#i think this is almost everything i have for this fic

[rainrot4me]

It's Just Your Imagination

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

───────────────────────────── full moon - the black ghosts

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: Having an imaginary friend is a very normal part of childhood. What isn't normal, though, is when that imaginary friend begins to show up in the corners of your vision, leaving you presents and an uneasy feeling. What happens when babysitting a little boy turns into fending off his protector? The worst part? He thinks you're very, very pretty.

✦ . Characters: Laughing Jack x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Horror, fear, imaginary friend!Laughing Jack, non-canon characters, stalking, obsession, plot heavy, inexperienced sex, virginity, monster fucking, inhumanly long tongue, cunnilingus, rough oral sex, vaginal sex, biting, scratching, hair pulling, rough sex, virgin!Laughing Jack, mentions of murder, creampie, breeding

✦ . Words: 21.5k

✦ . Note: Longest fic to date, I think! This was so incredibly fun to write, and I grew so attached to the characters I created during it! Jack is less clownish and more so child-mind figment in this, so don’t take anything I say as canon. Anyway! Very rough, very sloppy, very rewarding, please enjoy!!

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It was a nice home. At least, it was set up that way.

You were pretty sure the paint was still wet on the fence when you pulled up. It had that high-gloss shimmer that caught in the early evening sun, and the whole house looked like someone had tried very hard to make it look like nothing bad had ever happened there. Suburban. White picket fence. Wind chimes that jangled sweetly in the breeze. It was the kind of place meant to be welcoming—but somehow, it just felt…staged. Like a movie set.

You shifted your bag on your shoulder and knocked twice on the blue door, ignoring the simplistic door knocker that probably wasn’t actually meant to be used.

It opened immediately. A woman in her early thirties greeted you, brushing auburn hair behind one ear and offering a tight, polite smile.

“You must be the sitter,” she said, a little breathlessly, like she’d jogged to the door. “Come in, come in—thank you again for being available on such short notice. I’m Mrs. Dalton—we talked on the phone.”

You stepped inside, the scent of lavender and lemon cleaner hitting you all at once. Everything was tidy, even too tidy. Not a toy out of place, not a speck of dust on the mantle. But there was a strange hum in the air, like something unseen had been recently disturbed and hadn’t quite settled.

“No problem at all,” you replied with a friendly smile. “You said you needed a sitter for a few days?”

She nodded. “Just five evenings, from around five-thirty to ten. I work the late shift at the hospital this week, and with my husband out of town…”

Her voice trailed off. You caught the way her eyes flicked down the hallway behind you before she forced another smile.

“Anyway, it’s just my son, Oliver. He’s six. He’s a good kid. A little…imaginative. Which reminds me—before you meet him, there’s something I should mention.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Let me guess—he’s got an imaginary friend?”

Her smile froze a little. “Friends. Plural. But yes.”

“Totally normal for that age.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself,” she murmured, and the tension in her voice was so brief and well-hidden you almost missed it. “Just… humor him. If he talks about them, just go along with it. Especially if he mentions Laughing Jack.”

Now that gave you pause. You tilted your head. “Laughing Jack?”

She waved her hand like she was brushing it away. “It’s just a name. He draws him a lot—some freaky clown… you know, spooky stuff kids get from cartoons.”

“I’m not scared of imaginary friends,” you joked.

“Good,” she said, too quickly. “Great. Let me introduce you.”

She led you down the hall to a bedroom on the left. Posters of dinosaurs and planets were taped unevenly on the walls, and crayons were scattered across the carpet. In the middle of the room, a little boy sat cross-legged in front of a coloring book, his brown hair messy, lips moving silently like he was in the middle of a conversation.

“Oliver?” his mother called gently. “Honey, this is your new babysitter. She’s going to stay with you while I’m at work, remember?”

Oliver looked up, wide blue eyes blinking at you. He didn’t smile, didn’t wave. Just stared.

“…He likes you,” he said after a pause.

You glanced at his mother. She gave you an awkward little shrug.

“Nice to meet you, Oliver,” you said kindly, kneeling beside him. “Whatcha drawing?”

He flipped the page and showed you. The lines were shaky and crude, the colors bright and chaotic, but it was clearly a figure in black and white stripes with long arms and what looked like sharp teeth drawn in red crayon.

“This is Laughing Jack,” Oliver said solemnly. “He’s my best friend. He lives in the closet.”

You chuckled, trying to keep it light. “Well, that’s a very cool drawing. You’re really creative.”

“Laughing Jack likes it when I draw him,” Oliver added. “He likes to laugh. He doesn’t like when people are mean to me.”

That little prickle hit the back of your neck—the kind you get when you think someone’s standing behind you even though you know you’re alone.

You smiled a little too tightly. “Does he always stay in the closet?”

Oliver shook his head. “No. Sometimes he sits on my bed. Or hides under it.”

Mrs. Dalton cleared her throat. “Okay, sweetie. Why don’t you show her your space toys?”

He nodded and scuttled over to a plastic tub, pulling out spaceships and planets. You followed, asking him about them, listening to his explanations. He was articulate for a six-year-old, bright-eyed, and yes, wildly imaginative. But there was something in the way he paused mid-sentence like he was listening to someone you couldn’t hear. Occasionally, his eyes would flick to the shadowed corner of the room, near the closet door.

You figured maybe he was just shy. Or had a vivid inner world. You’d babysat dozens of kids. This wasn’t new.

But still, when he tugged at your sleeve fifteen minutes later and said, “Laughing Jack thinks you’re very pretty,” you couldn’t help the chill that spidered up your spine.

“…What?” you asked with a light laugh, trying not to sound weirded out.

“He said it just now,” Oliver replied simply, blinking up at you. “He said you smell nice, too. Like strawberries.”

You had used strawberry-scented shampoo that morning.

The closet door creaked slightly behind you—probably just the wind, or maybe the floor settling—and you turned toward it instinctively.

Nothing. Oliver just smiled and went back to coloring.

His mom gave you a final run-down before leaving: bedtime at eight-thirty, no sugar after dinner, TV only if homework was finished. She was quick, but not rushed—like she wanted to get out the door before you could change your mind and leave first.

She kissed Oliver on the top of his head. He barely reacted, still scribbling in his coloring book. Then she turned to you with a tight smile, and the kind of eyes that said thank you, but also good luck.

“If he has trouble sleeping,” she said softly near the door, “just read to him. He has a nightlight in case he gets scared. But… he probably won’t.”

“Got it,” you replied, trying to sound more confident than you felt. “Have a good shift.”

As the door clicked shut behind her, the house suddenly felt too quiet. Like it had been holding its breath. You turned back toward the living room. “Alright, kiddo. You got any homework?”

Oliver groaned and flopped dramatically onto the couch. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Math. It’s dumb.”

You chuckled and dropped your bag by the coat rack. “C’mon, let’s knock it out. Then we can do something fun. You like grilled cheese?”

He nodded.

“I make the best grilled cheese. You finish your worksheet, and I’ll prove it.”

Oliver eyed you suspiciously. “Better than Mom’s?”

“I’ll let you be the judge.”

He didn’t smile—still hadn’t, actually—but there was a flicker of amusement behind his eyes as he retrieved his workbook and a pencil from his backpack.

You helped him through subtraction problems while he kicked his legs restlessly and talked about Jupiter like it was his summer home. He was sharp, creative, and a little unsettling in the way only kids can be—matter-of-fact and unfiltered.

While he worked, you started pulling together dinner: grilled cheese, carrot sticks, and a cup of apple juice. You moved around the kitchen like you were trying to own the space, but the house still felt a little foreign—like it knew you weren’t part of it.

