret.

“Noted. Hand-holding's more of a date two activity then?”

The expression on your face is nothing short of murderous. “This is not a date. It's lunch.”

“With somebody you've slept with many, many times before.”

Whatever illusions you'd managed to conjure of Robby after the wedding are completely shattered.

Because Michael Robinavitch is many things, but cool and suave are not amongst them. He's annoying and persistent, and a bad husband.

“I'm going back inside and ordering from Uber Eats-”

“No, no, no - wait!” A hand curls round your wrist, and you think that there might be a hint of desperation in his tone. “M'sorry, shit - just, don't go.”

“Why not?” Yanking your arm out of his grasp, you cross them both over your chest, and do your best to stare him down.

He swallows heavily, voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. “I miss you.”

"Robby," You sigh, but he cuts you off.

"We were in each other's lives for almost a decade - don't you think it's a little unnatural for that to have all disappeared? Surely we can be friends."

You have to bite back a scream. "If I remember correctly, it was you who didn't want to be friends."

"I didn't want us to break up in the first place!"

It slips out without thought, and you're suddenly regretting taking a lunch break at all. "I'm not doing this here," You start, but he beats you to the draw.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He scratches the back of his neck, and glances around the sidewalk before his chin drops to his chest. "I've been doing the work. Going to therapy, no more alcohol, you name it. M'even taking some time off work to really get into it all."

The Robby you were married to would never have considered taking the blame for his actions.

"Can't undo the last decade, Michael," you reply softly.

"I know," he insists. "I know. Believe me. It's a well-discussed topic in therapy. I just... I'm trying to be better. And I want to try and make things right with you. One hundred percent platonically."

"You literally just called this a date," you deadpan.

He scoffs. "I didn't say I was perfect."

Number three. Twenty months post-divorce. Another man.

Apparently, you and Robby text now.

You're as surprised as anybody else, but in the time you've been separated, Robby's persistence appears to have intensified greatly.

Each Thursday, he meets you at the clinic for lunch, having bribed newly-qualified attending Frank to cover for him.

He offers to pick you up after nights out, which you accept more often than not (you hate getting Ubers when you're drunk).

Currently?

He's fixing your busted boiler.

You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't dropped it into a text because you knew that he would drop everything to come and fix it for you. Even with a sabbatical looming in just a week, his reply had been instantaneous.

Now, you're perched on the washing machine while you watch a sweaty Robby tinker around in the washroom.

He's already been warned that you have a date tonight, and therefore has to be finished by seven - complete honesty is the main policy of this tentatively developing friendship.

All you'd received in response had been a thumbs up.

That means he's furious.

Really, it had been a little mean on your part. But he doesn't have a claim to you anymore, and you need him to know that if he's going to still be in your life.

When you excuse yourself to the bathroom, you're not expecting your phone to be in Robby's hand when you return. "Roger from Hinge said he's going to be late tonight."

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Your phone vibrated. Thought it might have been an emergency."

You snatch it out of his grasp and scowl. "Why would an emergency text and not call?"

You both go to step at once, awkwardly colliding chest-to-chest. "Can I see a picture of him?"

"What? No!"

"Why not? Thought we were being honest."

It amazes you that Robby manages to somehow be the most serious man you've ever met, and also emulate a toddler with his petulance. You reach for your phone, and don't even notice Robby dipping his head.

His lips are on yours, and suddenly you're twenty-six again and making out with your attending for the first time after the worst shift of your life.

You'd already decided that Emergency Medicine was not for you, but that Michael Robinavitch absolutely was.

In your head, it was going to be a fling. Something sexy and secret for your final year of med school.

The wedding had been a surprise - you never thought that Robby was the type.

The 3 carat emerald cut bezel had told you otherwise. You'd never been able to build up the courage to ask him exactly how much money he spent on it.

The divorce had been an even bigger surprise.

Not to you, by the end. The last eighteen months of your seven-year-marriage had been decidedly less-than-stellar, to the point where couples counselling couldn't even make a dent.

After COVID and Pittfest, you didn't even recognise your husband anymore. You didn't recognise yourself.

While your mind might be surprised by the contact, your body certainly isn't, and you gasp into his mouth.

His hands are everywhere, hauling you closer to him, and you can feel your carefully-applied lipstick smudging across his cheek.

It's only after two minutes of kissing that you finally pull back, and surface to catch your breath. "Robby, I have to go - I have plans."

He's not quite so easily deterred, though. "Yeah, with a guy who looks just like me." You didn't even make it to showing Robby his photo, and yet he's right. Tall, dark, and broody - you've very clearly got a type. He leans in to kiss you again, feeling a perverse sense of pleasure when you melt into his touch. "You could have the real thing, baby. I'm right here."

That's the problem. Ever since you reconnected with him at Jack and Samira's wedding, it's like Robby has been everywhere.

He's practically inescapable.

He moves to suck a mark onto your collarbone, and you make the feeblest of attempts to push him off. "This is a bad idea."

"It's only a bad idea if we make it one," Robby hums, crowding you up against the kitchen counter, as you feel your willpower start to seep away. You have plans with Roger in thirty minutes.

But when Robby sinks to his knees in front of you, hiking one leg over his shoulder, you forget he even exists. “Say the word, and I will,” He mumbles.

There are many words that would end this right now.

Stop. No. Don't.

And yet, your lips can't seem to conjure any of them. You try and form each of the letters, but the only one that forms is an R.

Then an O.

Two B's.

And a Y.

He doesn't need to move your underwear to get you where you need to go. Kissing and nipping, licking and sucking - your grip on the doorframe tightens with every passing second.

Suddenly, you're struck with a vision of a morning with Robby, a week before you filed for divorce. A vision of what your future could be like if you let him in again.

The television hums in the background, something neither of you is watching. Dinner's been sitting in the oven on low for almost half an hour. The chicken is drying out.

You hear him sigh before he even rounds the corner into the kitchen.

"Hey." His voice is flat. Tired.

You look up from the sink. "Hey."

He drops his keys into the bowl by the door. Misses. Doesn't bother picking them up.

"Long day?"

"Mhm."

You wait for something more. Anything. But it doesn't come.

"You want me to plate up dinner?"

"If you want."

It's always 'if you want' these days. It's a Herculean effort to bite your tongue. "My brother called - asked if we wanted to come round next weekend."

"M'working." It's barely more than a grunt.

"You've worked the last six Saturdays - surely someone else could cover. Jack would cover. You could tell them no for once."

"I can't."

"You mean you won't."

"Stop!"

Your voice is the firmest it's been all night. Chest heaving, it's all you can manage to scramble away from Robby. He kneels where he is, hands hesitating where you were just a second ago.

"W-What's wrong? Did I do something?"

Your lip is trembling. “I don't think I can do this again. You hurt me so much, Michael. I-I mean, you're fucking leaving in a week-”

Robby's face falls.

“M'going on sabbatical, not leaving. I'm really trying to work the rest of my shit out. Let me do that, and then let me win you back. Please. I haven't done any of this solely to get you back. But I can't imagine being with anyone else.”

He folds his hands together.

"I spent a long time thinking providing was enough. That if I worked harder, put in more hours, kept the lights on, paid the mortgage..." He shrugs. "That was love."

"You stopped talking to me."

"I know."

"You stopped letting me in."

"I know."

Finally, you summon the courage to ask the million dollar question. "Would it be different this time? If we did it again?"

"Yes." He sounds so sure of his answer that you're almost envious.

But you're still not quite ready. "I hope you're not expecting me to sit at home for three months and wait for you."

"Never," he replies immediately, and you genuinely believe him. "I just want to be in the running again. And earn it. Properly."

Number four. Two years post-divorce. A date.

Robby. 22:01. Just got back to town What are you up to?

You hate your heart for doing a little flip as soon as it sees Robby's name flash on your phone.

Two years ago, the same sight made you sick to your stomach.

He had told you that he'd be in touch when he was finished with his sabbatical, but you assumed that meant you'd get a call a week after he was home. Not the same night.

Maybe Michael Robinavitch has had some character growth. Maybe he could be a good husband this time round-

No. You can't let yourself think like that.

You and Robby got divorced for a reason. Many reasons. More reasons than you got married in the first place.

He was married to his work, first and foremost. Never once did he stray, and he barely even glanced at the nurses and interns who would look at him with stars in their eyes, and yet you were still the other woman within your own marriage.

Then there were the self-destructive tendencies. The times when he'd hit the alcohol a little too hard after a long shift, and be almost unresponsive for hours as he slept it off.

Mostly, you think it was the refusal to try and help himself.

To try therapy. Properly. Not just a few meetings before calling it quits, but really making some efforts towards self-improvement. He couldn't do it for himself, and he wouldn't do it for you.

You couldn't handle the stress long-term. Of not knowing when he'd be home that night, or whether you were getting sweet, romantic Michael, or sour-faced Robby.

It had been the hardest decision of your life, serving him with divorce papers.

But it clearly all worked out for the better. You're both healthier apart, though happier is probably debatable. You like the peace that being single affords you.

So why are you considering letting him back in, after all the therapy and work to get over him?

"Is everything okay?" Mark's voice cuts through your spiral, and your gaze snaps up to him.

"Hm?"

"You get bad news or something? You've been staring at your phone for like two minutes."

Shit.

Your fingers start moving before you can consider your response. If Robby's matured so much, he'll be perfectly alright with this.

You. 22:04. I'm on a date, actually

"Sorry, it was just work. Asking for a consult." Your smile is tight, and you're hoping he doesn't see through the very obvious lie.

If he does, he doesn't comment on it, and you return to your conversation about shares, or stocks, or something equally boring.

Robby had handled all the investment stuff while you were married, and now you pay someone to do it for you.

Finally, he heads up to the bar to get more drinks, and you slip your phone out again.

Robby. 22:05. When will you be done? I'll come and pick you up. Miss my girl.

A text like that from anybody other than Robby would have earned an instant block. Unfortunately, despite his three months away, you're still not immune to the Robinavitch charm.

You never have been.

Besides - you'd already decided you weren't going to sleep with Mark tonight. He's a nice enough guy, but the deal had been sealed when you'd been discussing music, and he hadn't known who Patti Smith was. This man is not your soulmate. But going home alone would mean a date with your vibrator, and one orgasm at most.

Robby would double that, at least.

You. 22:21. ...Not your girl But you can pick me up around 11.

You shoot him the address of the bar, and consider how you're definitely going to hell for this.

The rest of the date passes in half-time, so painfully slowly that you figure you must have a few new wrinkles than you did at the start. Finally, it's time to make your escape. To ease the impending blow, you throw down your half of the cheque in notes, along with a sizeable tip. "You know, I'm really sorry, but there actually was a work emergency. Thought it would be okay, but they need me in."

"A... dermatology emergency?"

"They're more common than you'd think - my colleague is coming to pick me up," You lie through your teeth. "But I had a really nice night."

Another lie.

You try to dart out so that Mark won't see you leave with Robby, but no luck. The motorcycle is pulled up to the curb with Robby leaning against it, a second helmet in his hands.

“I thought you were going to bring the car!” You hiss, throwing Mark an apologetic glance over your shoulder.

"Bike was what I was riding, and I missed my girl. Mark have a problem with that?"

"If he knew you were my ex, probably."

Maybe you and Robby do deserve each other. God, you're awful. Robby clips the helmet under your chin, and you pretend to not notice your date's gaze staring at you both while he waits for his car to be brought round.

"You ready?"

You nod, though you feel anything but. You've never liked the bike, much to Robby's chagrin. One of his favourite things is having you wrap your arms around his waist while he drives.

*****

Fuck, he knows you too well. It's almost unfair, that even after over a year of separation that he still knows you better than anybody in the world.

There are no pleasantries. No discussions. Just a beeline for the house, before clothes are discarded in a haphazard manner as you try and make it to the bedroom in one piece.

You don't quite make it there before Robby gives you orgasm number one. Torso on the top landing, he gets carried away on the staircase, leaving you totally seeing stars.

Thankfully, he's more than familiar with the house layout, and carries you the rest of the way.

“W-Wait - condom," You interrupt. Last thing you need is a baby to complicate matters. He reaches for the bedside table, complete muscle memory, but you shake your head. “Down one.”

He huffs a little, obviously put out at the change in what he still considers to be his home.

Of course, the fact that you have these at all makes his blood boil a little.

Not that you can't have seen other people.

You've been separated for almost two years, and were growing apart long before that, but god is he so glad to have you like this again. In the home that you both shared - on the bed that he paid for.

Like nothing ever went wrong.

Determined to put the memory of all other men to shame, Robby takes you around his cock, before giving you his fingers and tongue again. By the time you come down, you're more spent than he's ever seen you before.

You're barely awake as you curl into his side. "How was the trip?"

"Really great," he answers honestly. "Did me a lot of good, but I'm glad to be back. Missed you too much."

"Shouldn't be telling you this," you hum slightly, eyes fluttering closed. "But I missed you too."

Number five. Three years post-divorce. Forever.

“You have some white coming in,” You hum, fingers carding through Robby's hair where his head rests in your lap. The windows are cracked open just enough to let a breeze in, and you can hear the faint sounds of a lawn mower down the street.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

You separate a few strands between your fingers, tilting his head toward the light. "Right here. My favourite old man."

Robby scoffs. "That feels excessive."

"Well, you did marry a woman eighteen years younger than you. Feels like something you brought on yourself."

You think back to the man who used to come home after twelve-hour shifts, kiss you on the forehead, tell you he was just tired, then carry the weight of the world around in silence until it crushed everything else.

This version of Robby still has bad days.

Still wakes up anxious sometimes. Annoyed. Still gets overwhelmed by work. Still occasionally retreats to the garage or the backyard for half an hour when his head gets too loud.

The difference is that he always comes back.

And he lets you help.

Sure, it had been a little embarrassing announcing that you were back with your ex-husband - especially after all the shit that had gone down between you both.

But Robby had been right.

There's no one else you could ever imagine being with.

Despite all this, you're still shocked when the next words fall from his lips. "Marry me."

"What?" Your fingers freeze mid-motion, and you try to gage from his upside-down expression whether he's joking or not. You don't think he is.

"Marry me. Again."

"Holy shit," You breathe, head spinning. "What? Are you joking?"

He sits up, turning to take your hands in his. "Deadly serious, sweetheart. I uh, didn't really know what the etiquette was for this kind of thing - I know you liked your first ring, but that felt sort of like bad karma. So I was thinking, if you say yes, we could go shopping for a new one together."

A few years ago, you would have been making the biggest mistake of your life. Now, you don't feel a shred of hesitation. "Yes."

His face breaks into a smile. "Yeah?"

You nod, lip between your teeth as you fight back tears. "Fuck it. Let's get married again."

Alfie’s bakery itself was not much to look at from the street, it was nothing but a modest front of brick and glass with the name painted in gold that had started to flake, but everyone knew it was only ever half the story. The real money never came from loaves. The real money came from the rum barrels tucked away, from the horses, and the shipments whose contents were merely whispers. The bakery was a convenience, a respectable face. Somewhere men could come and go without drawing the wrong kind of eyes.

Alfie sat behind his wooden desk, his bulk filled the chair like a man who had never learned the art of taking up less space than he was owed. His coat was open, his waistcoat strained across his middle, and the gold chain of his watch winked every time he moved his arm. 

He was tapping one finger on an irregular rhythm against the wood. Ollie hovered near the door that led out of his office, nervous in the way he shouldn’t be after working for Alfie for so long. “Come on, Alfie,” Ollie said, pitching his voice low so the hopefuls waiting beyond the door wouldn’t hear the impatience in it. “Everyone’s waiting. Some of them have been standing out there since before sunrise. They’re starting to look like they might riot”

Alfie did not look up, instad he placed the glass of whisky he’d been holding on the desk. When he spoke, each syllable sounded chewed and considered. “Ollie, my boy… I don’t see why I need to bother with this. You see, I could put a donkey out there to bake the bread and I still wouldn’t give a shit. The lads would still buy it because they’re hungry and they’re not particular and this is Camden, not the fucking Ritz.”

Ollie shifted his weight from one polished shoe to the other. “So should I… just point? Pick someone? There’s a big bloke with big arms who looks like he could knead dough for twelve hours straight without blinking.”

Alfie’s head came up at last. “Just choose the one who looks the more competent,” he said, waving one large hand in a vague circle. “Competent. You know the word? Means they won’t burn the place down or poison the customers or, god forbid, start getting ideas about unions. If they look like they’ve ever thought a complicated thought in their life, send them packing.”

Ollie hesitated, and the silence stretched. “But we told everyone to bring something freshly baked,” he said carefully. “That was the whole point, Alfie. So you could taste it. So it—”

“Holy fuck, Ollie.” Alfie’s voice rose without quite becoming a shout, it never needed to, the way he said it was enough. He leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the desk. “You know what? Tell them to come in. One by one. Go.”

Ollie went. He opened the office door and the murmur of voices from the shop floor swelled for a moment, the men shifting impatently, people who needed work and they’d been forced to waste an entire morning in this shithole. It all cut off as Ollie cleared his throat and called the first name.