“Who’s eating with us?” Oliver asked suddenly from his seat at the table.

You looked up from the skillet. “You mean besides us?”

He nodded. “Laughing Jack’s hungry. And he says Charlie and Mr. Gumball might come too.”

You blinked. “Are those more of your friends?”

“Uh-huh. Charlie only has one eye. But he sees everything.”

“And Mr. Gumball?”

“He’s a skeleton with no teeth. He tells me secrets.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out a little thin. “Well, I hope they like grilled cheese.”

“They can’t eat,” Oliver said plainly. “But they like to watch.”

You set the plates down gently. “…Good to know.”

Dinner passed with more chatter—some of it directed at you, some at people who weren’t there. Oliver had a habit of pausing mid-sentence like he was listening to a reply. You tried to ignore how often his eyes flicked just past your shoulder. You made him brush his teeth after, and he complied with the stoic attitude of a six-year-old facing grave injustice.

It was nearing eight-thirty when you tucked him into bed.

His room was dimly lit now, a soft glow from the rocket-shaped nightlight pulsing across the walls. You sat on the edge of his mattress and reached for the storybook he picked: Where the Sidewalk Ends.

“Okay,” you said, flipping to a random page. “One poem, and then sleep.”

“Can I ask something first?” he said suddenly, eyes wide and serious.

You paused. “Of course.”

Oliver’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you think my dad is still in the basement?”

You blinked. “…What?”

He fidgeted with the edge of his blanket. “Mom says he left. But Jack says he didn’t. Jack says he screamed for a long time, but I couldn’t hear it because I was asleep.”

Your mouth went dry.

“…Oliver, your dad’s not here anymore?”

He shook his head. “He yelled a lot. At Mom and me. Jack didn’t like him, so he said he would keep me safe.”

“…What do you mean?”

Oliver looked at you calmly. “He said he made him into soup.”

Your throat tightened. The air in the room suddenly felt thick and unmoving. You forced a little laugh. “That’s…an intense imagination you’ve got.”

“I didn’t make it up,” Oliver said seriously. “Jack doesn’t lie.”

You glanced toward the closet, door slightly ajar. The shadows seemed longer than before. You tried not to show the absolute unease that twisted your features.

“Okay, time to sleep,” you said gently, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “You had a long day.”

Oliver didn’t argue. He rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

“Jack says you smell like strawberries because you’re sweet,” he murmured sleepily. “He thinks you’d make a really good friend.”

You stared at him. “…What?”

But Oliver was already drifting off. And somewhere in the corner of the room, the closet creaked.

── .✦

You got used to the routine pretty quickly.

Oliver’s mom would greet you with that same polite smile, say something like, “He’s been good today,” or “You know where everything is,” then slip out the door before you could even mention his dad. She never lingered. Her shift always started exactly on time.

And every night, it was the same: Help Oliver with homework. Make dinner. Talk about his “friends.” Pretend not to be freaked out. Read him a story. Tuck him in. Repeat.

On the second night, he told you Jack liked how “soft” your voice was—that he thought it would be “a very pretty singing voice.” You laughed it off. Said, “That’s a weird thing for Jack to say,” and Oliver just smiled.

It was becoming easy to convince yourself that Oliver was using Jack as a beacon. Kids did that. They had a hard time saying what they really meant, so it was easier to pretend someone else was saying it instead. It just made sense.

Later that same evening, you found one of Oliver’s drawings tucked inside your coat pocket when you were leaving. You didn’t remember him slipping it in. You weren’t even sure he’d touched your coat. But the paper was there—crayon scrawled in jagged loops, a picture of you sitting on the couch.

Behind you, in thick black strokes, was the striped figure of Laughing Jack, grinning with blood-red teeth.

You almost threw it out. You didn’t. You weren’t sure why.

By the third night, something had changed.

It started with how quiet the house felt when you walked in. Not the normal suburban calm—too quiet. Like the walls were holding their breath.

Oliver had already set up his math homework by the time you got there.

“I knew you were coming,” he said without looking up. “Jack told me.”

You frowned. “Did he also tell you to get started on your math?”

“No,” Oliver said. “That was Charlie. He said if I don’t do my work, Jack gets bored. I don’t like it when Jack gets bored.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but found yourself unsure what to say.

Dinner was tense. Oliver ate quietly. You caught him glancing over your shoulder several times, like he was watching something just behind you. You turned once. Nothing there. Just a flickering lightbulb in the hallway.

After dinner, he started drawing again. You sat nearby, flipping through your phone, half-distracted.

“You’re really pretty,” Oliver said suddenly.

You looked up. “Thanks, bud. That’s sweet.”

“Jack says pretty things break easier.”

You stared at him.

“…You know that’s not a nice thing to say, right?”

He blinked. “But it’s true.”

That night, you tucked him in like usual. Read another poem. Turned on the rocket-shaped nightlight. Said goodnight, sweet dreams, and stepped into the hallway, already pulling your phone from your back pocket.

You’d left your water bottle in the kitchen.

You padded down the hallway barefoot, the wooden floors creaking softly beneath your steps. The house was dim except for the sliver of gold-orange from Oliver’s room behind you and the low hum of the fridge up ahead.

You reached the kitchen, grabbed the bottle, and twisted the cap open.

Then you heard it. Your name. Soft. Almost sing-song.

You paused mid-sip. You turned toward the hallway.

“Oliver?” you called gently. “What is it, bud?”

Silence. You waited. No answer.

You set the water down and walked quietly back toward the room, heart ticking up a little faster now.

“Hey, kiddo—did you call me?” you asked as you pushed open his door.

Oliver was fast asleep. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm. Arms tucked under the blanket. Lips slightly parted. Dead to the world.

You stared at him. You know you heard it.

Then you noticed the closet door was open an inch wider than you remembered. You crossed the room, flinging the door open, eyes scanning the shadows just beyond it—but there was nothing. Just clothes, toys, and a few drawings taped to the inside wall.

But when you turned back toward Oliver’s bed… you stopped cold.

There was a new drawing on the nightstand. It hadn’t been there before. You would’ve seen it.

It showed a hallway—the same hallway you’d just walked down. You were in it—drawn in red crayon. And behind you, grinning impossibly wide, was a tall, striped figure with long arms and white, dead eyes.

You slowly looked back down the hall. Nothing. But that feeling—that cold press on the back of your neck—was suddenly very real.

And somewhere deeper in the house… You swore you heard something shuffling.

It's just your imagination.

── .✦

You showed up early on the fourth night—twenty minutes ahead of schedule, ice cream tub in hand. Cookies and cream. And a tiny container of rainbow sherbet.

You figured, why not? After the past few days, Oliver deserved a surprise. And you deserved something to lift the mood. The tension that had crept into your shoulders every time you walked through that door was becoming a near-constant weight.

Maybe a little sugar would lighten the air.

The front door opened before you even knocked. Oliver’s mom blinked at you in surprise, tugging her coat tight across her chest.

“Oh—you’re early,” she said, glancing over her shoulder into the house like she wasn’t sure she wanted you inside just yet.

You smiled, holding up the bag. “I brought a treat. Don’t worry, no caffeine or craziness. Just ice cream.”

Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something—but then she just nodded. “That’s… nice of you. He’ll like that.” She squeezed past you and gave the same parting words she always did—“He’s in the living room, bedtime at eight-thirty”—but her eyes lingered on yours this time. Something flickered behind them. Like maybe she wanted to say more—but didn’t.

You turned and stepped into the house. The moment the door closed behind you, that hush fell again. That wrong quiet, like the walls were listening. Oliver was on the floor, surrounded by crayons, drawing what looked like a carnival tent in dark, scribbled loops of red and black.

“Hey,” you said gently. “Guess what I brought?”

He looked up. Eyes wide. And then—

He smiled. For the first time since you met him, Oliver truly smiled.

His teeth were small and slightly crooked, but it was the size of it that made your heart skip a beat. So wide. Like his little face wasn’t used to the muscles it took.

You blinked, suddenly unsure why it unnerved you so much.

“Is it for me?” he asked breathlessly.

You laughed softly, kneeling beside him. “Of course it is. Who else would it be for?”

Oliver clapped his hands. “Jack’s going to be so happy!”

You stiffened. He kept babbling as you carried the containers into the kitchen and pulled out two small bowls.

“Jack loves ice cream. His favorite is mint chocolate chip. He says he hasn’t had any in a long time because Mom doesn’t like it when he eats stuff. She says it makes him act funny. But he says he’ll be real good if I give him some.”

You scooped slowly, the plastic spoon dragging through the frozen swirl.

“He told me that once he shared a sundae with a girl who screamed so hard her eyes popped,” Oliver continued dreamily. “He said her voice made the cherry melt.”

You didn’t answer.

When you turned to hand him the bowl— You saw it.

Just behind Oliver, standing beside the hallway door. A flash. A flicker. Something moved. It was fast. A blur of black and white. Tall. Like the edge of a curtain being yanked back—but thicker. A sliver of fabric retreating around the corner.

And just for a heartbeat, a feather—dark and oil-slicked—fluttered down and landed near Oliver’s foot. You hardly blinked—just a jerk of your eyes from panic—and it was gone.

You dropped the spoon. Oliver didn’t notice.

It’s just your imagination, it’s just your imagination—

“Jack says he likes you,” he said happily, licking sherbet from his lip. “He says you’re the nicest girl he’s met in a long time.”

You stepped back, pulse pounding.

You had to talk to his mother. Now.

── .✦

You waited by the door until she came home.

No more letting her breeze out before the headlights could cool. No more smiling and waving like this was a normal babysitting gig.

When Mrs. Dalton stepped in—coat damp from the night air, purse slung over one shoulder—you met her with a look so serious she stopped mid-step.

“…What is it?”

“I need to ask you something,” you said. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”

She froze. “…Is this about Oliver?”

You nodded. “And Jack. And the things he’s been saying. The things I’ve seen.”

She closed the door behind her slowly. Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes—tired, hollow—met yours.

And this time, she didn’t try to pretend. She just said quietly, “You’ve seen him too, haven’t you?”

The words hung heavy in the entryway. You felt like a stone just dropped into your stomach, the air stalling around you.

You stared at her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean.”

Oliver’s mother exhaled—long, slow—like she’d been waiting for this moment and dreading it in equal measure. She set her purse on the table and finally, finally, let the cracks show. “Come with me.”

She led you to the kitchen and pulled out a chair. You sat across from her, the light above flickering with that faint buzz it always seemed to carry after dark. She rubbed her hands together like they were cold, even though the house was warm.

Her voice was quiet. Distant. “I didn’t believe it either. At first. Kids say strange things. They draw monsters, they have nightmares. It’s normal. I told myself it was all in his head.”

You didn’t interrupt. Your fingers gripped the edge of the table.

She continued. “Then the drawings changed. They started getting more detailed. More specific. I saw things in them that—” her breath hitched, “—he shouldn’t have known. Things that happened when I was younger. Things that happened in this house. And the stories he told me about Jack…” Her eyes dropped to her hands. “They started getting darker.”

You thought of the shuffling. The flash of stripes. The feather. Your name being called down the empty hallway.

“What happened?” you asked.

She looked up. “…His dad.”

The room chilled, like suddenly the AC had been turned on. Goosebumps ran up your arms.

She swallowed. “My husband…he was not a good man. Charming, at first. But underneath that, there was something broken. And when he got angry…” Her jaw clenched. “Oliver was never his. That’s something I never told him. I think he knew—or guessed.”

Your stomach twisted.

“He hurt both of us,” she said. “Not every night, but enough. Enough that I kept a bag packed and hid it in Oliver’s closet.”

Silence stretched long between you.

“And then?” you whispered.

Her eyes met yours—and in them, you saw something haunted. Something ancient. “Then Oliver started talking to Jack.”

You shivered, glancing around the room, eyes catching all the dark spots and shadowed corners.

“At first I thought it was just comfort—a defense. But the way he described him…it wasn’t like a normal imaginary friend. He knew things. Jack told Oliver where to hide, when to run. He told him I was strong. That I was brave. He told him…” Her voice caught. “…That he could make it stop.”

You didn’t move. You hardly breathed.

“One night, my husband came home drunk. Worse than usual. He was screaming, kicking doors. Oliver, somehow, slept through all of it. I locked the bedroom door. I thought I could hold him off.” Her hands trembled now. “But I didn’t have to.”

You leaned in.

“I heard him coming down the hallway, calling my name. Then I heard something else. A laugh. This horrible, joyful laugh. Like a child and an animal at the same time. I thought I was losing my mind.”

You whispered, “Jack.”

She nodded.

“I came out of the room after the screaming stopped. And…he was gone. My husband. Just gone. No blood. No mess. Just the front door wide open, swinging in the wind.”

Your blood ran cold. “And Oliver?”

She gave a soft, broken smile. “Curled up on his bed. Drawing. With Jack.”

You recoiled.

“But I didn’t see him,” she said quickly. “I only ever felt him. Heard him. Sometimes saw things out of the corner of my eye. But Oliver? He always said Jack made him feel safe. That Jack protected him when no one else could. I think he… bonded to that. Jack is a part of him now. Jack has never really liked babysitters—before you, I suppose.”

You sat back, trying to process it all. The drawings. The feathers. The whisper of your name.

“…He’s real. But he’s not…human,” you murmured.

She nodded once. “He manifested through Oliver’s fear, I think. And maybe mine, too. I don’t understand all of it. But Oliver says Jack protects him, says he’s here to keep him safe. So I don’t mess with it.

“And the last babysitter?”

Oliver’s mom froze.

“…She said she didn’t believe in ‘feeding delusions.’ That Oliver needed ‘structure.’ She lasted four nights. Left in the middle of the fifth. Didn’t tell me. Just… left. I never heard from her again.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

“And now?” you whispered. “Jack’s… what? Attached to me?”

Her voice cracked. “I think he likes you. I think he’s curious. I don’t know.”

The light bulb sizzled above your head, the acrid scent of burnt metal curling into the air. You stared across the kitchen table at Oliver’s mom—chest tight, stomach coiled with the kind of dread that prickled under your skin like a thousand little claws.

“…You knew this could happen,” you said, voice low. “You knew.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands trembled in her lap. “I hoped he wouldn’t fixate again,” she murmured. “You were so good with him. He was happy. I thought maybe it would be different this time.”

“Different?” Your voice cracked, rising. “You mean you thought Jack might not try to kill me?”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, suddenly panicked. “Please—don’t say things like that out loud.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snapped, pushing your chair back. “Are we worried the invisible friend might get mad?”

She flinched.

You stood up, dizzy with rage and the adrenaline rush that always comes after denial shatters into cold, sharp clarity. “You let me walk into this. Without telling me. Without warning. What if he didn’t like me, huh? What if I pushed too hard, or said the wrong thing, or—God forbid—told him to go to bed early?”

“I didn’t know—!”

“Yes, you did,” you cut her off, voice trembling. “You did. That’s why you never stayed long. Why you left before I could ask about his dad. Why you didn’t even mention a last sitter until now.”

You saw it then—how hollow her eyes had become. How sleep-starved and strung out she looked under the dim light. This wasn’t just guilt. This was fear—the kind you live with.