The man who entered Alfie’s office was broad across the shoulders and thick through the middle. He carried a cloth-wrapped bundle in both hands, stopped a respectful distance from the desk and waited.

Alfie regarded him in silence for a long moment. Then he made a small gesture with two fingers. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Show us what you’ve brought, my son.”

The man unwrapped the cloth with careful fingers. Inside lay a round loaf, still faintly warm. The smell that rose from it was good enough, of yeast and a hot oven. He set it on the table and Alfie tore a piece free with his fingers. He brought it to his nose first, sniffed once, then again with suspicion. Then he put it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, his face remaining carefully blank for three full seconds. Then he twitched the corner of his mouth, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. He chewed once more, swallowed with effort, and set the remainder of the bread down.

“What,” he said, very quietly, “in the name of every living, suffering creature, is this supposed to be?” The man opened his mouth, but Alfie raised one finger, and the man closed it again. “I have eaten things in the trenches that had more dignity than this. I have eaten things that tried to eat me back and still managed to leave a better impression. This—” he poked the loaf with one finger “—this is an insult to the very concept of bread. Worst thing I have ever put in my mouth, and I have put some deeply questionable things in my mouth in my time, let me tell you. Fuck off. Take your sad little brick and fuck off.”

The man’s face went from red to a blotchy purple. He snatched up the remaining bread, muttered something that might have been an apology or a curse, and retreated so quickly he nearly collided with the doorframe. Ollie ushered him out with the face of someone who had seen this particular performance from Alfie before, many times, and still found it freshly exhausting.

The door closed. The room settled back into its warm, yeasty quiet. Alfie wiped his fingers on a handkerchief that had seen better decades and muttered something under his breath about the decline of standards in the baking trades.

Ollie opened the door again.

“Next,” he called. You stepped through, and the change in the air was immediate, though neither Alfie nor Ollie could have said exactly why. The heat of the room seemed to pause as you carried your own cloth-wrapped offering, the warmth of it still seeping through the fabric into your hands.

Alfie looked up and whatever cutting remark or theatrical sigh he had been preparing died somewhere between his chest and his throat. His blue eyes, usually so quick to narrow in suspicion or amusement, widened by a fraction. He sat very still, watching something unexpected that had just walked into his kingdom.

You looked, to him, like something that did not belong in the back room of a Camden bakery that doubled as a front for darker enterprises. The light from the high window caught you just so, turning the edges of you luminous, almost lke a halo. An angel, he thought, with sudden clarity. He forgot, for several long heartbeats, that he was meant to be hiring a baker, he simply looked at you.

You could feel the heat of the place settling onto your skin, but you kept your shoulders straight, and your chin lifted just enough. “Good morning, Mr Solomons,” you said. “I’m here for the baker position.”

Alfie’s mouth twitched in something both softer and more dangerous than a smile. He sat back slowly in the chair, and regarded you as if you had just walked out of a different century entirely.

“And what’s your name, love?” he asked. You told him and the sound of it hung there in the room for a moment. Alfie roamed his eyes over your face as if he were committing the shape of it to memory. “Beautiful name,” he said. “Beautiful.” The second time his voice came out quieter, like he was saying it almost to himself. He cleared his throat. “Well then, let’s see what you’ve brought me. Don’t just stand there looking like a painting, show us the goods.”

You stepped closer to the table and set the cloth-wrapped parcel down with care. You unwrapped it slowly, revealing the poppy seed cake beneath. The scent rose immediately, the sweetness of a cake baked that morning and no earlier. Alfie leaned forward, reaching out for it with one hand and tearing a piece free with surprising gentleness. He brought it first to his nose, sniffed once and then put it in his mouth.

The change in his face was almost immediate, the scowl that lived around his mouth eased, and his eyes half-closed for a moment. He chewed slowly, and when he swallowed, he looked at the remaining cake as if it was offensive to taste so good.

“Fuck me,” he muttered. Then, louder, “This… this tastes like the one my mother used to bake, the exact same. She used to make it on Fridays… haven’t tasted anything close in years.” He looked up at you. “Proper little miracle, this is.”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. You’d been complimented for your baking a million times, but somehow this felt more personal than any other nice word you’d received. “I’m glad,” you said simply.

Alfie tore another piece, smaller this time, and ate it with the same thoughtfulness. He wiped his fingers on the handkerchief and sat back. “So, why d’you want the job, love? Pretty thing like you. Could be doing a hundred other things that don’t involve getting flour up to the elbows”

You met his gaze and went with the most honest answer. “I’m seeking a little more independence.”

The word seemed to amuse him, he let out a sound, close to a laugh, that rumbled out of his chest. “Independence?” He spread his hands, the heavy rings catching the light. “Well I’m all about women’s independence, ain’t that right, Ollie?” He glanced toward the door where his assistant still hovered. “Tell her, Ollie. Tell her how progressive I am. How I believe a woman should be free to earn her own coin and stand on her own two feet and not have to ask some useless bastard for permission every time she wants a new hat. Go on.”

Ollie cleared his throat, internally rolling his eyes with disdain. “Yes, Alfie. Very progressive. You’ve said so. Many times.”

“See?” Alfie turned back to you. “Independence. Beautiful word. Almost as beautiful as your name. Almost.” He tilted his head, studying you. “You married, love?”

You moved your right hand without conscious thought, brushed the simple band on your ring finger. You let your fingertips rest there a moment longer than necessary, making sure he saw it. “I am,” you said. “Is that a problem?”

Alfie’s gaze lingered on your hand. Specifically on the ring, not too big, not too shiny or flashy. And he saw the way you curled your fingers protectively around it. “No,” he said slowly. “Not a problem. Happily married, are we?”

The lie came easier after being said so many times before. “Yes.”

Alfie made a small sound in the back of his throat. He looked down at the cake again, tore another piece, and spoke around it, low enough that you couldn’t hear. “We’ll see about that.”

He chewed, swallowed, and set the rest of the piece down with care. “I’m not gonna lie to you, love,” he said, louder now, businesslike again. “Your cake is excellent. Proper excellent. But look at you.” He gestured with one hand, encompassing all of you from the crown of your head to the hem of your skirt. “Look at those arms. You think you can knead bread for hours on end? Proper kneading. You think you can haul sacks of flour up from the cellar when the delivery comes? This is a working bakery.”

You straightened your shoulders, lifting your chin with the stubborn defiance that had carried you this far into the room. Ever the little fighter, determined not to let this opportunity slip away, you met Alfie’s gaze. “I’m stronger than I look.”

Alfie studied you for a long moment. “I don’t want to discriminate on account of your sex, believe me,” he said at last. “I am a modern man. Progressive, like Ollie said. But we’ve always had male bakers here. Big lads who can lift and carry and sweat without anyone batting an eye. A woman like you…” He swept his gaze over you again, slower this time, lingering in ways that had nothing to do with assessing upper body strength. “A woman like you could be out front, smiling at the customers. But sadly all those positions are taken, and I don’t see how putting you in the back is anything but a waste of something that looks like it belongs in a different sort of room entirely.”

You stepped closer to the table, close enough to smell the rum scent lingering in his clothes.  “Please, Mr Solomons. I’ll work harder than any of those men out there will. I can assure you of that. Harder, and better. I won’t complain, I won’t show up late, Iwon’t drink on the job or pick fights. Give me the chance and I’ll prove it. Every single day.”

Alfie watched you, drumming his fingers once against the wood, then twice before he stilled. “You know what,” he said slowly, lifting the corner of his mouth. “I like your attitude. There’s fire in you. Didn’t expect that, not with the face of an angel."

Ollie raked his eyes over you with suspicion. His voice, when it came, was deliberately unfriendly. “Do you have any references from previous employers?”

You met his gaze without flinching. “No. I haven’t worked before. But I’m very responsible, I learn quickly, and I brought the cake so you could judge the work for yourself.”

Ollie turned his head just enough to catch Alfie’s eye. The look he gave him was a silent don’t even think about it. The kind of look that said this was a bad idea, that a woman with no references and a pretty face was more trouble than she was worth.

Alfie ignored the look completely. “Ah, references,” he said, the word rolling out like it was something ridiculous. “Who needs references, Ollie? What am I supposed to do with a letter from some old bastard who thinks she knows how to bake? I don’t need a prick telling me she’s good. I can taste it in the cake. References.” He snorted. “References are for men who can’t trust their own tongue. I trust mine. And my tongue is telling me this woman knows what she’s doing. She’s hired.”

Ollie opened his mouth. “Alfie…”

But Alfie was already looking at you again. “Welcome to the bakery, love. Try not to let Ollie’s worrying rub off on you. He means well… mostly.”

Behind you, Ollie made a strangled sound. “Alfie… there’s like fifteen other people out there. Don’t you want to talk to them first? The one with the big arms is still waiting. And there’s a fellow who used to work at that place up in—”

Alfie did not even turn his head, his eyes remained on you. “Shut up, Ollie.” The command was soft but absolute. “The lady here is hired. End of discussion. Tell the rest of them to fuck off and find honest work elsewhere. Or dishonest work. I don’t care. Just get them out of my bakery before I decide to start charging them rent for standing around.”

Ollie opened his mouth, but he thought anything he could say was simply pointless when his boss’s head was set around something, so he closed it, nodded once, and slipped out the door. 

You stood very still in the suddenly quieter room, feeling your heart beating steady and hard against your ribs. “Thank you so much, Mr Solomons,” you said with a wide smile adorning your face.

Alfie waved the gratitude away with one hand, though the look in his eyes said he was filing the sound of your voice saying his name somewhere private. “We expect you here in the morning. Every day. Four a.m. sharp until two in the afternoon. Sixty shillings a week. How does that sound?”

Sixty… The number was generous, more than generous. You knew it, and he knew you knew it. “Excellent,” you said.

The door opened again, and Ollie, who had clearly been listening to the conversation, hovered on the threshold, looking like he'd aged five years in the last two minutes.

“Alfie,” he said carefully, “we paid forty the last one. And he worked three hours more every day. Forty shillings and he was grateful for it.”

Alfie finally turned his head. The look he gave his assistant could have made some people piss themselves. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up, Ollie? Or do I need to write it down? Big letters, so even a man like you could understand. The lady is hired. Sixty shillings. Four until two. And if I hear one more word about the previous arrangement or the previous baker or any other previous fucking thing, I will personally see to it that your next position involves a great deal more lifting and a great deal less talking. Clear?”

Ollie swallowed. “Clear, Alfie.”

“Good.” Alfie turned back to you, and the irritation melted out of his face as if it had never been there, replaced by something softer. He gestured at the remaining cake with one thick finger. “Take the rest home with you, love. No, no, leave it. I’ll finish it myself and think of my mother and the way things used to taste before the world got bloody and full of people who can’t bake for shit. Either way.” He sat back. “Six a.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late. I hate lateness.”

You thanked him again, the words soft but sincere. “Thank you, Mr Solomons. Truly. You won’t be disappointed, I promise you that.” With one last small nod, you turned toward the door, and stepped out, your heart still racing from the weight of the moment. 

Minutes after you left, Alfie tore another piece of cake free, and ate it slowly, with his eyes half-lidded, tasting memories and not just the sugar and butter. Ollie closed the door with more force than necessary and turned. For a moment he simply stood there, then he folded his arms.

“Progressive, huh?” he said. The words were laced either an edge of accusation. “You’re a progressive man?”

Alfie did not look up. Instead he chewed, swallowed, and reached for another piece of cake.

“I can be,” he said around the mouthful. “I contain multitudes, Ollie. Depths. A man can evolve, a man can look at the world as it is and decide, on a Tuesday afternoon, that perhaps the old ways are not the only ways. Women earning their own keep, women standing on their own two feet. Yes, I can be progressive. Watch me.”

Ollie took a step closer, making the floorboards complain under even his light weight. “Sixty shillings. You’ve lost your mind.”

The piece of cake in Alfie’s hand was forgotten, crumbs clinging to his waistcoat. “Don’t talk to me like that, you little shit. That woman was something special. I could see it in her eyes. I think it’s gonna be good to keep her around. Useful…. decorative, possibly both. And if I want to pay her sixty shillings a week, then that is my business. My bakery, my coin, and my progressive fucking principles.”

Ollie let out a short, incredulous breath. He glanced at the closed door as if the fifteen rejected men might still be pressed against it listening. “You wanna know what I saw?”

Alfie waved his hand in a lazy and dismissive arc. “Nah. Not really. I find that most of the time when people offer to share what they saw it turns out to be something tedious and moralising and ultimately none of their concern. Spare me the sermon, Ollie.”

Ollie did not spare him. “That you want to sleep with the woman,” he said, each word precise. “That’s why you gave her that ridiculous payment. That’s why you didn’t even look at the others. That’s why you’re sitting there eating her cake like it’s a religious experience and talking about her eyes like she’s the first pretty face that ever walked into this place. You want her. Plain and simple. And you’re dressing it up as noble intentions and women’s independence so you don’t have to admit that you just got his head turned by a married girl.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Alfie set the remaining piece of cake down with exaggerated care. He brushed the crumbs from his fingers one by one, and then he leaned forward. When he spoke, the voice that came out was wounded and theatrically offended.

“What?” He let the single word hang there. “You’re saying,” he continued, “that my noble intentions of employing a young woman in seek of her financial independence are merely the result of me wanting to get between her legs? That the sixty shillings, a fair wage, a progressive, right? Progressive wage, a wage that says ‘here is a woman who will not be underpaid simply because the world has decided her labour is worth less’  is somehow a bribe? A down payment on future fornication? That I, I, looked at that angel-faced creature and thought only of tumbling her into the nearest flat surface like some common beast in heat?”

“That’s exactly what I saw,” Ollie said.

Alfie’s eyes were wide with manufactured horror. “You got a sick mind, Ollie. Proper diseased. You disgust me. Truly. I am sitting here trying to do a good deed in a wicked world, and you reduce it to base carnality. I am wounded, I am wounded in my progressive soul. My mother, God rest her, would be spinning in her grave if she could hear the filth you just poured into this sacred place. I hope you can imagine the depths of my distress.”

Ollie opened his mouth, but Alfie raised one finger. “No. Do not speak. Do not compound the obscenity by trying to justify it. I have hired a baker, a baker whose cake has temporarily restored my faith in the concept of home and family. That is all, if she happens to have a face that could make the sanest man go absolutely mad, that is incidental, purely incidental. And if I choose to pay her what she is worth instead of what the market has decided a woman is worth, that is called being a man of fucking principle. Principle. Look it up, it’s in the dictionary.”

He picked up the last piece of cake, bit into it and chewed with defiant pleasure, the poppy seeds cracked between his teeth. “Now, go and make sure those rejects have properly dispersed. I don’t want them lingering here. And Ollie?”

Ollie, who had gone a mottled shade of angry red. “Yes, Alfie?”

“If you ever again suggest that my interest in that woman’s employment is anything other than pure and high-minded and deeply, almost spiritually progressive…” Alfie smiled then. “I will introduce you to a concept called unemployment. Clear?”

“Clear, Alfie.”

“Good boy.” Alfie waved him off with the hand that still held the final crumb of cake. “Fuck off and be useful. And by the way, her cake is indeed a religious experience, you should buy a slice tomorrow afternoon.”

Ollie fled, leaving Alfie sitting alone in the room. His eyes had gone distant, fixed on the place where you had stood only minutes before. He murmured to the empty room. “Happily married. We’ll fucking see.”

***

You woke before the sun had risen, dressing quickly and buttoning up your dress with steady fingers even though your pulse was not so steady. You pinned your hair back, simple and practical, nothing that would get in the way. The streets of Camden were quiet at that hour, you walked with your coat pulled tight and a cloth bag with your clean apron.

The bakery blinds were already open when you reached it, a yellow light spilling from the high windows onto the pavement. You pushed inside, and Ollie was waiting for you with an expression of lingering disapproval.

“You’re early,” he said. “Good. Alfie hates lateness. Come on then. I’ll show you the lay of it before the real work starts.”

He took you through everything with efficiency, as if he had done this too many times and still found it tedious. The big brick ovens along the back wall, the flour sacks stacked in the cellar, the schedule chalked on a board. “Don’t skimp, he’ll know. The knives are sharp. If you cut yourself, try not to bleed into the dough, it puts the customers off. Apron on, hair up, sleeves rolled. Questions?”

Before you could open your mouth, Ollie was already turning around, leaving you to it with a muttered “Don’t burn the place down” and disappearing toward the front to deal with the early delivery men.

You tied your apron, rolled your sleeves, washed your hands in the stone sink, and then you began. The rye bread came first. You mixed by what felt right more than the measurements that were written on the board. Your hands knew the work, push, fold, turn, push again, until the dough stopped fighting and began to mold under your palms. 

The first hours passed in a blur, feeling physical satisfaction of work that asked something real of your body. By the time the clock on the wall showed half past five, the bread loaves were rising in the ovens and the honey cakes were cooling on the racks. You had moved on to the next batch, your arms ached in the good way, and flour dusted your forearms and the front of your apron, with a streak of it that had somehow found your cheek. 

You had just finished with the onion rolls for the afternoon orders, when the fine hairs on the back of your neck lifted. Someone was behind you, close enough to hear their breathing. You spun, feeling your heart slamming hard against your ribs, a sound catching in your throat before you could stop it.

Alfie stood there in the middle of the kitchen, filling the space between the benches. “Calm down, love,” he said. “It’s just little old me.”

You pressed a floury hand to your chest, trying to slow the frantic beat. “Sorry, Mr Solomons. You scared me.”

He tilted his head, fighting back a smile. “Am I seriously that ugly? Proper frighten the pretty ladies, do I? Make small children cry at the mere sight of my face?”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could catch it. “No. No, of course not. I just wasn’t expecting you here. It took me by surprise.”

“And why is that?” He stepped closer, not enough to crowd, but enough that the heat of him mixed with the heat of the ovens. “I wanted to see how my newest employee is adapting on her first day. Call it quality control.”

You wiped your hands on your apron, leaving white streaks on it. “Everything’s going well so far. The batches of bread are ready. The honey cakes are cooling. And now I’m on the onion rolls for the afternoon orders. The dough’s almost ready for its second prove.”

Alfie breathed in deep, expanding his chest and half-closing his eyes for a moment. “Wonderful. Fucking amazing. This place smells great. You’ve got the gift, love. I knew it the second I tasted that cake yesterday. My mother would have approved, and she didn’t approve of much. Especially not me.”

You felt the flush rise again, part of it was pride, but the other something you couldn’t quite name. “You won’tregret hiring me. I promised I’d work harder than any of those men. I meant it.”

He waved one hand. “We’ll go on, love. I’ll let you work. Don’t let the presence of management put you off your stroke.” He said it, and then he did not leave.

You turned back to the onion rolls dough because the alternative was to keep staring at him like a fool. You floured the bench, turned the dough out, and began to knead again. The muscles in your arms and shoulders felt the work even while every nerve ending remained painfully aware of the man standing three feet behind you. You could feel his eyes, the weight of them, how they tracked the movement of your hands, the line of your back, the stray curl that had escaped your pins and now clung to the damp skin of your neck.

Minutes stretched, finally you spoke without turning, keeping your voice carefully light. “Am I doing anything wrong? Or is this an evaluation of some sort?”

Alfie’s reply came thoughtful, the words rolled around his mouth. “Just observing how you handle things, love. The way you touch the dough. I am expanding my mind.”

You kept kneading, though your hands had gone a fraction less sure. “I just know you’re a busy man. I imagined you had more important things to do than watch someone make onion rolls at six in the morning.”

“Nonsense.” The word was firm. He moved then, you heard the creak of the floorboards, and came to lean against the edge of the bench beside you, close enough that his coat brushed your skirt. “Nothing more important than this. The bakery is the face we show the world. So yes, watching you work is important. Critical, even.”

There was a pause, you felt him studying your profile. “So,” he said, quieter. “You know about me, huh?”

You glanced sideways. “A little. I mean… everyone does.”

“And aren’t you afraid?”

The question hung between you, but you kept working, pushing the dough into itself, feeling it grow silkier. “No,” you said with honesty. “I’ve heard the good things too.”

Alfie raised his eyebrows in what was a sceptical lift. “Yeah? What good? Don’t spare my blushes, love. I can take it, I’ve got a weak sense of shame.”

You hesitated only a moment. “I had a cousin who came back blind from the war. Last year he got a dog, a guide dog, trained, from that Blind Jew charity. Everyone knows it was thanks to one of your donations. He walks free now because of it.”

For a long moment the only sounds were the roar of the ovens and the rhythmic slap of the dough against wood. Alfie looked away, drumming his fingers once on the edge of the bench. “Oh. That?” He made a dismissive gesture, but it lacked conviction. “That’s nothing. Loose change. Don’t go making me into a saint, love. Saints don’t last long around here. That’s not goodness. That’s just… a clear conscience for five minutes.”

He fell silent. You kept kneading because your hands needed something to do. The dough was ready now, you shaped the rolls and set them in the oiled bowl, covered it with a clean cloth. Only then did you look at him fully, Alfie was watching you with an expression you had not seen on him before. Something that looked almost like hunger, though whether for the honey cakes cooling on the rack or for the woman who was standing in front of him was impossible for you to say.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he murmured. “Turn up with a cake that tastes like my childhood. Refuse to be afraid and quote my better deeds back at me.” He dropped his eyes briefly to your left hand, then lifted again. “Happily married. Still sticking to that story, are we?”

You did not answer, and so Alfie pushed off the bench with a grunt. “Right. I’ve taken enough of your time, love. Carry on, make me proud, make the neighbourhood weep with joy at the quality of their morning loaf. And if anyone gives you trouble, the lads, the customers, Ollie with his little disapproving face, you come find me. I’ll sort it. Personally.”

Then he was gone, his heavy footsteps fading toward the back, where the real business was done,  leaving you alone in the heat with flour on your cheek, dough under your nails, and the distinct certainty that nothing about this job was going to stay simple for very long.

***

A week later, Alfie was already half out of that chair of his office. The gold chain of his watch winkled as he checked the time, like he had somewhere far more important to be than his business meetings.

Ollie stood between him and the door like a particularly anxious gatepost. “You can’t go now,” he said. “Thomas Shelby just arrived for the meeting, remember? You were gonna discuss the price of the—”

“Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.” Alfie lifted his hand with the fingers spread in a theatrical gesture. “Save your words, Ollie. Husband them. I don’t care. Tell Thomas Shelby to wait. Tell him Alfie is engaged in matters of critical importance. Tell him whatever pretty little lie floats through that head of yours. Just make him wait.”

Ollie’s face did something complicated, a grimace of disbelief. “Alfie, he came all the way from Birmingham. I can’t just tell the man to wait.”

Alfie paused in the middle of buttoning his coat. He turned fully, and the smile that spread across his face was slow and deeply unimpressed. “Oh, come on. He’s not gonna slice your throat with his razor blade, not over a few minutes. Thomas Shelby is a busy man, same as me. He understands the concept of priorities. Entertain him, sing him a little song, do him some magic tricks. Pull a fucking rabbit out of your arse if you have to. Offer him a honey cake, the new girl’s honey cakes.”

Ollie took a step closer, lowering his voice even though the door was shut and the walls were solid. “You can’t go see her every day, Alfie. We need you here. We need you handling what needs to be handled. The little problems that turn into big problems if they’re left unresolved. Not distracted. Not… whatever this is.”

Alfie went very still. His hat dangled from one hand, for a long moment the only sound was the distant sound of the men working outside.

Then Alfie laughed. A laugh edged with genuine delight at the absurdity of being lectured by his own assistant. “Well,” he said, spreading his hands. “I suppose I should just hand you the whole fucking business, shouldn’t I? Keys, ledgers, the combination to the safe. Seeing as you know it all, Ollie. Seeing as you’ve got the entire operation running so smoothly in that clever little head of yours that you can spare the time to tell me where I can and cannot point my own two feet.”

Ollie flushed, but he did not back down entirely. “What’s so special about her anyway? I get it, she’s pretty. But there’s a thousand other pretty women out there, and you’ve never been like this before, not over any of them. Disappearing every chance you get, watching her kneading dough like it's a spectacle. What’s different?”

Alfie set the hat down on the desk with deliberate care. He planted both thick hands on the wood and leaned forward. His voice had softened into something quieter, almost as a confession. “Ollie, my boy. You wouldn’t recognise special if it walked up and hit you square in the face. That woman…” He paused, searching for the words. “She’s got something, let me tell you that. Not just the face, though the face is a fucking miracle, I’ll grant you. It’s the eyes, the way she looks at you and doesn’t flinch, the way she talks about independence, the way she baked a cake that tasted like my mother’s cake and then stood there and told me she wasn’t afraid of me. Do you know how rare that is? In this life? A woman who looks at me and decides the rumours are less interesting than the man standing in front of her?”

He pushed off the desk and began to pace the short length of the office. “She draws me in like a magnet. I go there for five minutes to check the ovens and an hour disappears. She’s not any woman I’ve seen, and I find I cannot stop tuning myself to it. Is that clear enough for you, Ollie? Or shall I draw a diagram? ‘Alfie’s inexplicable gravitational pull toward the new baker’ would that help?”

Ollie dragged a hand down his face. “Alfie, we need you on planet Earth. Not on the moon.”

Alfie stopped pacing and turned, looking at Ollie with a smile that split his face, a ittle unhinged around the edges. “Oh but I am on the moon, Ollie.” He spread his arms as if encompassing the absurdity of it. “She’s got me swept away. I’m walking around up here in the thin air of whatever delision this is, and I find I don’t particularly want to come down.”

He snatched the hat back up, settled it on his head with a tug and moved toward the door, deciding the conversation was over. “Keep Thomas Shelby waiting,” he said over his shoulder. “Give him a drink. Give him a cake. Tell him Alfie will be along when Alfie is good and ready and not a moment before.”

He pulled the door open, Ollie made one last desperate sound. “Alfie—”

“Entertain him,” Alfie repeated, already halfway down the hall. “Magic tricks, Ollie. I have faith in you. Somewhere under all that anxiety is a man who can keep Tommy Shelby occupied for twenty minutes without losing a finger. Prove me right, or don’t. Either way I’ll be back when I’m back.”

A few minutes later, Alfie came through the kitchen door, he didn’t announce himself with any of the theatrical booming that usually preceded him, he simply crossed the floor, snagging a sturdy wooden chair from against the wall, and setting it down beside your bench. Then he sat, making the chair protest under his weight.

“How are you doing on this beautiful morning, love?” he asked, spreading his knees and tipping his head back slightly, breathing in the air.

You kept kneading, though every nerve had gone aware of the man now sitting close to you. “I’m doing good,” you said. “What about you?”

Alfie reached out without asking and snagged one of the still-warm beigels from the rack, turning it over in his fingers with the appreciation of a man examining a rare jewel. “Business is a shitshow,” he confided cheerfully. “Tommy Shelby’s in my office and Ollie’s having a nervous breakdown because I left him to play host. Everyone wants a piece of me. But—” he tore a piece of the beigel free and pointed it at you like a teacher making a point “—now I’m doing better. Dramatically better. The second I came through that door and the smell hit me, the entire shitshow receded. Funny how that works.”

You smiled and nodded at the beigel in his hand. “You want to try it properly? They’re best when they’re still warm. I made the dough last night so it could have a long prove.”

“I’d love to,” he said, and bit in. The sound he made was obscene in its sincerity, an appreciative groan that seemed to come from somewhere in his chest. He chewed slowly. “Fuck me,” he murmured once he could speak again. “It’s amazing. I’ve never, and I mean never, met someone who cooked exactly like the food I tasted as a child.” He took another bite, larger this time, and spoke around it. “Where did you learn to cook like this, love? Because this isn’t ordinary talent.”

You pushed the dough away for a moment, wiping your hands on your apron. “From my nana. We used to spend the afternoons together baking when I was small. She’d pull out this little book, battered thing, every recipe had a little note in her handwriting. A touch that was just hers. A pinch more salt here, a longer prove there. I know all of them by heart now”

Alfie went still. “God bless your nana,” he said quietly, what remained in his voice was completely sincere. “God bless her hands and her little book and the afternoons she gave you. May her memory be a blessing. Because whatever she put into you… it’s still here. I can taste it. I can fucking feel it.”

A startled laugh escaped you, bright and sudden. It rang off the high ceiling, Alfie watched the sound leave your mouth, and something softened in his expression. “You’ve got the laugh of an angel,” he said. “Celestial. Makes a man want to say stupid things just to hear it again.”

Heat flooded your face so fast it was almost dizzying. You turned back to the dough with more force than necessary, kneading it hard. Your ears were burning, you could feel him watching your nervous smile and the way your hands had gone suddenly less certain.

He let the silence stretch just long enough to be merciful. “You’d mentioned your cousin served. The one who came back blind. Did you have many family sent over to France, love?”

You kept your eyes on the dough. “Most of them,” you said. “All my cousins. And my brother.” A breath. “He didn’t make it. They never found enough of him to bring home properly.” You swallowed and kept working. “My husband luckily stayed in London. He managed a military warehouse here. That kept him out of the trenches.”

Alfie made a low sound of understanding and set the half-eaten beigel down on the edge of the bench with surprising care.

“Right,” he said. “Guess some lads were luckier. Didn’t have to be sent over to drown in the mud and the gas. Lucky.” He studied you sideways. “Anyway, what does your husband do now?”

“He works in a factory. He’s a machine operator.” You didn’t particularly enjoy talking about your husband with Alfie. You hated the way his questions about him, about your marriage, made something twist uncomfortably in your chest. Lying to Alfie felt heavier, somehow more difficult, than lying to anyone else.

Alfie’s eyebrows rose, he leaned in a fraction, making the chair creak under the shift of his weight. “And he doesn’t make enough money that he has to send his wife out to work?” The question was mild, almost idle. But his eyes were anything but. “Pretty young thing like you, hands made for miracles, spending her days covered in flour. Seems curious.”

You laughed againm, shorter this time, edged with the defensive spark he seemed to enjoy pulling out of you. “I told you. I just like being financially independent. Earning my own money, feeling like I’m being productive. I don’t like staying in the house doing nothing.  This—” you gestured at the dough, the ovens, the cooling beigels, the entire room “—this makes sense to me. And the money is mine, fairly earned.”

Alfie watched you for a long moment. “And you don’t have children, do you?”

The question was careful. As if he already knew the answer and still needed to hear you say it. You met his eyes. “I don’t,” you said.

“No children,” he repeated softly, almost to himself. “Independent, productive, laugh like an angel, and a husband who works long factory shifts. Interesting… the things a man learns when he bothers to sit down and eat a beigel with his newest baker on a beautiful morning.”

…

The days began to blur in the best and worst of ways. Mornings belonged to the bakery, before the first light touched the windows, you were already floured to the elbows. And every day, without fail, Alfie appeared sometime before mid-morning, shrugged out of his coat, and dragged the same scarred chair to the exact same spot beside your bench, staying for two hours, sometimes three, as if the rest of his business could wait indefinitely on the pleasure of watching you work.

He talked. God, how he talked. His voice rolled out in long rivers while you pushed and folded and turned the dough. He told you about the horses, about the meetings with the Italians, about his mother. He asked questions too, about your grandmother’s little book, about the brother you lost, and the shape of the life you claimed to have waiting at home. And every time you answered, every time you laughed or fell quiet or wiped flour from your cheek with the back of a wrist, something in the air between you got warmer.

Sometimes he fell silent for long stretches, tracking the roll of your shoulders with his eyes, the flex of your forearms, the way the dough yielded under your palms. Once, when a strand of hair escaped your pins and fell across your eyes, he reached out without thinking and tucked it behind your ear. His fingertips were warm, and they lingered half a second too long against the shell of your ear.

The bakery became the only place that felt real, because home was something else entirely. You returned each afternoon to the small flat, and the moment the door closed behind you, the warmth of the ovens and Alfie’s voice drained out of you. Your husband would already be there more often than not, home early from the factory.

“You’re late again,” he would say, not looking up from the newspaper. “Third time this week. I had to get my own lunch. Again. What am I, a fucking orphan? I’ve got a wife, haven’t I? Or did I imagine the whole wedding?”

The fights were never dramatic, because that would have required passion, and passion had left this marriage years ago, carried out with the tiny body you had lost and never properly buried. The fights were mean. Him listing every way your absence inconvenienced him, you answering too calmly at first, then with rising heat when he started in on how no decent woman left her husband to fend for himself so she could play at being a baker for some gangster. 

“They’re talking,” he said one night. “Down the pub. About you and him, about how Solomons’ new pet never goes home on time. About how he’s always down there watching her like a dog with a bone. You want to be one of his whores, is that it? That why you’re never here? That why the flat’s empty and my belly’s empty and I’ve got to listen to every bastard with a mouth making jokes about my wife’s extra duties?”

You stopped answering after a while, there was no point. The truth, that you were saving every shilling of the sixty he paid you, that the tin under the loose floorboard was growing heavier every week, that you were counting the days until you had enough for a room of your own and a clean break and a life that did not smell of his resentment, would only make it worse. So you let him talk himself hoarse, you washed the few dishes, and you lay on your side of the cold bed waiting for sleep that never came easy.

He had stopped touching you after the miscarriage. That was the cleanest way to say it. One day there had been a child,, hoped-for and already named, and then there had been blood and pain, and after that your husband’s hands never found you in the dark again. He looked at you like you had failed at the one thing you were put on earth to do, like your body had betrayed him personally. The whores started sometime after that, you heard the whispers the way every wife in the neighbourhood heard them, the sideways glances at the market, a soft laughter that stopped when you passed, the occasional “friend” who felt obligated to tell you what everyone already knew. He did not even bother being careful anymore, some nights he came home smelling of cheap perfume and simply fell into bed with his back to you, as if daring you to care. You had cared, once. Now you only cared about the tin.