“You were testing me,” you whispered. “You weren’t sure if Jack would like me, and you didn’t care if he didn’t. I was just…just another one to try.”

She didn’t deny it.

You stormed past her, grabbing your coat, shoving your phone into your pocket with shaking hands.

And then you saw him. Oliver. Standing at the end of the hallway. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t angry. He just watched you—expression blank, head tilted slightly to the side like someone listening to music only he could hear.

“Oliver—” his mother started, but you were already yanking the door open.

You didn’t say goodbye.

── .✦

The first call came the next morning.

You didn’t answer.

Then a text.

MRS. DALTON I’m sorry. I should have told you. Please, call me.

Then:

MRS. DALTON He’s not sleeping. He won’t eat. Oliver’s scared.

Another day passed.

MRS. DALTON He’s asking for you. Please. He just needs to see you one more time. He keeps asking for you.

The texts got more frantic.

MRS. DALTON He’s not talking anymore. He just whispers. Jack this, Jack that. Please. I haven’t slept. I’m losing him. I don’t know what he’ll do if you don’t come back.

And finally:

MRS. DALTON Just for one night. Please. Just stay with him. Help him sleep. You stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering above the reply button. Because even though your head screamed no, your gut twisted with something worse than fear.

Guilt.

And something in the back of your mind—the part that had seen the stripes, the feather, the way Oliver had looked at you—was already whispering that you didn’t really have a choice. Even if this was all imaginary, some make-believe story, you were causing an innocent boy his mental health.

Sadly, your guilt outweighed your fear.

── .✦

You stood on the doorstep longer than you meant to.

The house loomed in front of you—quieter than it should’ve been. Even with the porch light buzzing faintly overhead, everything about it looked… different. More gray. As if all the warmth had drained out with you the night you stormed off.

But you were here now.

You knocked on the door, the thick sound echoing through the walls, and for a moment, you half-expected no one to answer.

Then the lock clicked. The door cracked open.

Mrs. Dalton looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Her hair was pulled up in a limp, uneven knot, and her eyes had that swollen red look of someone who had been crying on and off for hours. Her relief was instant—but brittle.

“Oh thank God,” she breathed. “Thank you. Thank you so much for coming.”

You stepped past her without a word. She didn’t stop you. Just nodded shakily and grabbed her keys. “I’ll be back by sunrise,” she said, already backing out. “Don’t let him stay up too late. If he gets upset, just… just sit with him. That’s usually enough. And if anything happens—”

You stopped at the hallway, turning just enough to meet her eyes. “I remember.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. She gave a small, pained nod. And just like that—she was gone. The door clicked shut. The house swallowed you whole.

The air inside felt heavier than it ever had.

You noticed it almost immediately—how the wallpaper looked a little more faded, how the air smelled faintly of metal and something sweet, almost like fruit that had gone sour. The silence wasn’t comforting. It was dense, like the house was holding its breath.

You made your way down the hallway, floorboards creaking beneath your feet. Oliver’s room was cracked open just slightly, light from his bedside lamp spilling across the floor. You pushed the door open gently.

“Oliver?” you called softly.

The little boy was curled into a ball on his bed, facing the wall. When he turned to look at you, his eyes were already wet, his cheeks blotchy with tears. The second he saw you, he gasped—and scrambled into your arms with a cry that shattered you from the inside out.

“You came back,” he whimpered, clutching your shirt like a lifeline. “I didn’t think you would. Jack said you were mad.”

Your arms wrapped around him instinctively. “I…I’m not mad, buddy. I was just scared.”

“Jack’s sad,” Oliver sniffled. “And mad. But not at me. At you. He said you said mean things. That you don’t like him.”

You froze. He wasn’t accusing you. He sounded… worried. Like he wanted to protect you from Jack’s disappointment.

Your hands smoothed down his back gently. “It’s okay. We’re okay. Jack’s probably just confused.”

“Can you tell him you’re not mad anymore?” Oliver asked, lifting his head, eyes wide. “Please?”

You hesitated. “…Okay,” you whispered. “Jack, if you’re listening, I’m not mad. I didn’t mean what I said.”

You glanced around the room.

Nothing. No feathers. No footsteps. No whisper in your ear. Just the soft hum of the bedside lamp and Oliver’s quiet sniffles.

Maybe it was all in your head.

Maybe—

Oliver let out a tiny yawn, nuzzling into your side. “Will you stay in bed with me?”

“Of course.”

It didn’t take long, he was asleep in minutes. Once his breathing evened out, you gently pulled away and tucked him in. His hand reached out once, blindly, and you took it for a second, giving it a small squeeze.

Then you stood, walked to the door, turned off the light, and stepped into the hallway.

The living room was dim. You kept the corner lamp on, curling up into the same armchair you’d claimed the other nights—blanket over your legs, a book in your lap you weren’t really reading. Every noise made you twitch.

The house didn’t feel empty.

You tried to tell yourself it was just the guilt—the nerves, the sleep deprivation. That it was all explainable. That this was just a messed-up situation and you were being kind, nothing more. This was just a mentally ill mother and an imaginative child who has gotten you stirred up—that’s all it was.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched—especially when the heater kicked on. Especially when the shadows in the hallway didn’t quite stay still. You told yourself not to look.

You were halfway through a paragraph when you heard it. Shuffling from the hallway. You sat up straight.

“Oliver?” you called, voice shaky.

No answer.

You stood slowly, shoving the blanket and book to the side. The hallway looked longer than it had earlier—darker, the overhead bulb at the far end flickering like it was gasping for power.

You took a step toward it. Then another.

“Oliver, are you up?” you called again, a little louder this time.

Still nothing.

But the shuffling continued—dragging, almost wet-sounding footsteps. Too slow. Too heavy.

You swallowed, walked toward his room, and pushed the door open.

Oliver was asleep—tucked under his blankets, breathing slow and even. His face slack with dreams. The shuffling stopped.

You stood there in the doorway, heart thudding in your chest.

Nothing moved. No laughter. No whispers. No feathers. Just your own breath in the dark. You were about to turn around when a soft, warbling giggle echoed—Low. Sweet. And hungry.

You whirled around, heart leaping into your throat—but there was nothing there. Just the hallway. Just that flickering bulb overhead, casting twitching shadows that crawled like spiders up the walls.

“Hello?” you called, voice cracking.

No answer.

But your skin was already crawling—hairs prickling, stomach twisting itself into a tight, nauseous knot. You ducked back into Oliver’s room, barely daring to breathe.

Still asleep. Still peaceful.

You crossed the floor in three quick steps and yanked open his closet. Clothes, shoes, a collapsed cardboard box. You dropped to your knees, lifted the comforter, and checked under the bed.

Empty.

You sat back on your heels, hand pressed over your pounding chest.

Nothing’s there. Nothing’s there. It’s just your—

A feather floated down in front of your face. You stared at it. Silky and black as night, it drifted lazily downward, slow as falling ash, until it landed between your knees.

You blinked at it, blood roaring in your ears.

And that was when you heard the groan—like something heavy shifting against wood.

You glanced up from your spot on the floor.

Behind Oliver’s bed—not behind the wall, but within it, like the cracks of the old plaster had given way—something emerged. Something wrong.

It spilled out from the dark like a shadow cast by a body that didn’t exist. Its limbs unfolded long and slow, impossibly long, like they were uncoiling from another place entirely. One arm—lanky, striped in twisted sleeves of faded black and white—reached over the headboard. Then another. Then a hunched, too-tall figure pulled itself into the dim bedside light.

Laughing Jack.

No more imagination. No more stories. He was here, right in front of you.