Every Friday Alfie pressed the week’s wages into your palm, sixty shillings, always with an extra little something pressed on top. You thanked him, and every night you knelt on the floorboards, lifted the loose one, and added to the growing hoard. You calculated rent on a clean room somewhere far from this flat, you needed to leave so you could be happy again.

Happiness had become a place that existed only between the hours of four and two, in a warm room that smelled of bread, with a dangerous man who looked at you like you were something worth keeping. 

At the bakery, Alfie grew bolder in small ways, placing a hand at the small of your back as he moved past you in the narrow space between benches. A quiet you look tired, love when the shadows under your eyes grew too dark to hide. A long look when you laughed at one of his more ridiculous stories. But at home the fights sharpened, your husband started waiting up and smelling your clothes for rum and the smell of man’s cologne. He started throwing the word whore around when the whisky loosened his tongue. “You’re never here,” he snarled one night, blocking the bedroom door with his body. “I come home to a dark kitchen and an empty bed and the knowledge my wife is off playing house with a gangster. You think I don’t know what men like him do with girls who need money? You think I don’t hear what they say?”

One rainy morning, in the office, Alfie was once again sitting behind his desk with a faraway look in his eyes. He looked like a man wrestling with something far more complicated than the usual calculations of business negotiations. Ollie hovered near the door, holding papers in hand, his expression already pinched with the particular exhaustion that came from trying to keep Alfie on task.

“Alfie,” he ventured carefully. “The Italians. The proposal. We were supposed to be thinking about—”

“Shh. Shhh.” Alfie lifted one large hand without looking up. The gesture was absent, almost gentle. “Ollie, my boy. What do you think about silk stockings?”

The silence that followed was so complete you could have heard the bat of a fly’s wings. Ollie blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Silk stockings,” Alfie repeated, slower this time. “For a woman’s legs. You know the ones. The kind that make a man forget his own name. What do you think?”

Ollie’s face went through several stages of disbelief. “They’re… pretty?”

Alfie finally looked up. “No, you idiot. I meant if it’d make a good gift. For my angel. Something delicate, something that says I see you. Silk stockings, proper ones, not the cheap rubbish.”

Ollie rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they did not fall out of his head. He dropped the papers onto the desk with a slap. “Alfie. You were supposed to be thinking about the business proposal the Italians made us, not stockings”. 

“I’ve been thinking about her legs,” Alfie confessed, almost dreamily. “ And I keep picturing them in silk, in dark silk. I think they’d look prettier. I think the entire world would look prettier if those particular legs were sheathed in something worthy of them.”

Ollie made a strangled sound. “How have you been thinking about her legs? You’ve never seen that woman’s legs, not once. She’s buttoned up to the chin half the time. You’ve seen her hands and her face and the occasional flash of wrist when she rolls her sleeves. That is the full inventory, not even her ankles.”

Alfie waved the objection away. “Ah, Ollie boy. I don’t need to see them to know they’re beautiful. I can imagine them. I’ve got a very vivid imagination when properly motivated, and that woman motivates me. She walks past and my brain helpfully supplies the rest. It’s become a proper problem, I close my eyes and there they are. I open them and I’m still thinking about them. It’s affecting my concentration, my sleep, my ability to give a single shit about Italian proposals.”

“You’re not her husband. You can’t just buy her stockings. She’d think it's scandalous.”

Alfie leaned back in the chair. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “You’re right. She’d think it's scandalous. Can’t have that. Can’t have my angel thinking old Alfie just wants to get between her legs.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a thick roll of notes, and tossed it across the desk to Ollie. “Right, change of plan. Go out and get me a perfume bottle. An expensive one, something that smells like vanilla. None of that chemical rubbish, and don’t come back until you have it.”

Ollie stared at the money as if it might bite him. “Alfie. You’re not expecting me to go out and buy perfume. That’s not my job. I’m your assistant, not your bloody personal shopper. I handle the books, and the meetings—”

Alfie’s voice dropped into that particular register that brooked no argument. “Your job, Ollie, is to do whatever the fuck I tell you to do. Today that happens to be buying perfume. Expensive perfume, for a woman who deserves something that smells like heaven. Now go. Go, boy. Before I start thinking about what else might look good wrapped around her ankles.”

Ollie opened his mouth, and closed it. He snatched the money, knowing he had long ago accepted that working for Alfie required a flexible definition of dignity. “Vanilla,” he muttered. “Right. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Alfie waved him off without looking, already rising from the chair. He reached behind the desk and picked up the bouquet he had bought earlier that morning. He walked to the front of the building where the bakery was. 

You looked up as he entered the kitchen. The small smile that always appeared when he walked in, the one you tried and failed to hide. Alfie crossed the floor without hesitation, holding the flowers out in front of him like an offering. He stopped beside you and presented the bouquet with a small courtly bow.

“Beautiful flowers,” he said, “for a beautiful woman. Seemed only right, the world’s been grey enough lately, figured you deserved a bit of colour to brighten up.”

You stared at the flowers. They were stunning, but your hands, still dusted white, hovered uncertainly above them. “Thanks, Alfie. These are beautiful. But I… I can’t have them.”

He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes like he was preparing arguments. “Of course you can. They’re flowers, love. Not a proposal of marriage. Just flowers for the woman who makes this place smell like my childhood and my future all at once. Take them, they’re yours.”

You reached out despite yourself, brushing the red petals with your fingers. “I can’t show up home with these,” you said quietly. “A married woman can’t come home with flowers another man gifted her. It’s already bad enough as it is.”

The last part slipped out before you could catch it, an admission you had kept locked behind your teeth for weeks. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, and quickly your hands returned to the dough.

Alfie didn’t move, he simply stood there. “What do you mean ‘bad enough,’ huh?” he asked. “Is your husband the jealous type? The kind who sits at home imagining all sorts of things that aren’t happening just because his wife has the audacity to earn her own coin?”

You kept your eyes on the dough, pushing it harder than necessary, as if you were trying to escape the conversation. “It’s nothing… It’s just… he thinks I spend too much time here. And he’s heard what some people say. Gossips, maybe from the ladies at the front… that you spend too much time with me back here. In the back… alone.”

Alfie let out a short laugh, he set the bouquet down on the edge of the bench and leaned in closer. “So he’s an insecure little cunt with an inferiority complex who thinks his wife would cheat on him just because there’s a man close to her,” he said flatly. “A man who can’t keep his own house in order so he points the finger at the bakery instead. Pathetic, truly. Some men are born with small minds and even smaller pricks and they spend their whole lives trying to make the world feel as cramped as they do.”

“Alfie. That’s not nice to say.” His sincerity caught you off guard, it left you feeling even more embarrassed. He was hitting dangerously close to home, unearthing truths you had buried beneath layers of practiced smiles and half-spoken excuses. 

He waved a handd. “Nice has very little to do with the truth, love. I’ve met a thousand men like him. They talk loud and wonder why their wives start looking for doors. Tell me the truth.” His voice dropped, softer now but no less serious. “Does he ever hurt you more than with words? Does he dare put a hand on you? Because if he does, if that sorry bastard has ever laid so much as a finger on you in anger, you tell me right now. I’ll rearrange his face personally, until not even his mother could recognize him.”

You shook your head quickly, too quickly, making the loose curl of hair bounce against your temple. “No. No, it’s not like that. We just fight a lot. He yells and says things… ugly things. About me being here, about you, about how a proper wife should be home making his lunch instead of… whatever he imagines I’m doing back here with you.”

Alfie felt his jaw tighten, he reached out without thinking and brushed a streak of flour from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “He yells at you? What does he tell you? Don’t spare me the details, love. I’ve heard worse, I’ve said worse. But never to a woman like you.”

You hesitated, but eventually the words came out in pieces, quiet and ashamed. “He tells me that people whisper about us being here for hours… that I’m making him look like a fool. A fool who has a whore for a wife.”

Alfie listened without interrupting. His expression darkened with every word you said. When you fell silent, he let the quiet stretch for a long moment. “A man yelling at his wife such things,” he said at last, almost wistfully. “I’ve always thought it should be the other way around. A man making his wife scream, and not in anger exactly.”

Your face burned scarlet, making you turn back to the dough with fierce concentration, kneading as if your life depended on it. “We’re just going through… a rough patch,” you managed. “That’s all. Marriages have them. It’ll pass.”

Alfie made a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. “Rough patch my arse. That man doesn’t love you if he treats you like that. If he can look at this face, sculpted by god himself on one of his better days, and this smile that lights up the whole fucking room, and still chooses to yell?” He shook his head. “No, that’s not love. You deserve better, love. You deserve someone who sees you and thinks the sun rose just to have something to compete with.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not appropriate that I talk of these matters anyway,” you said. “They’re private. Between a husband and wife. I shouldn’t be… burdening you with them.”

Alfie stepped closer. The space between you shrank until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, until the scent of him wrapped around you. “Love, you see I’ve grown quite fond of you. More than fond, proper attached. And I can see the little sadness you try so hard to hide in your eyes, the way it flickers when you think no one’s looking. And it makes me think that you deserve a man who can make you scream with joy. Who’d never let you shed a single tear unless it was from laughing too hard or feeling so much pleasure so hard you forget your own name. A man who would burn the world down before he let it dim that light in you.”

The bakery kitchen felt suddenly too small. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it over the ovens. You wiped your hands on your apron, and forced your voice steady. “Thanks. But like I said… my husband and I are going through a rough patch. Things will get better.”

Alfie studied you for a long moment, the way your fingers twisted in the edge of your apron like they needed something to hold onto. He didn’t look convinced. The moment stretched until a knock sounded on the door that led from the kitchen to the back.

“Alfie,” Ollie’s voice came through the wood, full of exasperation and something close to panic. “Sabini is here for the meeting. He’s waiting, and he’s not the patient sort. You know how he gets.”

Alfie did not turn immediately, he simply let out a theatrical sigh. “Entertain him, Ollie,” he called back. “Magic tricks, remember?”

You could hear Ollie’s muffled groan through the door. “Would you stop playing house and come handle business like you did before all of this nonsense? The whole bloody business is waiting back there while you sit down here watching her knead dough.”

Alfie snapped his head toward the door. His expression darkened in an instant. “Ollie,” he said, dropping his voice to a low and dangerous register, “I’m gonna start shooting at the door, so you’d better not be standing there in the next ten seconds. Count with me, my boy. Ten… nine…”

Footsteps retreated rapidly down the corridor, and the knock did not come again. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself, it broke some of the tension, though not all of it. “I think Ollie’s not particularly fond of me. Every time he sees us back here he looks like he’s swallowed a lemon.”

Alfie turned back to you, the storm in his face clearing as quickly. “He just thinks I’ll give his job to you,” he said, twitching the corner of his mouth into a crooked smile. “Poor Ollie. Loyal as a dog and twice as anxious. He sees you here and he imagines you’re gonna take his place. Can’t blame the lad, really. You do have that effect.”

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the blood still warming your cheeks from the earlier conversation. “Tell Ollie he has nothing to worry about. I wouldn’t take his job. I’m happy here. With the dough, with the ovens. With…” You hesitated, then finished softly, “With the way things are in this room.”

Alfie reached out and brushed another stray streak of flour from your cheek, his thumb lingered there this time, tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that felt at odds with the man who had just threatened to shoot through a door. “I should give you a rise,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

You blinked, feeling surprised. “Why? I’ve only been working here a month.”

“A month is enough,” he replied. “More than enough. The sales in the bakery have doubled. People are talking, the best bread in Camden, they say. It’s all thanks to you, love. You walked in here and you changed the whole bloody atmosphere.”

You smiled then, a real one, shy but genuine. Alfie went very still, dropping his gaze to your mouth, then lifted again, looking hungrier.

“God,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That smile again. That fucking smile that makes a man think things he should have no right to be thinking about. Things that end with my hands in places they’ve got no business going.”

He stepped closer, and suddenly the space between you vanished. His body pressed forward until you could feel the heat of him through your clothes. Alfie lifted his hand, cupping the side of your face with surprising tenderness, brushing your lower lip with his thumb.

“I’ve been driving myself insane ever since you walked into my life,” he said with devastating honesty. “Tell me you feel the pull between us too. Tell me I’m not the only one losing my mind. Tell me—”

Before you could answer, before you could even draw breath, Alfie grabbed you. He slid his large hand to the back of your neck, pulling you in with undeniable strength. He wrapped his other arm around your waist, pressing your body tight against his solid bulk. The kiss was hungry, full of desperation. He devoured your mouth like a man who had been starving for weeks, sweeping his tongue in with heat, his lips claiming yours with a groan that vibrated through his chest and into yours. 

The taste of him, of rum and desire, flooded your senses. His body was unyielding, holding you flush against him, splaying one hand across your lower back as if afraid you might vanish. For one dizzying moment you melted into it. Into the warmth, the strength, the way his mouth moved like he had been dreaming of this exact kiss since the day you first brought him that poppy-seed cake.

Then reality crashed back. You pulled away, gasping, pressing your hands against his chest. Your lips felt swollen, and your heart hammered wildly. “I can’t do this, Alfie,” you whispered, though your voice was shaky. “I’m married. I’m still married… and this is wrong.”

Alfie did not release you immediately, he rested his forehead against yours, still holding you close with his arm around your waist. “Your mouth,” he murmured, tracing your lower lip again with his thumb, “is better than I even thought about. Softer, sweeter, like it was made for this. A glorious experience, love. A fucking revelation. I could spend the rest of my days kissing you and still die wondering how I ever lived without it.”

The words sent another rush of heat through you. But you stepped back, putting the bench between you once more, though it felt like far too little distance. “Please stop saying these things,” you said, barely above a whisper. You touched your lips instinctively, as if you could wipe away the evidence of what had just happened. “I can’t… we can’t.”

Before either of you could say more, the knock came again, sharper this time, more insistent. Ollie’s voice filtered through the door. “Alfie. Sabini’s getting impatient. And he’s brought men. You need to come up. Now.”

Alfie let out a frustrated growl. He straightened, adjusting his waistcoat with hands that still trembled slightly from the force of the kiss. “I won’t stop thinking about this,” he said quietly. “Not for a second. Not while I’m back there dealing with Sabini and his bullshit. Not tonight when I’m alone in bed. Not ever, love. You’ve ruined me for anything less.”

He turned toward the door, pausing once to glance back at you, at your swollen lips and the way your hands had returned to your apron like an anchor. Then he was gone, leaving the kitchen suddenly too quiet, but far too full of the ghost of his mouth on yours and the flowers still sitting on the bench.

The walk home from the bakery felt longer than usual that evening. Your feet moved on autopilot along the familiar route, but your mind was miles away, or rather, still back in the bakery kitchen, pressed against Alfie’s solid chest with his mouth claiming yours like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The kiss replayed in relentless detail. The way his large hand had cupped the back of your neck, the heat of his body pulling you flush against him. The taste of him, the groan that had vibrated from his chest into yours. For those few stolen seconds you had felt wanted. Not only wanted, but desired and seen. Not as a convenience or a disappointment or a body that had failed at its one expected duty, but as something precious, something worth devouring. 

You had been lying to yourself for weeks, you realised now, as your key turned in the lock of the small flat. Hiding how good it felt to have a man look at you the way Alfie did, like you were the centre of the room, the reason he lingered for hours watching your hands move through dough. It had been so long since anyone had made you feel wanted and cherished in even the smallest ways. Your husband’s touch had vanished years ago, as if your body had become a reminder of failure rather than a source of comfort or pleasure. But Alfie made you feel like a woman again, like someone worth the risk of a hard kiss in the back of a bakery while the world waited.

God, you felt the pull between you too whenever he stepped close. The way your skin remembered his fingertips on your cheek, the way your laugh came easier around him. But you were still married. The ring on your finger was a fact. You needed to focus on saving, on getting your own place and redoing your life from the ground up. Love, or whatever intoxicating thing this was with Alfie, could wait until you were free. Until you stood on your own two feet without needing to explain yourself to anyone.

The flat was quiet when you stepped inside, you set your bag down and rolled up your sleeves, moving through the familiar evening tasks. You tidied the small kitchen, filled the basin with cold water and began washing the clothes that had piled up. 

That was when you saw them. Lipstick stains on the collar of one of his shirts. A cheap red that did not belong to you. Another smear lower down, near the buttons, as if someone had pressed his lips there, lingering for a moment. You stared at them for a long moment, the cold water dripping from your hands onto the floor. You were used to this, the whispers, the late nights, the way he came home reeking of other women and still had the nerve to accuse you of the same. 

You wrung the shirt out with more force than necessary, watching the water run pinkish-red down the drain. Why, you wondered, were you still loyal to him when he had never once been loyal to you? Why did you cling to the vows when he treated them like suggestions?  And still you stayed, still you washed his shirts with another woman’s lipstick on them.