His skin—or what passed for it—was stretched porcelain, marred with seams and hairline fractures. Wild black hair exploded from his scalp in a disheveled mess, curled like tinsel soaked in ink. His outfit was a tattered parody of a circus costume—black and white stripes clinging to impossibly long limbs, the fabric grimy and fraying at the seams like it had been rotting over time. Suspenders hung loose over bandages wrapped tight around his waist, showing the unnatural form of him. A wide ruff collar sagged around his neck, drooping unevenly with yellowed lace, and tufts of wiry feathers jutted from his shoulders, some of them loose—like the one you’d seen float to your feet earlier. His sleeves were the same mismatched black and white, stretched tight over arms that ended in long, sharpened claws—stained faintly with something dark and dry. His nose was pointed, like a spike protruding that swirled with black and white stripes. His mouth—oh God—his mouth stretched too wide across his face, cracked at the corners, his lips painted like a clown’s but split by sharp, pearly teeth that didn’t belong in any child’s fantasy. His eyes were deep, glassy voids—so black they swallowed light—but the emotion in them was unmistakable—Rage. Sadness. Defense.

Jack’s head twitched toward you. His neck snapped with an audible crack as he cocked it to the side.

His voice rasped low, warped, like he was speaking through a filter, “You said you weren’t mad, sweet girl.”

You staggered back a step.

Jack’s arms bent and contorted as he crawled over Oliver—crawled, like some horrid insect parody of a man, his striped limbs jointed all wrong. And still, the boy didn’t stir. Not a flutter of his lashes. Not even a twitch.

“You lied to him,” Jack hissed. “You lied to me.”

“Don’t—” your breath hitched. “Don’t touch him.”

Jack’s grin widened. It reached toward his ears. “Oh, I won’t,” he cooed. “But you? You’re mine now.”

Before you could scream, he lunged. Jack’s hands closed around your ankles and yanked. You hit the hardwood with a sickening thud, knocking the breath from your lungs. Pain shot up your back. You scrambled, flailing to grab the doorframe, anything, but Jack dragged you backwards—down the hallway with supernatural strength, his body lurching and rattling like a marionette in fast-forward.

“No—! Oliver! Oliver!”

He didn’t wake.

The house didn’t help.

You were pulled past the living room, down the longer hallway that led to the master bedroom—Mrs. Dalton’s room. Your fingernails scraped against the floorboards, legs kicking violently as Jack growled above you.

“You were sweet,” he snarled. “Kind. Gentle. I liked you.” His voice cracked on the last word, somewhere in the rage was hurt.

Jack reached the bedroom door and kicked it open. The hinges screamed. Inside, it was darker than the rest of the house. A stifling kind of dark, where the shadows didn’t shift—they waited. The room smelled faintly of old perfume and wilted flowers.

Jack tossed you inside. You hit the carpet, rolled, and choked on air. When you sat up, he was already in the doorway—looming. His arms stretched to the sides, fingers twitching, clawlike.

The door slammed shut behind him like a gunshot. The bang rattled the windows. The frame trembled under the weight of it.

You jerked, stumbling back toward the dresser, chest heaving—but there was no time to run. Not anymore. Jack was across the room in a blink, moving with the erratic, jerky rhythm of something barely stitched together—more puppet than man. His hands, long-fingered and claw-tipped, twitched at his sides.

His expression twisted. He looked… devastated.

But behind the grief, behind the dripping sadness that curled at the corners of his stretched mouth and shimmered in the pitch-black glass of his eyes—there was rage.

“You ruined everything,” he hissed, voice cracking like an old vinyl record. “He was sleeping. He was happy. We were fine. And then you—you had to come in and whisper poison into his head.”

“I didn’t—!”

“You said I wasn’t real,” Jack roared, and the lights flickered. “You said I was dangerous! You made him doubt me!”

He surged forward.

You screamed—too late. Jack lunged, grabbing your arm and lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing. You kicked, flailed, fists pounding at his chest—but it was like striking a wall of felt and iron. He held you up, inches from his face. That face. That—

God.

Porcelain skin. Cracks lining his jaw like spiderwebs. Painted features half-worn, like a long-loved doll soaked in tears. Teeth so sharp he could barely contain them in his mouth. And beneath the smeared black grin, beneath the clownish facepaint—a man. A sadness. A fury so human it broke your heart.

His glassy black eyes swallowed you whole.

“Do you know what happens,” he whispered, “to people who tell little boys I’m not real?”

Your breath hitched. He rattled you, hard. Enough to make your teeth clack. You felt his claws press into your sides, not breaking the skin—but close. One more breath and he might snap you like a doll in his hands.

But then—You saw it. That tiny tremble in his jaw. The way his grip shook. His bottom lip quivered. He was angry. He was hurting. And beneath it all—he was protecting Oliver.

That’s when you acted. You reached up—fingers trembling—and gripped his face.

Jack froze.

His eyes went wide as your fingers smeared white greasepaint from his cheekbones, your hands coming away streaked like you’d dipped them in some kind of sick frosting. But under the paint—skin. Cold, clammy, too-pale skin. And real. Not a mask. Not an imaginary friend.

“You did it to protect him,” you whispered.

Jack’s brow twitched, eyes wide.

“You made his dad go away,” you said. “Didn’t you?”

His hands tensed—but he didn’t shake you.

“You chased off the last babysitter. Because she was mean. You saw it. You saw what he needed. And no one else was helping him. Not even his mom. So you… you stayed. You took care of him.”

Jack’s mouth parted. His head tilted, glassy eyes flicking across your face like he didn’t understand what he was seeing.

“I get it, Jack,” you whispered, still holding his face. “I know what you are. You’re not here to hurt him. You’re not a monster to him. You’re his only friend.”

His claws slipped from your sides.

“I don’t hate you, I’m not mad,” you said, voice cracking. “I was just scared.”

Silence.

For a moment, Jack stood perfectly still, arms trembling.

And then—his knees gave.

He sank to the floor, pulling you with him, but gently now. Carefully. Like you were something delicate and precious compared to moments before. His arms slid around you, pulling you against his lanky frame as his body curled over itself, shoulders shaking.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your shoulder. “I just wanted you to stay. You were good to him. You were good to me.”

You were crying now too—maybe out of pity, but mostly from the adrenaline that was quickly crashing.

In the pitch-black of Mrs. Dalton’s bedroom, cradled in the arms of something that shouldn’t exist, you held a creature that had killed to protect a child, and now clung to you like a broken toy terrified of being discarded.

Jack shuddered, “Please don’t leave again.”

Jack didn’t let go. Even as you gasped, trying to squirm back—your breath still hitching with fear, your hands trembling—he clutched you tighter, curling around you like a spider weaving something precious into its web. His lanky arms wrapped around your shoulders and waist, his striped sleeves smelling faintly of old fabric and something sweet and rotting, like sugar left in the rain.

Your face was smooshed against the bristling ruff of feathers at his collar.

You shoved at him, fingers pressing into his chest. “Jack—Jack, let me go, I—I need a second, please—”

But he only made a soft sound—like a whimper. And his hold tightened. He wasn’t trying to hurt you—not anymore—but it was like he was starving for you.

His head dipped down beside yours, buried in your neck, and you felt the tremble of his breath—shallow, rapid. Desperate. The way Oliver breathed when he was on the edge of a panic attack. The way he had clung to you just hours before, his tiny fists gripping your shirt like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

It was the same.

You froze.

And suddenly—it all started to click. The way Jack reacted when Oliver cried. The way he went silent when Oliver was calm. The way his moods seemed to mirror the child’s—like strings pulling a puppet in the shadows.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, heart hammering. “You’re not just his imaginary friend… you’re protecting him.”