You finished the laundry in silence, hung the clothes to dry and prepared a simple supper you knew he would barely touch. Night fell fully, after changing into your nightdress, you slipped into bed, the sheets felt cool and lonely on your side. Sleep came in fits, haunted by the ghost of Alfie’s mouth on yours and the memory of how safe and alive you had felt in his arms. 

Hours passed before the door finally opened. Your husband stumbled in later than usual, the familiar scent of cheap perfume clinging to him. He did not look at you, he never did anymore on nights like this. He simply shed his coat, kicked off his boots, and fell into bed on his side with his back to you, the smell of another woman filling the small space between you.

You lay there in the dark, staring at the crack in the ceiling. The question turned over and over in your mind. Why were you refusing Alfie’s advances when your husband had never refused any whore?

The kiss burned in your memory again, the way Alfie had held you like you were something precious, the way he had looked at you afterward, like the entire world could burn and he would still choose your mouth. He saw you, wanted you, made you feel desired in a way your husband had not in years. And yet here you were, loyal to a marriage that had become nothing but a cage of resentment.

***

Alfie sat alone in his office long before the first grey light touched the rooftops. Sleep had become impossible, the bedroom had felt like a trap where every shadow still carried the ghost of your mouth against his.

The office door opened, and Ollie stepped in, holding papers under one arm, already mid-sentence.

“Alfie—”

Alfie had his fingers steepled under his chin, with an almost beatific smile spreading across his face. The smile was wide enough to show even his teeth at the back. “Shut up, Ollie.” The words came out soft, almost dreamy, without the usual bite. Alfie did not open his eyes. “I’m thinking.”

Ollie stopped and stared at the expression on his boss’s face. Working for Alfie, Ollie had grown accustomed to most of his eccentricities, but this was a face he’d never seen before. “Thinking about what? Why are you smiling like that? Is it because of what Sabini said yesterday about the docks, or—”

Alfie opened his eyes, they were slightly unfocused, as if he were still somewhere else entirely. He raised one hand in a grand gesture that took in the entire room. “What? Sabini? No. God, no. I’m smiling because of something much deeper, my dear Ollie. I’m smiling because today the birds are singing a better melody, because the sun rays are warmer in this miserable city. Because the air is fresher and the flowers are brighter. I’m smiling, Ollie, because yesterday I tasted the sweetest lips I have ever had the privilege of putting my mouth on.”

He stood, in two heavy steps he was around the desk and had one arm draped around Ollie’s thin shoulders, pulling the younger man into a half-embrace. “I had an epiphany yesterday,” Alfie continued. “Proper revelation. She’s the woman of my life. She’s the one. The absolute, undeniable, end-of-the-fucking-story one. I looked at her and I thought, Alfie Solomons, you bastard, you’ve been wandering around this earth collecting debts and breaking bones and all this time the actual point of the whole exercise was this woman.”

Ollie stood rigid under the arm, holding the papers crushed against his chest. “What? Wait… what lips? Did you… did you kiss her?”

Alfie released him only far enough to place both hands on Ollie’s shoulders and look him dead in the eyes. The smile had not faded, if anything it had grown wider. “It wasn’t a kiss, Ollie. Let’s not diminish the thing with ordinary language. It was a revelation, a fucking sacrament. It was the moment the universe stopped pretending it was indifferent and decided to hand me something worth keeping.”

Ollie blinked rapidly. “I don’t understand. You kissed her or not?”

“Yes,” Alfie said, simply. “I kissed her.”

“Okay, fantastic. Congratulations. But we still need to sort the—”

Alfie waved the interruption away, already pacing again. “And I fear it’s not enough. One kiss only made me thirstier. That woman has me bewitched, Ollie. A touch of her lips and I can’t stop until I’ve had the whole thing. Do you think she wants me too? The same way I do? With the same stupid, helpless, all-consuming hunger?”

Ollie looked like he'd been asked to solve an equation in a language he did not speak. “How am I supposed to know?”

“Well, go ask her,” Alfie said, then immediately held up both hands. “Wait, no. Don’t go. I need to give her time to think. She pushed me yesterday when we kissed. Of course she didn’t mean it like that. It wasn’t a ‘get away from me you ugly bastard’ push. It was a nice one, a little reluctant. She feels it, I know she does.”

Ollie pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe she pushed you because she’s a married woman. Out of all the women in London, you chose a married one.”

Alfie stopped pacing. He turned, and for a moment the theatrical light in his eyes dimmed into something colder. “What if we kill her husband?”

Ollie considered it with weary professionalism, like he'd heard worse suggestions. “Well… I guess we’ve killed men for less.”

Alfie nodded slowly, as if filing the option away for later. Then the softer expression returned. He stepped closer again. “Ollie, be honest with me. Am I worthy of her? Look at me and tell me the truth. This face, this body, tese hands that have done things I don’t always like remembering. Am I the sort of man a woman like that could look at and think, yes, him, I’ll take him if it means being looked at the way he looks at me?”

Ollie hesitated, he glanced at the door as if calculating the distance to escape, then sighed. “…Sure. Why wouldn’t she like you too?”

Alfie’s face lit up again. “I knew it. Yes. I knew it by the way she kissed me. She feels like I do.” He clapped his hands together once. “I’m gonna write her a letter. Telling her how I feel. And then you’ll go down there and give it to her, personally. Watch her face when she reads it and report back.”

Ollie rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they stayed in his head. He turned toward the door, already defeated, already calculating how many more hours of this madness he would have to endure before the day improved.

“Tell me when you’re done,” he muttered with his hand on the doorknob. “And try not to propose marriage in the first paragraph.”

Alfie sat at his desk for nearly an hour. The ink blotched on places where emotion had made him press too hard. When he finished, he read it twice, folded it with care, and sealed it simply with a drop of wax from the candle on his desk. He called for Ollie without raising his voice much above a murmur. The younger man appeared in the doorway looking like he had already aged another year.

“Take this down to her,” Alfie said, holding out the folded letter between two fingers. “Personally. Give it to her when she’s alone and watch her face while she reads it. Then come back and tell me everything. I want to know if she smiled, if she touched her lips, or if she cried”

Ollie took the letter like it might explode. “You’re really doing this.”

“I’m really doing this,” Alfie confirmed, the smile from earlier still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “Now go.”

Ollie walked though the hallway with the air of a man marching to his own execution. The bakery was in full swing when he pushed open the door to the back kitchen area. You were at the central bench with your sleeves rolled high and your hair pinned back with a few rebellious hairs escaping to cling to your damp temples.

Ollie stopped a few feet away, holding the letter between thumb and forefinger. “Alfie got this for you,” he said with disapproval. There was no warmth in it, just the weary resentment of someone who had watched his carefully ordered world tilt toward chaos because of you

You looked up, wiping your hands on your apron. “What is it?”

“A letter,” Ollie said as he extended it toward you. “Obviously. From him.”

You took the letter. The paper was thick, good quality, still faintly warm from Alfie’s hands. Your name was written across the front in his bold script. Your fingers trembled slightly as you broke the seal.

Ollie lingered for a moment, watching you, then muttered something under his breath about “playing house” and retreated to the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. He did not leave entirely, he was waiting to see your reaction, only to report back with the precision Alfie would demand.

My dearest angel,

Or should I call you love? Because that is what you have become to me in these short weeks… love. Not the cheap or easy kind, but the one that’s real. The kind that makes a man sit in his office with his eyes closed and smile like a fool because the world suddenly feels worth inhabiting again.

I kissed you yesterday. I have not stopped thinking about it since. Your mouth, God help me, was softer than I had any right to imagine. It tasted like the best parts of my childhood and all the things I never knew I was missing until you walked into my bakery. When I pulled you close I felt the whole of Camden disappear, none of it mattered. Only you. Only the way you fit against me for that brief and perfect moment before your conscience reminded you of the ring on your finger.

I have kissed women before. I will not insult either of us by pretending otherwise. But I have never kissed a woman and felt the entire architecture of my life rearrange itself around the simple fact of her existence. That is what you did to me in the space of one kiss. One glorious, incomplete, far-too-short kiss.

I know you are married. I know it and I hate it. I have thought: this woman deserves a man who sees her as the miracle she is. A man who would burn the world down before he let anyone dim that light in her eyes.

You feel it too. I know you do. Tell me I am not imagining it. Tell me that when I kissed you, you kissed me back for more than just a moment. Tell me that the push was not because you wanted me gone, but because you were afraid of how much you wanted me to stay.

I am not a good man. I have done things that would make angels weep. But for you I could try to be better, or at least better at the things that matter. Take your time. Think. I will not rush you, but know this: every morning when I come down to that little kingdom you have made of my bakery, I will be hoping. Hoping that one day you will look at me and decide that the ring on your finger is not worth more than the way I look at you.

Until then, I remain yours in every way that matters,

Alfie

You read it twice. Then a third time, more slowly, tracing the ink with your fingers as if you could feel the heat of his hand through the paper. Your heart was beating too hard, you could feel it in your throat, in the tips of your fingers, in the space just beneath your ribs

You felt wanted. Properly, fiercely, unapologetically wanted. Not as a convenience, not as a body that had failed to produce a child, not as a wife who was expected to make dinner and warm a bed while her husband chased other women. Alfie looked at you and saw something rare, something worth the risk.

Ollie cleared his throat from the doorway, his arms still crossed. “Well? Are you going to stand there staring at it until the bread burns, or should I tell him you’ve gone speechless like every other woman who reads one of his letters?”

You folded the letter carefully, pressing it against your chest for a moment as if you could press the words into your skin. When you finally looked up, your voice came out softer than you intended, almost shy.

“Tell him this is really… thoughtful,” you said, still prssing the letter gently against your chest, as if you could press the sincerity of his words into your skin. “And I will think about it. Tell him that. I need time. But… it’s thoughtful. I liked it.”

Ollie nodded once, though his expression suggested he would rather be doing almost anything else. “Right. Thoughtful. I’ll pass it along.” He turned on his heel without another word, the door swinging shut behind him with a click.

Upstairs, Alfie was not waiting patiently. He paced the length of his office like a caged animal. The letter had been a risk, an honest outpouring that left him more exposed than he had been in years, and the waiting was torture. When the door finally opened and Ollie stepped through, Alfie was already at the threshold, grabbing the younger man by the shoulders with both hands before he could even cross the room properly.

“Well?” Alfie demanded, searching Ollie’s face with ferocious intensity. “What did she say? Did she like it? Did she cry? Did she smile? Did she press it to her chest like it was something precious? Tell me everything, Ollie. Every single detail. Leave nothing out.”

Ollie pried himself free with a long-suffering sigh, smoothing his jacket where Alfie’s grip had wrinkled it. “I do not appreciate being an errand boy between the two of you,” he said with irritation. “I handle the books, the meetings. I do not handle love letters. This is beneath me. This is—”

“Shut up, Ollie,” Alfie interrupted as he began pacing again. The energy rolling off him was almost tangible. “Tell me what she said. Exactly. Word for word if you can manage it. I need to know. I need to know if I’ve scared her off.”

Ollie exhaled through his nose with resignation. He leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms once more. “She said it was really… thoughtful. And that she will think about it. She needs time, that’s it. She looked a bit overwhelmed. And yes, she pessed the letter to her chest and read it more than once. But she didn’t cry, not that I saw. So I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you.”

Alfie stopped pacing, he turned slowly, the wide smile from earlier creeping back across his face. “Thoughtful,” he repeated, tasting the word. “She said it was thoughtful. Not terrifying, not inappropriate. Not ‘how dare you, you mad cunt.’ Thoughtful, that’s something, Ollie. That’s more than something, that’s a crack in the wall She’s thinking about it. She pressed it to her chest, my words against her heart. She’s going to think about it.”

He dropped heavily into his chair, and steepled his fingers under his chin. “One kiss and she’s thinking. God, Ollie. That woman. She’s got me by the throat and she doesn’t even know it. I’ll give her time. A day, maybe two. Then I’ll find another way to remind her that there’s a man who looks at her like she hung the moon and who would rather die than make her shed a tear of sadness.”

Ollie pushed off the desk, heading for the door. “Just… try not to burn the place down while you’re mooning over her. Or get us all killed, some of us still have work to do.”

Alfie waved him off without looking, already reaching for another sheet of paper, already composing the next message in his head.

Two days later, the frantic rhythm of preparation before Shabbat had you working longer than usual. The trays slid in and out of the heat as the front of the shop bustled with last minute customers seeking the last fresh loaves before the sun dipped.

By the time the light outside began to soften, your shoulders ached, your feet burned, and your mind was a tangled mess of the memory of the kiss you'd shared with Alfie days ago. The words written in his love letter still echoed in your mind, but Alfie had not come down since you both kissed, not once. The absence had felt louder than his presence ever did, it left space that made you wonder whether he regretted the press of his mouth on yours, or whether he was simply trying to forget the way you had pulled away.

You untied your apron, folded it neatly, and reached for your coat, ready to step back into the grey streets. But the door to the back room opened.

Alfie’s eyes found you immediately. “How are you doing, love?” he asked as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a click. “After... everything that happened between us.”

You busied your hands with the last of the trays, avoiding his gaze. “I’m fine,” you said quietly. “About to go home.”

Alfie crossed the room slowly and stopped close, leaning one hip against the bench where you had stood kneading only minutes before. The flowers from three days ago were still there, slightly wilted now but stubbornly bright. He picked one up, turning the stem between his fingers as if it held answers.

“The kiss,” he said, slow enough to taste every syllable. “I don’t regret it for one second. Not one. Your lips, love… they’ve been the only thing I’ve been thinking about. They consumed me. The softness, the way they gave under mine like they’d been waiting. Like they knew exactly where they belonged. I’ve sat in my office all day and all I could see was your mouth, all I could taste was you. Tell me you’ve thought about it too, don’t lie to me, and for fuck’s sake don’t lie to yourself. I felt the hunger in your mouth. You were starving for it, same as me.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, you turned away, folding the apron again though it was already neat. “Alfie, we need to pretend that didn’t happen. We have to. I’m married. This… this can’t go anywhere. It’s wrong.”

He let out a rough sound, like a growl of laughter. “Pretend? Oh, love, that’s a good one. Tell me you’ve thought about it too. I saw it in your eyes when you pulled away, I felt it in the way your hands pressed against my chest but didn’t pushh, not really, not like you meant it. Your husband, does he let you starve like that? Does he have this pretty thing all for himself, this woman who bakes like an angel and laughs like heaven, and still lets you go hungry?”

The words hit too close, you remembered the lipstick stains, the empty bed, the nights he chose other beds. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Alfie… this… we shouldn’t.”

He moved then, faster than you thought a man his size could. Wrapping one arm around your waist, he pulled you close against the solid heat of his body. He slid his other hand into your hair, tilting your head as his mouth found the side of your neck. The kiss there was hot, open-mouthed, grazing your skin with his teeth just enough to make you gasp. He held you pressed tight, devouring the curve of your throat.

“Tell me the truth,” he murmured against your skin. “Stop lying to me. Stop lying to yourself. I can see the sadness in a woman’s eyes, love, I can feel the hunger in her mouth. A woman who’s not happy at home, who’s not satisfied. Who lies awake wondering why the man who vowed to cherish her treats her like an afterthought. He makes you deeply unhappy, I see it. Every day I see it, and it makes me want to burn the whole fucking world down until someone treats you the way you deserve.”

The memory of the shirts flooded back, the cheap red lipstick, the cloying perfume on his clothes the other night. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “It’s not just the fights,” you whispered. “He… he stopped loving me after I lost our baby. Stopped looking at me, stopped touching me. Like it was my fault, like my body had failed him and that was the end of it.”

Alfie stilled against your neck, then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his large hand cupped your face with surprising tenderness. The dark with lust eyes were soft now, almost pained. “I’m so sorry, love,” he said, gentler than you had ever heard him. “You didn’t deserve that, not one bit of it. No woman deserves a man so weak he lets her suffer alone in her grief and then blames her for her own sorrow. A real man would’ve held you through it. Would’ve crried the weight with you instead of turning away like a coward. You lost a child, and you carried that pain. He left you to carry it alone, that’s not a husband.”

The tears pricked at your eyes, you tried to blink them back, but one escaped anyway, tracing down your cheek. Alfie brushed it away with his thumb. “I know he sees other women,” you continued, barely above a whisper. “That’s why I took the job, that’s why I’m saving every shilling. To leave, to have something of my own. To stand on my own feet without him.”

Alfie tightened around you in an act of protectiveness. “Why be loyal to someone who doesn’t respect you?” he asked. “Why tie yourself to someone who treats his vows like they’re optional, who comes home reeking of other women and still has the nerve to call you unfaithful for standing in here? Loyalty is a two-way street, love. And he’s been walking the wrong way for years. You deserve better, you deserve someone who sees the miracle in you every single day. Who would rather burn than let you carry that sadness alone.”

He kissed you then. Not the hard, devouring kiss from days ago, but something slower. His mouth claimed yours with hunger, tracing the seam of your lips with his tongue until you opened your mouth for him. He kept one hand at the small of your back, pressing you tight against the warmth of his body, while the other cradled your face like you were something fragile and infinitely precious. For long, dizzying moments there was only Alfie, only the heat of him, only the way he kissed you like he had been waiting lifetimes for exactly this.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing raggedly. “Tell me you feel it too,” he whispered. “Tell me I’m not the only one going mad in here.”

“You’re not.”

Alfie’s hands moved then, sliding one palm down your back, tracing the curve of your spine through the fabric of your dress, pressing you tighter against him. The other hand roamed lower, cupping the swell of your hip, digging his fingers in with just enough pressure to make you gasp. His mouth found yours again, not so gentle this time, but hungry, as if he could drink down every hidden longing you had buried for years. He kissed you like he owned you, like every inch of your body had been waiting for his claim. His hands explored without shame, brushing the undersides of your breasts through the layers of cloth, then down again to grip your thighs, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

“Fuck, love,” he growled against your mouth. “If I told you all the things I’ve thought about you… all the filthy, depraved little fantasies that have kept me awake at night since the day you walked in here… you’d probably slap me across the face and call me a degenerate. A proper degenerate. But God help me, I can’t stop. Can’t stop imagining these hands of yours wrapped around me. Can’t stop seeing you bent over this bench, moaning my name while I show you what a real man can do.”

He grabbed you then, effortlessly lifting you with a grunt of effort and setting you on the edge of the wide wooden bench. You parted your legs instinctively as he stepped between them, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. Your legs followed, locking around his hips, digging your heels into the back of his thighs as if your body had decided for you. He was hard already, you could feel the line of his erection pressing against you through his trousers, insistent and hot. Alfie groaned at the contact, rolling his hips forward, grinding against your core in a slow motion that made you whimper into his mouth.

“Look at you,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look down at the way your body had opened for him. He ran his hands up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher and stroking the sensitive skin just above your stockings. “Your body’s been starving for this, love. Starving for a man who sees it, who wants it. Who’s been mad thinking about how soft you’d feel under him and how wet you’d get just from a kiss like that.”

“I want you,” you whispered, the words tumbled out before you could stop them. Your voice was shaky with all the need you felt from years of denial. “So much, Alfie. God, I want you.”

A triumphant sound rumbled in his chest. “I know, angel. I know you do.” He tightened his hands on your hips, holding you in place as he rocked against you again, the friction sending sparks up your spine. “And I’m gonna show you how a real man treats a woman, how I’d treat you every single day if you were mine. Slow when you need slow, hard when you need hard. I’d worship this body until you forgot every cold night that bastard ever gave you”

His fingers found the buttons of your dress, the simple row running down the front. With a growl of impatience he ripped them open, the delicate fabric giving way with a series of sharp pops that echoed in the kitchen. The cool air kissed your skin as he pushed the dress off your shoulders, tugging it down your arms until it pooled around your waist. You sat there in your brassiere and knickers, the garters and stockings still clipped neatly in place, the lace and silk suddenly feeling far too exposed under his gaze. Alfie stepped back just enough to look at you fully, his eyes raking over every inch.

“Fuck me,” he breathed the words. His hands returned, running all over your body with hunger, sliding his palms up your sides, hooking his thumbs under the edges of your brassiere to trace the swell of your breasts, then down over the curve of your waist and hips. He cupped your breasts through the thin fabric, squeezing them gently, circling your nipples until they hardened under his touch. “You’re even more delightful than any image my imagination ever created. Such a beautiful creature, so fucking appealing. Soft where you should be soft, strong where you’ve had to be strong. Look at you, like you were made to drive a man mad. You’ve got my cock so fucking hard it hurts, love. Proper aching for you. Been aching since the first day.”

He leaned in again, his mouth finding your neck, then lower, kissing along your collarbone, nipping at the tops of your breasts as his hands continued their exploration. Alfie slipped one hand between your legs, cupping you through the thin knickers, feeling the heat and dampness there with a groan of pure satisfaction. His fingers stroked you slowly, pressing the fabric against your most sensitive spot until your hips jerked against his hand. 

As if he couldn’t wait another second, Alfie hooked his fingers into the fabric of your brassiere. With a growl, he pulled it down, freeing your breasts to the air. “Fuck, look at these,” he murmured, cupping them immediately, lifting and squeezing them with just the right pressure, circling the sensitive peaks with his thumbs. “Perfect. Fucking perfect. Been dreaming about these tits since the first time I saw you. So soft, made for my mouth.”

He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it hard enough to make you arch against him with a sharp cry. His tongue swirled, licked, teased in wet circles that sent sparks down to your core. He massaged the other breast with his hand, rolling the nipple between fingers, pinching just enough to border on pain before soothing it with his palm. All the while his other hand stayed between your legs, cupping your cunt and pressing the heel of his palm against your clit in grinding circles that matched the rhythm of his mouth. 

You rocked against his hand desperately, grinding down on the pressure, chasing the friction as your hips rolled in needy little movements. Alfie groaned around your nipple before he switched sides, sucking the other breast deep into his mouth while he kept working you, cupping and stroking, feeling the growing wetness soak through the fabric.

“Tell me,” he rasped against your skin. “Tell me how much you want me, love. Say it. I want to hear it from that pretty mouth while you’re grinding on my hand.”

The words spilled out of you, breathless between soft moans. “I want you so much, Alfie… everything aches for you. My whole body… it’s been so long… I need you. Please.”

A satisfied sound rumbled in his chest. He released your nipple with a wet pop, looking up at you with glittering eyes. “That’s my good girl. I know, angel. I know you do. And I’m gonna soothe that ache, every bit of it. When I’m done with you, the only thing that’s gonna hurt is gonna be your throat from screaming my name.”

Hie moved his hands lower, tracing the tops of your stockings, hooking his fingers under the clips of your garters one by one, undoing them with care. The silk whispered against your skin as he rolled the stockings down, peeling them off like he was unwrapping something precious. His palms followed, stroking every inch of newly bared skin, your calves, knees, and the soft insides of your thighs, as if he could not get enough of touching you.

“You’re a vision,” he murmured with awe. “Such a beautiful creature. So soft and ready for me. Look at you, all laid out for me like a feast I’ve been waiting my whole fucking life to taste.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your knickers and slid them down your legs, baring your cunt completely. The air hit your slick and dripping folds, making you shiver. Alfie stared, transfixed, as he traced the seam of your pussy with one finger, gathering the wetness that had already coated your thighs.

“Fuck me, you’re soaked,” he groaned. “So wet and slick and dripping for me already. This pretty little cunt is weeping for attention, love. Been neglected for far too long.” He looked up at you, his eyes were a dark shade of blue now, full of lust. “You want me to eat this cunt, don’t you? Want my mouth on you?”

You nodded frantically, twitching your hips toward his hand. “Yes… please…”

He smiled. “Ask me nice, angel. Use your words. Tell me exactly what you want.”

A whine escaped your throat, the need was louder than the embarrassment. “C-could you… could you eat my cunt, Alfie? Please?”

“With pleasure,” he dropped to his knees on the wooden floor in front of the bench, a man of his size and power willingly kneeling for you. He gripped your thighs and spread them wide, opening you completely to his gaze. 

His breath ghosted over your exposed pussy, making you tremble. “Keep them open like this,” he ordered in a commanding tone. “Wide for me. Scream if you need to, pull my hair, wrap your legs around my neck and ride my face. But don’t you dare close these thighs. I want all of you, every drop. Understood?”

You nodded breathlessly, bracing your arms behind you on the bench as you watched him. He started slow, pressing soft kisses to the inside of your knees, then higher along your thighs, his beard scraping deliciously against the sensitive skin. He kissed your mound, lips brushing the soft curls there, then lower, feather-light kisses along your outer lips, teasing and tasting the slick that had gathered there. 

Then, he finally dragged his tongue slowly up your slit in a long and broad stroke from your entrance to your clit that made your back arch and a broken moan tear from your throat.

“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he groaned against your core. “Sweet and wet. Been starving for this too, haven’t you, love? This pretty cunt hasn’t been properly worshipped in years. But I’m here now. Gonna take my time, gonna lick every inch until you’re shaking.”

He sealed his mouth over your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, flicking his tongue in circles. Alfie ate your cunt like a madman, ravenous, unrelenting, completely lost in the taste of you. He sealed his mouth over your dripping folds with wet sounds that filled the quiet kitchen, thrusting his tongue deep inside you before dragging it back up to circle your swollen clit with firm strokes. He sucked the sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue, then lapping slowly as if he could not get enough of your taste. 

He used his large hands to grip your thighs with bruising strength, digging his fingers into the soft flesh to keep them spread wide open for him. No matter how much you trembled or tried to close them instinctively from the overwhelming sensation, he held you firmly in place, refusing to let you hide even an inch of yourself from his mouth. “That’s it,” he growled against your pussy, the words sounding muffled. “Keep these pretty thighs open for me, love. I’m not done feasting, not by a long fucking shot.”

You were moaning openly now, shameless sounds spilling from your lips as your hands fisted in his hair. “Alfie— oh God, don’t stop… please don’t stop…” The words came out broken and desperate, it was years of denial pouring out of you in a flood. 

As you bucked his hips against his face, chasing the pressure of his tongue, you looked down, and the sight nearly undid you completely, Alfie on his knees between your spread legs, his eyes half-lidded with lust, his beard glistening with your wetness, and his mouth buried in your cunt like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He looked up at that exact moment, locking his gaze with yours while his tongue continued its devastating work, sucking hard on your clit. The eye contact was intimate, you saw the raw hunger there, the possession, and it made your walls clench around nothing.

The intensity pushed you over the edge of control, and you started grinding slowly on his face, rolling your hips in needy circles, using his mouth, his tongue, his beard for friction. The coarse hair tickled and scraped deliciously against your sensitive folds and inner thighs. With a broken cry, you let yourself fall back onto the wooden bench, spreading your arms out above your head, arching as you gave yourself over completely. 

Alfie groaned in approval, sliding his hands under you, grabbing your ass with both palms to squeeze the soft flesh, kneading it as he lifted your hips higher, bringing your dripping pussy even closer to his face. He held you there like an offering, devouring you with ferocity.

You were whimpering louder now, the sounds turning into high cries that echoed off the walls. “Alfie— fuck— I’m so close… don’t stop, please don’t stop…” Your thighs shook violently around his head as the orgasm built, ready to explode. Every nerve in your body felt alight, years of neglect and loneliness unraveling under the assault of his mouth.

He growled and moaned into your cunt, the vibrations pushing you right to the edge. “Cum for me, angel,” he rasped against your folds. “Cum on my tongue like the starving girl you are. Give it to me, let me taste how much you’ve needed this.”

The orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was intense, shattering, the first one you had experienced in years. Your whole body seized, your back bowing off the bench as the pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your cunt clenched around nothing, gushing wetly against his mouth as he continued licking and sucking you through every pulse and aftershock, drinking down every drop like a man dying of thirst. 

Alfie held you through it all, his grip on your ass firm, never letting your hips drop, never stopping the soothing laps of his tongue as the pleasure finally began to ebb. He kissed your swollen folds gently, murmuring praises against your skin between soft licks. “That’s my good girl… fucking beautiful when you cum for me. Look at you shaking and dripping and mine. First of many, love. I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

You lay there on the bench, with your chest heaving and your body limping and trembling, as Alfie continued to kneel between your spread thighs, pressing worshipful kisses to your inner thighs and mound. 

Alfie finally rose, towering over you. He wiped his glistening beard with the back of his hand, looking down at your spent form spread out on the bench. 

“Eating this cunt is a biblical experience, love. Proper fucking revelation. I thought nothing in this godforsaken world tasted better than those cakes you bake. But this?” He dragged two thick fingers through your slick folds, gathering your wetness and his saliva, then brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean with an obscene groan. “This cunt is better. Sweeter, wetter, more addictive. I could die wondering how I ever lived without the taste of you on my tongue.”

You were still catching your breath, but something wild and long-denied had broken loose inside you. You sat up, grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands, and pulled him down into a fierce kiss. Your fingers worked frantically at the buttons, popping them open one by one until the fabric parted to reveal the broad, hairy expanse of his chest. You slid the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and ran your hands all over him, tracing the muscle of his shoulders, the softness of his belly, the hair that covered his chest and trailed down toward his waistband. 

Alfie chuckled against your mouth, the sound amused and utterly pleased. “Look at you,” he murmured, nipping at your lower lip. “Someone’s in a rush, huh? Greedy little thing. One taste and you’re ready to devour the rest of me. I like that, fucking like that.”

You kissed him harder, tangling your tongues together in a kiss that grew messy and desperate. While your mouths moved together, you dropped your fingers lower, fumbling with his belt. The leather gave way, and you popped the button of his trousers, tugging the zipper down and shoving both trousers and underwear down his thighs in one eager motion.

Alfie’s cock sprang free, thick, and already leaking at the flushed tip. It was substantial, veined and hard, with a thatch of dark hair at the base that made your mouth water. You stared for a moment, as it bobbed heavily between you.

Alfie watched you looking, and a slow smile spread across his face. “You like what you see, love?” he asked. “Go on, don’t be shy. Give it a stroke, feel what you do to me.”

Your wrapped a hand around his shaft without hesitation. He was hot and smoothl, pulsing in your grip. You stroked him slowly at first, up and down, swirling your thumb over the leaking head on every pass to spread the wetness. Alfie groaned, tipping his head back for a moment, half-closing his eyes in pleasure as he let you work him. He rocked his hips gently into your fist, fucking your hand with lazy thrusts while he simply enjoyed the feeling.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl. Look at that pretty hand wrapped around my cock.”

While you continued stroking him, finding a steady rhythm that made his breath hitch, Alfie moved his hand back between your legs. His fingertips gathered the slick mixture of your juices and his saliva that still coated your pussy, and then he slid two fingers deep inside you. He curled them, stroking that spot inside while he circled your clit in lazy spirals with the pad of his thumb. He opened you slowly, scissoring his fingers to stretch you. 

Your hand continued to pump his cock while his fingers fucked you open. You moaned into his mouth as you kissed again, sliding your tongues together. Your strokes on his cock grew faster and tighter, making Alfie groan into the kiss and jerk his hips.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he rasped against your lips, breaking the kiss to look down at where your hand worked him and where his fingers disappeared inside your cunt. “So tight and wet. This pretty little hole is sucking my fingers in like she knows exactly who it belongs to now. Gonna make you feel so full when I finally give you this cock, gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

Then, with a growl, he pulled his fingers out of you, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. At the same time, he closed his other hand firmly around your wrist, stopping the movement of your hand on his throbbing length. You looked up at him with your lips parted in a moan, and your eyes dark with need. Alfie held your gaze, his own eyes overwhelmed with lust.

“Do you want my cock inside you, love? Because all of this, my mouth, my fingers, that’s been foreplay. Beautiful, filthy foreplay. But if I put my cock inside this pretty little cunt… things won’t go back the way they were. You’ll be all mine. Once I’m buried deep, there’s no pretending. No going back to that cold bed and that useless husband. You’ll be mine. Say it, tell me you understand what you’re asking for.”

The words hung in the warm kitchen air. Your heart hammered wildly at the thought of belonging to Alfie. Years of loneliness and a body that had been ignored rose up in a desperate wave. You nodded frantically. “I want you,” you whispered, then louder, more desperate. “So much, Alfie. Please… Please fuck me. I need you inside me.”

A satisfied smile spread across his face. “Look at you,” he murmured, brushing your swollen lower lip. “You’re so beautiful when you beg. You’ve got the face of an angel and the voice of one too, it’s fucking celestial. Begging for my cock like the dirty girl you are.”

He stepped closer, until his thick cock was nudging against your slick entrance. “Wrap your legs around my waist, love. Hold me tight, I want to feel you clinging to me when I finally sink into this heaven between your thighs.”

You obeyed instantly, locking your legs  around his hips, digging your heels into the back of his thighs and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. The position left you completely open to him, your cunt pressed right against the head of his cock. Alfie gripped the base of his shaft with one hand, the other arm banded tight around your lower back, holding you steady.

“Look at me,” he commanded. “Right here. I want to see that first second when I get inside you. Want to watch your face when this cock stretches you open and fills that hungry little hole for the first time.”

You locked eyes with his, and then Alfie pushed forward. The thick head of his cock breached your entrance, stretching you slowly and inexorably. You gasped sharply at the burn and the fullness, your walls fluttering around the invasion as he sank deeper inch by inch. He was thick, so thick, and long, filling you in a way you had never been filled before. 

Crescent marks painted his shoulders when you dug your nails into it. You let your body adjust, clenching and relaxing around him. Alfie groaned deeply but his eyes never left your face, watching every flicker of pleasure as he pushed forward, until he was buried to the hilt, with his heavy balls pressed against you.

“Fuck… so tight,” he growled, holding perfectly still for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him inside you. “This cunt is gripping me like it never wants to let go, like it knows exactly who it belongs to now.”

Then he began to move, holding you tight against him with an arm around your waist and the other braced on the bench as he thrust deep, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in with a powerful snap of his hips. Each thrust was deliberately hitting your g-spot, making stars explode behind your eyelids.