Jack didn’t speak. But you felt the way his breathing hitched—a confirmation, quiet and raw.

“You exist for him, don’t you?” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Like, a manifestation of his fears—or something. A guardian.”

His face, pressed near your cheek, nodded.

Your throat tightened. “So when he’s sad, or scared, or… when someone threatens him…”

“I fix it,” Jack whispered. His voice was softer now. Like wet velvet. Like a child defending a wounded pet. “I fixed his dad. I fixed the mean sitter. I made him laugh again. I keep him safe.”

You swallowed, slowly easing your hands up between the two of you, not to shove—but to gently, cautiously press them to either side of his face again.

“And now that I’m not a threat anymore…” you said, your voice cracking, “now you want something else.”

Jack nodded again, almost imperceptibly. “I want to be close,” he said, and his voice broke. “Like he is. I want the things you give him.”

You stared into his face—paint-smeared, cracked, but so achingly human beneath it all. His sharp grin trembled with something soft. His eyes, once pools of black malice, now glistened like a child about to cry.

“You want comfort,” you breathed.

His forehead pressed gently to yours. “I want you,” he whispered. “And I don’t know why.”

You should’ve been terrified. But instead—you felt cold. Cold from the adrenaline, the fear, the leftover edge of what could’ve been your last night. And yet…

His arms were warm—too warm—like a fever curling around you.

And for the first time… you saw him not as a nightmare, but as something made from one. Born of a child’s desperation. Kept alive by love and terror alike.

So you let him hold you—just for a moment.

And in that moment, Jack went still—so still you could swear he wasn’t breathing. As if the second you pulled away, he might vanish into the cracks again.

The room was dark except for the sliver of hallway light bleeding in from under the door, casting crooked shadows across the carpet. Jack was still—unnaturally so—as if afraid a single wrong twitch would make you bolt. But then, slowly, his fingers twitched against your waist.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice a broken thread. “For earlier. For scaring you. For being so… mean.”

You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you could. You were still sitting half in his lap, his arms loosely curled around your back like he was holding something fragile he didn’t know how to fix.

Jack’s head tilted, the long arc of his nose brushing against your temple as he sniffed—gently, like he didn’t want you to notice.

“You do smell like strawberries,” he murmured, voice distant and dreamy now. “I told him you did. Oliver didn’t believe me.” A smile crept into his words, soft and crooked. “But I was right. I always know.”

You felt your breath catch as his fingers slipped a little lower, curling lightly at the hem of your shirt. Not rough—just needy. Clingy.

“You’re so pretty,” Jack sighed, nose nudging into your hair. “So pretty it makes me feel funny—right here.” One hand lifted, curled into a fist, and thumped lightly over where his heart should’ve been. “It tickles. Like butterflies trying to get out. Like I’m gonna burst.”

You shivered, frozen in place. Jack noticed. His arms tensed again.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said quickly, softly, almost pleading. “I’m not! I promise—I just—I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want you to leave.”

You felt him shift under you—then suddenly you were being pulled into him, lifted like a doll and placed squarely in his lap, your legs folded awkwardly over one of his long, gangly thighs. His claws were gentle, but firm, curling around your arms, keeping you in place. His face buried into your shoulder again, his striped sleeves brushing your cheeks like the wings of some grotesque moth. He was trembling.

“They all like you,” he murmured into your shirt. “All the others. Charlie. Mr. Gumball. Even the quiet ones in the closet. They said you’re kind. That you talk to them even when you don’t believe they’re real.”

You blinked.

Charlie? Mr. Gumball?

Jack chuckled softly. “Don’t worry. They won’t come out unless Oliver says it’s okay. But they watch. And they like you. They all do.” He pulled back just far enough to look at you—his inhuman eyes wide and wet, paint cracked around the edges from where he’d rubbed at his face. His lips were still stained dark, parted like he wanted to ask something he didn’t know how to say, his jagged teeth splitting the seam.

“But I…” His voice hitched. “I like you the most.”

You tried to pull back—just a little, just enough to breathe—but he leaned forward again, brushing his forehead against yours.

“I felt it,” he whispered. “The way you talked to Oliver. The way you hugged him. You’re so soft. So good. I never had that before. I want it all the time, all to myself.”

His claws flexed against your sides again—not hurting, not even tight—but possessive. Needy.

“I want you all the time.”

And you realized, in that moment, Jack had no idea what boundaries were. No idea how much was too much. Because all he knew… was what Oliver gave him. And now—without having to worry about the kid—he was able to express those wants himself.

Jack’s fingers twitched again where they curled around your waist. His breathing slowed, the chaotic heat of him ebbing into something that almost resembled peace.

But he stilled. And his hands moved.

In an instant, Jack dragged one clawed hand up the side of your torso, bunching the fabric of your shirt as he went. You gasped, trying to pull away, but he was already pushing the hem higher, exposing skin.

“Wait—Jack—what are you—?” you stammered, hands flying down to stop him.

“I hurt you,” he hissed, panicked—his voice cracking like a snapped piano wire. “I didn’t mean to—look what I did!” His blackened fingers trembled as he hovered just above the faint red indents curving along your side, the shallow grooves from when he’d gripped you too tightly. They weren’t bleeding. Barely bruised. But Jack looked horrified.

His eyes widened as he stared, claws twitching helplessly.

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean it—I didn’t even feel—why do I always break things I like?” he rasped, voice warping between a whimper and a growl. “Why did I grab you so hard? You’re so soft, I didn’t mean to squeeze—I didn’t mean to!”

“Jack—Jack, it’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice soft and trembling as you tried to pull your shirt back down. “I’m fine, it’s nothing, I swear—”

But he didn’t hear you. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t want to believe it. His claws brushed the marks again—then slid gently against your skin, tracing the curves of your ribs, reverent and curious. He sucked in a shaky breath.

“You’re so little,” he whispered, almost to himself. “So small in my hands. I could snap you like a toothpick…”

You froze—but before panic could take hold, Jack’s eyes darted up to meet yours again. “…but I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered fiercely. “You’re too pretty to break.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. Jack tilted his head, eyes flicking over your face, your hair, the way your hands clutched your shirt in nervous fists. His lips twitched—like he was smiling, but didn’t understand why.

“I like your skin,” he said. “I like the way it smells. The way it warms up when you’re scared.”

You tried to pull back again, flushing deeper, but Jack suddenly scooped you up.

“Jack—!”

He didn’t give you time to finish.

In one smooth, eerily graceful motion, he stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms like you weighed nothing. Like you were a toy, something light and delicate he could cradle in his gangly, striped limbs. Your legs dangled uselessly, your arms half-wrapped around his neck in pure reflex.

He started toward the bed.

“You’re way past bedtime,” he announced, in a singsong voice that didn’t quite match the manic glint in his eyes. “Too many big feelings for a little human like you. You need to relax.”

“I—I don’t need to sleep, Jack, I’m fine, really—!”

But he was already lowering you onto the covers, setting you down so carefully it made your head spin. He crouched at your side immediately, looming with limbs that bent in all the wrong ways, his scruffy feathered collar brushing your knees, his black eyes locked onto you with a predator’s focus—and a child’s confusion.

“You make Oliver feel safe,” he murmured, crawling a little closer. “But now I want to feel that too. I want you to make me feel like that.”

His hand slid over your knee, his claws curling over your thigh with a grip just shy of too tight. “And you will, won’t you?” he asked softly. “Because you like me now.”

The air was too thick to breathe. Too hot. Too sweet. Too close.

And all you could do… was nod.

Jack’s claws didn’t stay still. They roamed. Fidgeted. Brushed the hem of your shirt, tangled briefly in your hair, crept over your shorts like he didn’t know what he was looking for—but was desperate to find it.

You shifted nervously on the bed, your hands trying to keep his at bay, but he was already pressing closer.

“I like it better when you talk soft to me,” he said suddenly, his voice catching somewhere between a purr and a whine. “Like you do with Oliver. You don’t yell. You don’t scream. You’re so nice.”

Your breath hitched as his hands slid down your arms—grabbing your wrists. “But you left.” His voice cracked. “You left. You said those things. About me. To her.”

“Jack, I didn’t know—” you started, gently.

“I didn’t want you to be scared,” he cut in. His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough to make your heart jump. “I just wanted to show you I could keep you safe. Like I did for Oliver. Like I do.”

He moved quickly. One fluid motion and you were beneath him, your wrists pinned gently—but unyieldingly—against the bedspread. His lanky body stretched over yours, striped limbs bracketing you, hair brushing your forehead.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

“Jack,” you said softly, careful not to let your fear show. “Let me up.”

“But you’re here.” He blinked down at you, wide-eyed. “You came back. That means you want to be here. That means I can touch you.”

Your breath caught.

“It doesn’t work like that,” you whispered, trying to sit up, but he pressed you back down again—still not hurting you, but clearly not understanding the line he was crossing.

“But you smell so good,” Jack murmured, almost dreamily, long nose brushing along your cheek. “And you look so soft. I never got to be this close to anyone before. Never wanted to until I saw you.”

You swallowed thickly, pulse thundering in your ears. “I’ll… I’ll talk to you, Jack,” you said, carefully, voice like glass. “I’ll sit with you. I’ll stay. But you have to calm down. You’re scaring me.”

Something in his face twitched. His hold faltered. Just slightly. But he didn’t let go.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he mumbled, nuzzling clumsily against your shoulder, like a child seeking comfort in something they didn’t know how to ask for. “It’s just… when you talk, and when you look at me—right there.” His fingers brushed your cheekbone. “I get this… tight, fluttery thing in my chest. Like when Oliver’s happy. Like when he hugs his bear. It makes me feel like I’m gonna burst.”

Your eyes welled a little. You weren’t sure if it was fear or pity or the sheer strangeness of the moment.

“Jack,” you whispered, softer now, “that feeling? That’s… that’s called affection. Or maybe—maybe even love.”

He stilled. “Love?” he echoed, almost awed.

You nodded shakily. “And if you want to show it,” you added, breath trembling, “you have to listen to the people you care about. You have to ask before touching. And let them go when they say they’re scared.”

Jack blinked down at you, still straddling your lap, still holding your wrists. But this time—slowly—his claws released you.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“…Did I do it wrong?” he asked after a long pause, his voice smaller now. “Did I mess it up?”

You sat up slowly, touching your wrists, feeling the pulse still hammering through you.

“No,” you whispered. “You just have to let me teach you.”

And Jack, in all his mismatched limbs and smeared makeup and feathered ruff, nodded like a child eager for a bedtime story.

“…Then teach me,” he said.

The silence that followed was heavy—syrupy and thick like it was meant to trap breath in your throat. Jack sat cross-legged now, long limbs folded awkwardly on the bedspread like some gothic marionette, waiting for your strings to pull him into place. His eyes—huge and shining beneath streaked face paint—were locked on you, searching your face like he wanted to memorize it.

You swallowed.

“Jack,” you said slowly, brushing your palms down the front of your shirt, trying to ignore the heat still lingering where his claws had been. “You can’t just… take what you want. People don’t work like that. You have to let them come to you.”

His shoulders slumped, his striped arms wrapping loosely around his waist as he rocked once—twice.

“I thought… if I held you right, maybe you’d feel it too,” he muttered, voice barely above a breath. “The fluttering. The warm thing. Like the way Oliver gets when you tuck him in and smile.”

You softened—just a little. “Jack, I do care. But you can’t scare me into staying,” you said gently. “You need to trust me to come back. Just like Oliver does.”

That earned a sharp jolt through his expression. His head tilted, the bells in his costume softly chiming as he blinked. “Oliver…”

He turned his head suddenly—eyes fixed on the hallway.

You froze.

“What?” you asked, voice tight.

He sniffed the air. One deep inhale.

“He’s waking up,” Jack murmured. “He’s crying.”

You didn’t even wait. You were already scrambling off the bed, nearly stumbling into the hallway barefoot. Jack was behind you, eerily quiet despite his frame, close enough that his sleeves fluttered in the air beside you like shadows with feathers. Oliver’s room was dark, but you heard the sniffles before you even touched the door. You pushed it open gently.

“Oliver?” you whispered, stepping in.

The little boy was curled beneath the blankets, arms tightly wrapped around his pillow, tears tracking down his cheeks as he whimpered softly.

“Nightmare,” he hiccupped. “You… You weren’t here when I woke up. Jack was gone. I thought—”

“I’m right here,” you said quickly, sliding into the bed beside him. He immediately reached for you, pressing his face into your shirt, small hands clinging tightly.

“I was scared you left again,” Oliver murmured, muffled. “He got so sad last time. I got so lonely.”

You looked up—and Jack was there, crouched beside the bed, half-shrouded in shadow. The glow from the hallway lit one half of his face—the sadness there was nearly human.

“I didn’t understand him,” you said, brushing Oliver’s hair gently. “But I think I do now.”

Oliver sniffled. “He says he likes you.”

Your throat tightened. “Yeah?” you whispered.

“He says you make us feel happy.” Oliver’s lashes fluttered. “He says you smell like strawberries, but I don’t think so.”

You tried to laugh but it came out soft and broken. “I’ll stay,” you said quietly, folding Oliver into your arms. “I’ll stay the rest of the night. Okay?”

“Okay.”

You felt Jack settle beside the bed, curled around the two of you like a skeletal gargoyle. He didn’t speak, didn’t reach—he just watched, his limbs folded protectively under him, his eyes more calm now. As Oliver’s breathing slowed, you felt a cold hand brush against yours under the blanket—long fingers lacing between yours like he needed to feel your pulse to believe you were real.

“Jack?” you whispered.

“Hm?”

You didn’t look at him—just kept your eyes on the ceiling. “…We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

The hand squeezed yours once. Then came his whisper—low, skittish.

“Can you bring more ice cream?”

── .✦

The sun had just barely started to rise, stretching faint golden streaks across the cream-colored walls of Oliver’s bedroom. You stirred slowly, blinking against the light trickling through the curtains, a heavy warmth pressed against your side.

Oliver was still asleep, curled into you with one small hand tangled in the hem of your shirt. His cheeks were soft with sleep, lips parted slightly as he murmured something inaudible in a dream. You exhaled quietly, slipping your hand from his to tuck the blanket up over his shoulder.

Clink.

The sound of keys in the door jolted your attention.

Careful not to wake him, you slid from the bed, casting one last glance at Jack’s usual corner toward the closet. Nothing. No flicker, no feather, no eerie reflection. But the air was thick. You felt him. Watching. Resting.

Downstairs, the front door creaked open just as you reached the end of the hallway. Mrs. Dalton froze in the entryway, still dressed in her scrubs, her expression visibly softening when she saw you. “You’re still here…”

“I stayed the night,” you said simply, grabbing your jacket from the back of the couch. “He had a nightmare.”

Mrs. Dalton’s eyes searched yours carefully, cautiously. “And you stayed.”

“I’m coming back tonight, too.”

Her brows furrowed. “Wait. Why?”

You shrugged the coat on. “Because Oliver needs me.”

She frowned. “I know he does. But you—this isn’t your responsibility. I should’ve never let it get that far.”