“Alfie! Oh God, yes, deeper—” you gasped, digging your nails harder into his arms, leaving red trails down his skin. You tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper with every thrust.

He kissed you hard, using his tongue to fuck your mouth in the same rhythm as his cock pounded into your cunt. The bench creaked beneath you as he fucked you with increasing force, snapping forward, making the length of him drag against every nerve inside you. His balls were sapping against your ass with every deep thrust, and the hair at the base of his cock rubbing deliciously against your clit.

“That’s it, angel,” he moaned between kisses. “Moan for me, let me hear how good it feels to finally have a real man inside you. This tight cunt was made for this cock… made for me. Gonna fuck you until you forget every lonely night, until the only name you remember is mine.”

Alfie watched your face the entire time, drinking in every expression, the way your lips parted on a cry, the way your eyes fluttered half-closed in ecstasy. “Beautiful,” he growled, slamming deep and grinding his hips in a circle. “Fucking beautiful when you’re taking my cock like this. Look at you, all spread open and dripping for me. My angel.”

The pleasure built again, faster this time, coiling in your belly as Alfie’s rhythm grew punishing. You couldn’t help the way your walls fluttered and clenched around him with every stroke, the grip of your cunt pulsing and rippling along his length as the pleasure increased. The sensation of being so full, so stretched, so completely claimed by him was overwhelming

Alfie cursed, his hips stuttering for a moment as your cunt clenched particularly hard around him. “Fuck—! stop doing that with your cunt, love,” his voice came out rough with the effort of holding back. “Squeezing me like that… you’re gonna make me cum too soon. This tight, greedy little hole is trying to pull the life out of me. Slow down, angel, or I won’t last.”

“I can’t help it,” you whimpered high and broken, rolling your hips up to meet his thrusts desperately. “It feels too good… I think I’m gonna cum again, Alfie— oh God, I’m so close…”

A satisfied chuckle rumbled out of him, turning into another deep groan as your walls fluttered around his cock once more. “You’re gonna make me cum, angel,” he growled. “Gonna pull it right out of me with this perfect cunt. But not yet… not until I feel you fall apart around me again.”

His hand found your clit with unerring accuracy, and he rubbed circles over the bundle of nerves, never slowing the pounding rhythm of his cock driving into you. The dual stimulation was devastating, the pressure on your clit was pushing you straight toward the edge again. 

Alfie leaned in and kissed you hard, swallowing every cry and whimper as he drove you higher. “Cum for me again, love,” he rubbed faster. “Let me feel this pretty cunt pulse and flutter around me. Squeeze my cock while you fall apart. That’s it, good girl, cum on my cock like you were born for it.”

The orgasm crashed over, even more intense than the first. Your whole body seized as the pleasure ripped through you in shattering pulses. Your cunt clenched hard around his thick cock, fluttering and pulsing rhythmically, milking him with squeezes as you came with a loud scream of his name. Slick gushed around his cock, coating his balls and dripping down onto the bench beneath you.

“Fuck yes! That’s my angel.” Alfie’s voice was strained as he felt you cum apart around him. He kept thrusting through it, fucking you through every pulse. “So beautiful when you cum for me. Squeezing me so tight… gonna make me fill this pussy. I’m gonna finish inside you, love. Gonna pump every drop deep into this greedy cunt. Mark you from the inside so you remember who you belong to now. Gonna fill you up until you’re dripping with me for days.”

His thrusts grew more erratic as he chased his own release. His cock swelled even thicker inside you, until with a final and powerful snap of his hips, Alfie came. He flood you with thick ropes of cum as he emptied himself completely. He kept thrusting through it, making sure every drop stayed buried inside you, filling you until you felt impossibly full.

He collapsed forward, stroking with his hand up and down your back, tracing patterns along your spine, then sliding around to caress your sides, your ribs, the curve of your waist. His other arm held you securely against his chest, keeping you pressed close as if he feared you might slip away. 

“Does your throat hurt, love?” he asked quietly, a gravelled murmur against your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, the sound hoarse from all your moaning. “A little,” you admitted, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him. “But it’s a good hurt.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through you where you were still joined. “That’s a good sign, angel. A cunt filled and dripping with my cum, and a throat sore from screaming my name. That’s how a woman should be, love. Thoroughly loved, thoroughly pleasured, thoroughly claimed. That’s how it would be every single day if you were mine, I’d wake you up with my mouth between your thighs. I’d make you cum until you couldn’t remember your own name. You’d go to sleep every night with my cock still inside you and my cum leaking down your thighs. Loved, cherished, worshipped like you deserve.”

You tightened your arms around his shoulders. Meanwhile, Alfi’es hands continued their slow exploration, sliding down to cup your ass gently, then back up to trace your sides and the curve of your breasts where they pressed against his chest. “Your cunt was a holy experience,” he murmured after a long, contented silence. “I saw God for a moment there, love. Nothing in this world, nothing has ever felt like being buried inside you. I’m not sure I can live without it now, I’m not sure I can live without you. Ever since you walked into this place with that cake and that smile that lit up the whole room… you’ve ruined me, angel. Ruined me for anything less, I look at you and the rest of the world feels grey and small and pointless.”

When you lifted your head, you saw his eyes, your own still hazy with pleasure. “Maybe you won’t have to,” you whispered.

“You’re not going back to that cunt of a husband you’ve got,” he said. “Not after this, not after the way you came for me, not after I felt this perfect cunt. You’re done with that life, love. I won’t allow it.”

A tired, but genuine smile painted your face, and you rested your forehead against his. “With this Friday’s payment… I saved enough to rent my own place. I’ve been putting every shilling I could away.”

Alfie’s expression softened further, something almost tender breaking through. He kissed you slowly. “Smart girl, saving and planning. I’m gonna make sure you’re okay. More than okay. You’ll have that place, you’ll have safety. And you’ll have me, whenever you want me, however you want me.”

You stayed wrapped around him, with your legs locked at his waist and your arms around his neck, your face tucked into the warm curve of his shoulder. Then came the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

“Alfie?” Ollie’s voice echoed down the corridor, with that typical frustration and an edge of exhaustion. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Please don’t tell me you’re still in there watching her knea—”

The door to the back room swung open and Ollie stopped cold in the doorway, his words dying in his throat. His eyes widened, taking in the scene before him: you on the bench, with your dress bunched around your waist, brassiere pulled down and breasts exposed and marked with the evidence of Alfie’s mouth. Alfie still buried between your spread thighs, his trousers around his ankles and his shirt open, the two of you flushed and unmistakably tangled.

Alfie reacted instantly, wrapping one arm around your back and pulling you against his chest to shield your bare breasts from view, while his other hand tugged the front of your dress up as best he could. “Jesus fuck, Ollie!” he barked with exasperation. “Didn’t your mother teach you how to knock? Get the fuck away from here. Now. Before I decide your eyes need a permanent reminder of what happens when you walk in on things that aren’t your business.”

Ollie’s face went a mortified red, he spun on his heel so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, muttering something that sounded like a urse. The door slammed shut behind him with a bang, and you heard his footsteps retreating rapidly down the hallway.

The silence that followed was broken only by your sudden, breathless laugh. Alfie’s chest rumbled with a chuckle that turned into full laughter. “Poor Ollie,” you gasped between giggles. 

“Serve him right,” Alfie said, still laughing. “Walking in like he owns the place. Should’ve knocked.”

You stayed like that for a few more minutes, wrapped around each other. But eventually, with a reluctant sigh, Alfie pulled back just enough to look at you, as he slowly eased his softening cock out of you. You whimpered at the loss, feeling the warm trickle of his cum leaking down your thighs. 

“Come here, love,” he murmured, helping you down from the bench on shaky legs. “Let me take care of you.”

He dressed you with surprising gentleness. First he slid your knickers back up your legs, settling them into place and smoothing the fabric over your still sensitive cunt. Then he adjusted your garters and rolled your stockings back up your thighs, clipping them neatly. He helped you back into your brassiere, cupping your breasts as he did so, brushing your nipples one last time before covering them. Finally, he buttoned what remained of your dress, straightening the fabric and brushing flour from your shoulders and hair with tender strokes.

“There,” he said quietly, stepping back to look at you. “Presentable again. Though I much prefer you the other way.”

You smiled, still a little dazed, and leaned into him. Alfie wrapped his arms around you once more, holding you close. “This Sunday,” he said after a long silence, “you’re gonna bring in the money you’ve got saved and a bag with your belongings. I’m gonna help you find your next place to live. Something far away from that useless bastard. You won’t have to do it alone, love. Not anymore.”

You nodded against his chest. “This Sunday,” you agreed softly.

For the first time in years you are not bracing yourself for the walk home, thinking of a cold bed, and an even colder husband. You think of the mornings still to come, waking up without dread and walking the streets knowing the ring on your finger is gone, and the weight it carried is gone with it.

A/N: Omg guys, I think it’s finally up for good!! After getting flagged like 10 times, I think I finally figured out what the issue was. I swear I’ve been so stressed over this whole thing. So if you enjoyed it, I’d absolutely love it if you could help me out with a reblog. It would mean a lot to me and help the fic reach more people after everything it’s been through.

This fic actually started out as something much angstier. My original idea was that Alfie and reader met because she worked as a seamstress and he’d bring her clothes to be repaired. Reader’s marriage was also supposed to be a lot darker. I even had about a page of it written in google docs.

But then, while looking for pictures on pinterest, I came across a photo of a bakery and suddenly thought, wait… wouldn’t it be adorable if reader worked as a baker and Alfie was completely gone for her?😭 So I scrapped everything I’d written and started over from scratch. This time, I decided not to make it quite so dark and instead added a bit more humor and lightheartedness to it.

You don’t give him a chance to finish. The crack of your open hand against his cheek echoes through the empty manor. Edward's head jerks to the side—half-smile vanishing as a bright flush blooms against his sun- and wind-burned skin. He doesn’t move. Suppose I deserved that.

“You left me like some common tavern wench!” you snarl, clenched fist landing against his chest. The impact thuds against hard muscle, but he barely rocks back. “I wanted that ship, Edward,” you tell him, fists and voice shaking. “We were to take her together. Why?” He catches your hand on the next strike, fingers locking around your wrist.

The answer should be easy enough to say. When it's only my neck in the noose, I can live with the odds, he thinks, but no treasure is worth gambling your life. You yank against his grip, chest heaving. And he’s too much of a proud dastard to speak true and plain about matters of the heart. Edward pulls you close, looking down his crooked nose at you—a dark heat sparking in his clear blue eyes. “Because I’m a selfish pirate,” he grits out, “who’d rather see you alive and furious than in a watery grave on account of soured information.”

His words only feed the fire. You twist free of his hold and shove him, hard. Back toward the oak table strewn with maps and empty rum bottles—and Edward lets you. “Alive and furious, am I?” you hiss, pressing against his shoulders again. The back of his legs hit wood, and the gleam in his eyes borders on dangerous. “You arrogant bastard.”

Your fingers curl around the belt of his pistol holders—the flintlocks and his cutlasses left on the foyer table—hauling him closer instead of pushing him away. Surging forward, you press your mouth against his. Edward’s breath catches, surprised for half a heartbeat, then he groans low in his throat and answers with equal fire, lips parting, tongue sliding against yours. It’s salt, rum, and pent-up fury.

And when you feel that smirk of his trying to return against your mouth, you bite down on his bottom lip, hard enough to draw a sharp hiss from him.

“Christ,” Edward breathes—the sting in his lip and cheek only spurring him on. His hands curl around your waist, fingertips pressing into your flesh through wool and linen. The faint metallic twinge of blood where you broke skin taints the kiss, and the sound he makes is half pain, half raw want.

Edward spins you around. The great room tilts, maps and bottles scattering as he bends you over the table. Empty rum bottles clink together—one rolls off the edge and shatters. He presses in behind you, chest to your back, one broad, careworn hand splayed between your shoulders, pinning you down.

“Stay furious.” His voice is heady and rough at your ear, breath hot against your neck as he presses your feet apart with his boot. “I like you like this.” Edward rolls his hips into your backside, letting you feel what your rage has done to him—half-hard cock straining through the linen of his breeches.

His free hand drags your skirts up, bunching the fabric at your hips. The cool evening air nips at your bare thighs—a shiver creeps down your spine. “Edward,” you warn; there’s unheard-of malice in his name. But he doesn’t take heed; instead, his palm smooths over the curve of your backside, possessive, then slips between your thighs.

A low, approving hum rumbles through his chest when he finds you slick and wanting. Edward’s callous and scarred fingers stroke through your folds, pausing for a trice to rub tight circles at your clit, teasing. You push back against him with a frustrated noise, but he only presses you harder into the table, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’ll take what I give you, Dove,” he murmurs, nipping at the sensitive spot just below it—the same way you bit his lip, a sweet sting for a sweet sting. “Mayhap then you’ll forgive me for keeping you safe.”

Two fingers sink into your cunt, deep and sure, curling them just right. Your wretched moan breaks against the wood, hips pressing back into his hand as he begins a slow rhythm. Damn him. The table creaks under your combined weights. Maps and letters stick to your sweaty palms. Damn him for what he does to you. But all you can focus on is the slick, obscene sounds of Edward’s fingers working between your thighs and the heat of his body pinning you in place—helpless against his strength.

You arch into his hand, clenching around his fingers as he pumps them deeper—relentlessly against the place he knows makes stars burst behind your eyes. God, you’re so close, and all you can do is curse him. “Edward…damn you,” you gasp.

He laughs, low, wicked, withdrawing his fingers—buckles fall open and fabric rustles—fingers replaced with the blunt, weeping head of his cock. The thick, scorching length of him slides through your soaked cunt, teasing your clit until you’re nigh close to trembling and begging for him when you’re supposed to be angry.

“Say it again,” he growls, guiding himself into you. A slow press to let you feel every inch and vein. “Tell me how much you hate me while I’m buried inside you.” You don’t get the chance. He thrusts forward in a fluid stroke, sheathing himself to the hilt—your walls fluttering around him, welcoming. Edward curses, forehead dropping to your shoulder to savor the tight heat of you. Then he starts moving in earnest—the edge of the table biting into your hips with every thrust.

“Vainglorious prick,” you finally gasp, finding your voice, pushing back to meet the rolls of his hips. You tighten around him on purpose, vicious, and the groan he lets out is like ravaged sin. “Fuck—thinking you get to decide for me—” the words fracture into a moan as he grinds deep, hips circling. There’s nothing gentle about it. He fucks you hard and deep, like he’s trying to fuck all the fury out of you. The table jolts forward with the force of it.

The hand pressing between your shoulders slides up your spine and neck, fingers twisting into your hair. He tugs your head back, just enough to expose your throat. “You can do better than that, Dove.” Edward’s teeth sink into the curve of your neck. He bites down hard, sucking a dark mark into your skin while his cock slides back into you—over and over.

“God, Edward, fuck.” Your moan turns into a desperate sob of pleasure, hips rocking back to meet every thrust. Pressure coils in your belly, legs trembling, toes curling against the floorboards. Edward feels it—he angles his hips, driving into you even harder.

You cry out as he drives into you again and again, the table groaning beneath your braced arms, and then…Edward pulls out with a rough curse. Selfish pirate that he is, he wants to see your face when he makes you fall apart. He twists you around, back hitting the edge of the table before he lifts you onto it, scattering another bottle to the floor. Your skirts bunch uselessly around your waist, legs parting as he steps between them—rough hand gripping your thigh to hitch it high around his hip as he slots himself between your spread legs, cock sinking back into your cunt in one smooth, claiming thrust.

A broken noise tears from your throat, your hands flying up to clutch at his chest and shoulders, twisting into the linen and leather of his robes—by Jove, you want to get to his bare skin.

“Look at me.” One hand braces on the table beside your hip, the other curls around the back of your neck, forcing your gaze to his. Those clear blue eyes are dark with lust, pupils blown wide, a sheen of sweat on his brow. “Hate me all you like” —a ruined smile crosses his lips— “your body knows what it desires.” Him. Edward James Kenway.

You should strike him again for that. Instead, you twist your fingers into his golden hair and pull—hard enough to make him bare his teeth in a hiss, nostrils flaring—and drag his mouth to yours. The kiss is messy—all teeth and tongue clashing as he pounds into you. You nip his already swollen lower lip again, tasting blood, and Edward groans into your mouth, hips stuttering before he redoubles his pace, spreading your thighs wider.

You lock your ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper, fingernails raking down his scalp as you kiss him, scarcely letting him breathe. The pressure coils tighter, hotter, in your stomach, your walls fluttering wildly around his cock. One hand slides between your joined bodies, calloused thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight, merciless circles. “Come on, Dove,” Edward rasps, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “Let me feel you. Come for me.”

It does you in, hearing him say that. You shatter around him with a keening cry, heels pressing into the curve of his back, thighs squeezing him, trying to hold him in place. But Edward’s rhythm grows erratic, desperate, fucking you through your own release as he chases his own. His forehead pressed to yours, blue eyes dark and wild as they lock onto your face—lips parted in silent throes, eyes hazy, a furrow in your brow as you whisper his name like a prayer.

Edward follows. With a guttural groan, he buries himself in your cunt and stays there, hips jerking as he spills his seed deep inside you—leaving you both panting and trembling. He grinds against you as if he can’t get close enough.

For a moment, the only sounds in the great room are your ragged breaths, gull song, and the rowdy merriment from the dockside tavern. Edward stays buried deep in your cunt, arms braced on either side of your head as he leans over you, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the bite marks he left on your neck and shoulder. You clinch around him, deliberately, feeling his spend slide down your thigh, and it earns you a hissed curse and a twitch of his spent cock.

But the heat in his eyes has burned down to something softer. His thumb brushes a lock of hair from your sweat-damp cheek. “Rather have you cursing me every day for the rest of my life than lose you over a pitiful chest of gold,” Edward says quietly, voice still gruff. “If that makes me a selfish, vainglorious prick” —he leans down and kisses you, slower this time, tender, even with the sting of his broken lip— “then so be it.”

And how can you fault him for that? Your arms slide around him, drifting up his back. You tug on the ends of his hair, lightly, and loosen the leather thong holding back his ponytail, letting his golden locks fall loose and messy. Edward pulls back, looking properly ruined, just like you.

“Now, are you still planning to flay me alive” —a sated smirk tugs at his bitten lip as he rests his forehead against yours— “or can I carry you to bed and make it up to you proper?” His hips give a lazy, teasing roll, still half-hard inside you. You won’t object to that. “I’ve got all night to earn your forgiveness, Dove.”

[Edward taglist: @awondrouslove / @certifiedlittleshit / @chonkercatto / @dontwannabeanamericanidiot / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @fridrssvardagi / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @hnybnny / @itseivwhore / @jadynchronicle / @maddiethecanadianassassin / @morganamayne / @mossywossy14 / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @rainsought / @slytherinmates / @stevie75 / @thatrandomfeministgamer / @theoriginalannoyingbird / @theexaustedmermaid / @vymyn ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Edward taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

bonus: ole Eddie lookin a tad bit angry

When you’d first arrived back in town after escaping Mahito’s clutches, you’d gone straight to your parents to tell them what had happened and to ask for them to contact the Higurumas to help you through the legal process. If you’d been more mentally stable at the time perhaps you would’ve gone to them alone, playing along with your father’s request to not bring Sukuna to the house. 

But you’d been in no fit state to do anything alone, so Sukuna had tagged along that evening to support you, revealing himself to your mother for the first time as your boyfriend. 

To say that first meeting had been rocky was something of an understatement.

Her judgement of the man was evident and only further heightened by your father’s obvious disapproval. If you hadn’t been in such a state of distress you were certain that both of them would’ve outright voiced how disappointed they were in you. Perhaps they would’ve even asked Sukuna to leave.

But neither of them spoke out actively against him that day - not when he was the only thing you seemed to be clinging to, desperate not to be parted from him for a second. 

They could understand that he was your saviour - that you needed him, and even begrudgingly accepted it when you all but moved into his apartment in the weeks that followed, spending every night with him in the one place you felt safe and comfortable. It wasn’t like they were happy about it - you knew that, but they weren’t about to stand in the way of their traumatised daughter and her wants. 

Sukuna was the one thing keeping you going, and your parents knew that. 

Even if he was far from ideal in their minds. 

Your mother, no matter her opinion on a person, had always been the type to try to keep things civil and polite, which was how you and Sukuna had ended up invited for dinner at your childhood home, in which your mother was trying her best to extend an olive branch and keep an open mind about your boyfriend. 

It had already been an awkward affair, and you were desperate to leave, but Sukuna seemed unfettered, smiling politely at your mother’s largely condescending questions. 

“No, I didn’t go to college. My family wasn't very well off and even with scholarships it would’ve been hard for me. I might go back to school in a few years once I have some savings, but it was always a better option for me to earn.” His arm came to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him in an act that no doubt had your father seething. “I’m set on finding a good career though. I want to be able to provide.” 

Your mother gave him a polite smile before diverting her attention back down to her plate, while your father rolled his eyes. It was clear that neither of them particularly liked the idea of him thinking long term about your relationship. In the few times she’d caught you alone since finding out about Sukuna, your mother had not so subtly reminded you that Hiromi was still single and willing to date, pairing it with the suggestion that a change of scenery might be good for you. 

So far you’d politely turned her down, but the whole thing was starting to grate on your nerves. Sukuna was who you’d chosen - he’d protected you through the worst of times and was continuing to care for you now, even when you were depressed and traumatised. There wasn’t anyone else you wanted - it was only him. 

It had always been him and always would be. 

“Do you think you’ll be coming back to work soon, sweetheart?” Your dad asked, shifting his attention to you. 

Since the incident you’d found it difficult to even get out of bed most days, your mind laden with thoughts of Mahito and what might’ve happened if Sukuna hadn’t arrived. And when you weren’t thinking about that, you were picturing Shoko’s lifeless body laid out on the floor. The idea of holding it together for a whole day of work seemed impossible. 

Your father had been understanding enough to allow Sukuna to take a couple of weeks off after everything first went down, aware that he didn’t want you left alone in such a distraught state, but Sukuna had been back on site for weeks now, while you still moped around at home. Your phone and Sukuna’s gun were never far from your grip whenever you were alone, constantly on edge that you’d hear the rattling of a window or the slow unlatching of the door, leading you to another terrible fate. 

“I- I don’t know.” 

You’d been waiting to return back to your normal self, to bounce back to the way you were before. But you felt like a vital part of you had been stolen, never to be returned. It was so similar to how you’d felt after Ryu’s death, and yet so different too. With Ryu, it had been like getting carried away by a stream, constantly trying to get your head above rushing water to take a breath. 

This felt more still - like you were drifting steadily to the bottom of a calm lake without the capability to kick back up to the surface. There was a numbness to the pain that settled within you through each passing day, like pieces of your heart were slowly being peeled away and cast aside. The piece that Sukuna held in his hands felt like the only one that was safe, protected by the one person who brought you comfort. 

“It's fine for me to look after her.” Sukuna cut in before your dad could respond. “She doesn’t need to work.”

The man pressed his lips into a thin line, collecting himself before making any rash response to Sukuna’s words. He’d hardly eaten any of his meal, clearly discomforted by the whole situation of having a dinner party with someone he didn’t approve of, someone who he knew had laid hands all over his daughter. 

“She should work. She’s more qualified than you are, it would be silly to let years of education go to waste.” 

“I don’t doubt her skill.” Sukuna bit back, “I simply care for her wellbeing. When she feels better she can decide what she wants to do, I’ll support her whether it brings us millions of dollars or makes us nothing.” 

“That’s admirable, don’t you think, honey?” Your mother tried her best to disarm the tension, casting a glance at your father who seemed utterly unconvinced. 

You kept quiet, uninterested in pushing your way into the conversation. Dinner hadn’t seemed like the best idea, even if you could see your mother’s intent. Your father would never accept Sukuna no matter how good a person he was to you - his low social standing already sealed that deal, making this whole meeting a waste of everyone’s time. 

It was better if you simply kept the two halves of your life apart. There was no point in causing strife or trying to convince your dad of anything when he was already deadset in his beliefs. He wanted you to marry someone wealthy like Hiromi, someone who could take care of you financially without working on a construction site. 

Someone with soft, uncalloused hands. 

Someone who would never think to cover themselves in tattoos. 

Sukuna would never be that, so he’d never be accepted. If anything, his heroic act of saving you from Mahito had only further concreted him as someone unpleasant in your father’s eyes - the type of man who was strong and scrappy enough to kill another. 

That his actions were in defence of you didn’t seem to matter. 

And for that reason you were done trying to argue. 

You’d only agreed to the dinner invitation because Sukuna had urged you to, emphasising the importance in him building a relationship with your family if you were going to be together. But ultimately, he was on his own on that front, because you could see no way in which dinner would end with anything but more animosity between both parties. 

So you’d let them talk things out, excusing yourself to the bathroom to free yourself of conversation you had no interest in hearing. 

Well, that and because you’d been beset with the sudden urge to vomit. 

For the last few days your stomach had been odd. You’d been waking up each morning feeling nauseous, leaving you sprinting to the toilet and throwing up until your stomach was emptied of its bile. Throughout the day the dizziness would decrease, but you found yourself disinterested in most foods, that wave of sickness passing through you at the hint of various scents. 

At first you’d convinced yourself it was a bug, but as you’d excused yourself from the table, suddenly nauseous after lifting a piece of broccoli to your mouth, you began to wonder if that was all it was. 

You’d stood there, in your parents downstairs toilet, peering at yourself in the mirror. The sound of Sukuna making strained conversation echoed through the wooden door and you paid it little mind, letting words drift into mere noise while you studied your reflection. It was hard to recognise the person staring back at you, with your sunken eyes and chapped lips serving as a constant reminder of the difficult few weeks you’d had. 

But those weren’t the changes you were focussed on. 

Prodding at your cheeks, you became certain that you were putting on weight, your face a little rounder than you were used to it being. In addition, acne had begun to spring up across your forehead and chin, symptoms that were usually only present when you were on your period. 

Now that you were considering it, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d been on your period. 

It hadn’t been cause for concern, because the contraceptive pill had occasionally caused inconsistency with your cycle, meaning a missed period or spotting wasn’t unusual. That paired with how much stress you’d been under, it came as no surprise that you hadn’t been bleeding as usual. 

That combined with the nausea though? And the subtle changes to your face? That was a concern. 

You hadn’t realised how long you’d been in there pondering the facts until there was a quiet knock on the door. 

“Is everything okay honey?” Your mother called out.

“Yeah, all good.” 

“Can I come in?” 

Swallowing, you dried tears that had appeared on your face, not quite sure when you’d started crying. You pulled open the door and let her step in. If she noticed the redness of your cheeks she said nothing, simply pulling the door shut behind her to get some privacy. 

“You’ve been in here a while,” she commented. You turned back to the mirror, watching her through the reflection as she sat down on the edge of the bath, eyes meeting yours. “Are you sure you’re okay? We’re not upsetting you are we? I know dad can be difficult.” 

Shrugging, you shook your head. “It's what I expected. It's fine.” It wasn’t fine, you loved Sukuna and you wanted others to see what you could see - you hated that a dinner with your parents felt like torture all because you dad didn’t approve, but asking him to change his ways would be like asking the sun to stop shining, so there was no point in lamenting. 

“It's not fine. I’ll speak to him. I know we were both shocked when you brought Sukuna here, but if he makes you happy I’ll do nothing to chase him away.” 

“You don’t like him though, do you?” You asked, staring at her bitterly through the mirror. Your hand had subconsciously moved up to your stomach, and a fresh wave of nausea forced its way through you, leaving you swaying on your feet. 

“I…” She hesitated. “I was surprised, but I don’t know him well enough to dislike him.” It was a diplomatic answer, and you did all you could to avoid rolling your eyes. “But what I think doesn’t matter. Do you like him, sweetheart? Do you think he’s good for you?” 

“Yes.” 

That was the easiest answer you’d ever given.

“Then that’s all that matters to me, and it's all that should matter to you dad,” she said. “I just don’t want you to drift away from us because of this. It would break my heart for you to go off and have children with him only for us to never see them because we can’t play nice. If that boy treats you well, then your dad will just have to accept it.” 

You nodded, only half listening. What she was saying was nice, you appreciated the sentiment, finding it pleasant to have someone on your side for once. However, you were too focused on the shifting feeling in your stomach to be truly grateful for what she was saying. You just wanted to be left alone, uninterested in having a conversation about your current state with your mother. 

A basic acceptance of Sukuna being in your life was probably already a big enough adjustment for her. 

Adding a potential pregnancy into the mix could ruin everything. 

Especially when you had no idea how you were meant to feel about it. 

“Anyway,” she continued at your silence. “I’ll leave you be - I don’t want to abandon Sukuna to your father for too long. Don’t hide away all night, I think it's better if your dad sees the two of you together looking all happy - it’ll soften him up.”

You offered her a smile as she placed a gentle hand on your shoulder before heading back to the dinner table, the quiet sound of conversation continuing while you remained still, hands grasping the edge of the basin, wondering if the small portion of food you’d eaten was going to rise up from your stomach. 

There was no point in panicking until you were certain of what you suspected, and for now you almost wanted to bury your head in the sand. Even though you loved Sukuna, this didn’t feel like the right time for this - you were still picking through so much trauma and you couldn’t imagine doing that with a baby at your hip. 

Besides, you weren’t particularly certain how Sukuna would take the news. 

He’d always been open about wanting children with you one day, but you assumed that was a statement for the future, once the two of you were in a better position. There was no space in Sukuna’s apartment to raise a child - you’d have to drastically change both of your lives if you were going to make space for an extra addition. 

Panic swelled within you, and you braced yourself harder against the sink, your head spinning. 

It wasn’t something you had the time or space to consider. You had too much on your mind to really think about it. For all you knew, you could be getting ahead of yourself - what if you were just ill? What if everything was a coincidence? Worrying before taking a pregnancy test was foolish. 

You’d wait until Sukuna was at work and buy one at the drug store, and until then you’d give it no further thought. 

—

On the way to the drug store the following day, you ran into Yuki. It was a chance meeting - she was stepping out of the coffee shop next door, brown eyes widening as they met yours. Conversation between the two of you had been limited, mainly on your part. You could find little energy to spend time with anyone who wasn’t Sukuna, and seeing Yuki had unpleasant memories rushing through your mind. 

That same feeling seemed to present itself in her, as she winced at the sight of you, quickly attempting to replace the expression with an uneasy smile. 

She looked similar to you - her eyes were sunken and exhausted, and she’d lost some weight since you’d last seen her. She was usually a muscular girl, the epitome of health, and to see her looking so skinny made your heart sink. 

“Hey. Long time no see,” she said. Her tone was lacking any enthusiasm, but you knew not to take it personally. If her last few weeks had been anything like yours, she simply didn’t have the energy to spare. 

“Hey,” you responded bashfully. “Sorry I’ve been bad at replying to your texts…”

“Don’t sweat it. I get it.” She chewed on her lower lip, swaying awkwardly on her feet. “Do you wanna come to my place? I could really do with talking to you.” The reluctance in your eyes must’ve been evident, because she was quick to continue speaking. “Nothing sinister. I just miss you.” 

Glancing at the drug store, you nodded. “Sure, I just need to grab something first if that’s okay?”

“Yeah of course.” 

Much to your dismay, she followed you as you stepped into the store. You’d assumed she’d wait for you outside, but you should’ve known that luck never tended to favour you in such a manner. Agonising in your head, you wondered if you should buy something other than a pregnancy test to avoid any questions from Yuki, but in the end you decided that would be embarrassingly cowardly. 

Both of you were adults. If you needed a pregnancy test, you needed a pregnancy test. There was no scandal to be had. 

You picked one up from the shelves casually, casting a sideways glance at your friend as you did so. Something akin to disappointment flickered in her eyes for a moment, but she managed to conceal it well. She offered no words of judgement, trailing behind you as you went to pay, and failing to mention it on the short walk back to her place. 

It had been a long time since you were last at her house, but it felt comforting to be there all the same. Yuki had always had a great eye for decor, and her living room was filled with tasteful colours and low lighting which gave it a lovely cozy feeling. It was sweet to see Choso’s things scattered with Yuki’s across the room, making it clear that the space belonged to the both of them. 

Soon, you’d have to speak to Sukuna about moving into his place properly - or perhaps having the two of you move into a new place entirely. It would be nice to have something that belonged to the two of you, rather than feeling like you were intruding on a space that belonged only to him. You wanted more than a single drawer in his home. 

“Can I get you anything? Water? Green tea?” She asked, as you settled down on one of the sofas, sinking back against the pillow.

“I’m okay.” You still weren’t over your wave of sickness that morning, and didn’t want to consume anything that would make it worse. Yuki nodded, and sat down across from you, an awkwardness settling over the room as the two of you sat there in silence. 

After weeks apart, you weren’t clear on what to say to Yuki. You didn’t know if you should discuss what had happened at Satoru’s lakehouse, or if you should ask about the trauma that followed. Both matters were touchy subjects of discussion. But equally, it felt hard to discuss anything else. Sukuna was off the table, and so was Shoko. It felt like you’d have to dance around so many topics that it was easier not to speak at all. 

While considering your next words, you found yourself remembering that you’d been invited to Yuki’s house, leaving the burden of conversation on her shoulders not yours. That had you relaxing a little, watching your friend struggle with the same conflict in her own mind. 

She took a long sip of coffee before speaking, as if steeling herself for what she was about to say. “I’m sorry, for what I did back at Satoru’s place. I shouldn’t have- sorry.” 

You tilted your head, struggling to compute what she was saying. In your mind she had nothing to apologise for - you’d all been in a terrifying situation brought on by a couple of psychopaths. Unless she’d outright invited them into the house, there was no apology needed.