You gave a small, tired smile. “I’m not doing it because I have to.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, something deeper—maybe the truth behind her eyes—but you were already halfway out the door. The cold morning air nipped at your cheeks, and just as you reached the sidewalk—

Fwwt.

A small feather, light gray and black-striped, fluttered past your face and landed by your foot.

You didn’t pick it up. You didn’t have to. Instead, you stepped over it, heart skipping, and walked to your car.

── .✦

The sky had settled into its deep, navy blue—stars peeking out between the clouds as you walked up the front steps, a familiar white paper bag tucked beneath your arm. You could already hear Oliver inside, thudding softly around the living room, maybe looking for something—or someone.

You knocked once before letting yourself in, calling gently, “Hey, Oliver?”

The little boy’s head popped over the couch, eyes widening when he saw the ice cream. His smile—real and unfiltered this time—was radiant. It made your heart stutter for a beat.

“You came back!” he called, running around the furniture. “You came back!”

You caught him as he leapt into your arms, ice cream threatening to topple.

“Of course I did,” you said, smoothing a hand over his hair. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

He nodded into your shoulder, voice muffled. “He’s really happy.”

You didn’t ask who. You didn’t need to.

As you stepped further into the house, shadows curled slightly at the edge of the ceiling—just out of reach. Like fingers brushing the walls. You pretended not to notice, but you felt it—the way the house exhaled when you walked in. And the flicker of something behind you that didn’t belong to the light.

The night unfolded in familiar motions—yet something had shifted. Subtle, warm, like the slow turning of a tide.

You and Oliver ate your ice cream on the living room floor, cross-legged, the television flickering softly in the background with an old cartoon. He babbled between bites, chocolate smeared at the corners of his mouth as he spoke.

“Jack says strawberry is his favorite flavor now, not mint chocolate chip anymore,” he said suddenly, licking the spoon.

“Oh yeah?” you asked, quirking a brow and handing him a napkin. “How does he even eat it? He doesn’t have a tongue, does he?”

Oliver laughed—really laughed. The kind that crinkled his nose and made his shoulders shake. “He does! It’s just black! And super long!”

You felt your eye twitch.

“Well that makes sense,” you said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Big clowns, big tongues, big appetite for ice cream.”

He nodded sagely, like you were in on something sacred. “He said you smell like strawberries again.”

Your breath caught—but you didn’t let it show. “That’s probably because of my lotion.”

“Nope,” Oliver said simply, digging back into the tub. “He says it’s your skin.”

You blinked. “Gross.”

More laughter.

The evening continued like that—pillow forts, coloring pages, made-up bedtime riddles. And you answered all of Oliver’s strange little statements like they were part of the game. 

When he mentioned how the other imaginary friends whispered to him at night? You told him to tell them to use their inside voices.

When he said Jack got sad when the window was closed? You cracked it an inch and said, “There. For airflow and imaginary friends.”

And when he curled into your side with a book, his eyes drooping, his hand clutching your wrist like an anchor—you didn’t even hesitate. You read aloud. Soft, slow, your voice steady as his breaths evened. One page. Two. A lullaby wrapped in ink and warmth. Until his lashes fluttered and finally stilled.

You tucked him in gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead, and whispered, “Goodnight, buddy.”

The hallway light flickered once as you closed the door.

You padded down to the living room and coiled onto the couch, arms wrapped around a throw pillow. The silence of the house was a blanket in itself—one that buzzed slightly at the edges. Hums of something just out of sight.

Still, you let your eyes close. “Jack…” The word was soft, a half-whimper from the empty room.

Then again, more urgent. “Jack…”

You sat up slowly, breath held, listening. The house didn’t answer. No creak of footsteps, no flutter of feathers. Only a long, heavy stillness. You exhaled through your nose and pushed up to stand—only for something cold to slip over your shoulders.

Claws.

Long, jointed fingers, talon-tipped, coiling like ribbons of shadow. You felt them press lightly into your collarbones, grazing the top of your chest—not painful, but possessive, circling from behind you.

And then—his voice. Low. Fractured velvet. Warm like a whisper down your spine. “You came back.”

You didn’t scream. You didn’t move. Just sat, back straight, breathing shallow. The claws curled tighter.

“I was scared you wouldn’t,” Jack murmured, his chin lowering until you could feel the weight of his presence against your shoulder. “But he asked for you. Needed you. So I waited. I was so good.”

You turned your head slowly—his feathers brushing your cheek—and finally looked at him.

Jack’s face rested next to yours, chin tucked onto your shoulder where he stood behind the couch. Pale. Painted. Cracked like porcelain, streaked slightly at the edges from where your hands had once smeared him. His mouth, sharp and black, curled into something between a smile and a snarl.

“I was very good,” he said again, almost pleading.

Your voice came quieter than you expected. “You were.”

He inhaled your scent like it grounded him. And then—his claws uncurled from your shoulders and slid down your arms, lingering at your wrists like manacles of silk and bone.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

With graceful ease, one long gangly leg lifted over the back of the couch like he was stepping over a fence, then the other, before sitting cross-legged down beside you. He faced you, head tilted like a curious, waiting beast, his black-tinted claws twitching with thought. His wide eyes flicked over your face, down your throat, to your hands where they rested in your lap, still and warm. The poor cushions nearly buckled under the weight of him.

“Why,” he murmured, almost to himself, “why does it do that?”

You looked over at him, brows furrowing. “Do what?”

His chest rose sharply, a frustrated mimicry of breath. “This… fluttering.” He pressed a clawed hand flat against the center of his chest. “It’s like I’m hollow and full at the same time.”

Your lips parted—your brain stumbling to meet his intensity. “Remember what I said about love?”

Jack blinked, confused. “Love.”

“It’s… complicated,” you offered gently. “It can feel really good and really terrible at the same time. It makes you care too much. Makes you do things. Say things. Want things.”

Jack’s head tilted, and he shuffled closer on all fours—lanky limbs folding with unnatural grace. “Want?” His voice dipped, that awful little smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I do want.”

You leaned back slightly as he reached for you, his claws brushing your legs, your hips, then curling possessively around your waist as he pulled you into his lap again. You let him—more out of dazed submission than invitation. His body was warm beneath all the feathers and fabric, and the way he tucked you against him made you feel like a doll, a thing made for touch.

“You feel soft,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over your back with surprising gentleness for something so sharp. “You smell like the way I imagine dreams do. And when you talk… it gets louder in here.” He tapped the side of his temple.

“I think that’s still love,” you said softly, trying not to tremble as he leaned forward. You didn’t really think that—but the way he looked at you—there was little you could do to no appease him.

Jack’s nose brushed your neck, and he inhaled like he was starving. Then, unexpectedly, he dragged the tip of his tongue up the line of your throat—inhumanly long, textured like velvet. Oliver was right, it was black—and long. You gasped, clutching his arms.

His head tilted. “You tasted… good. But not enough. There’s something else I’ve seen people do. Something Oliver’s parents did with mouths.”

You flushed. “A… kiss?”

Jack’s eyes lit up like a light bulb flaring. “Yes. That. Show me.”

You hesitated—but something in his expression, his wide pupils and fluttering lashes, made your chest ache. He was so bright—despite the monochromatics of him. There were wild colors and energy behind his sad eyes.

So you leaned forward and whispered, “It’s when two people press their lips together. Gentle, sometimes. Or… not.”

Jack didn’t wait. He surged forward with a suddenness that made you gasp, pressing his mouth to yours clumsily at first—like he didn’t quite know how hard to push or how much to take. His lips were cold, but the space between you burned. And when he groaned softly into it, something cracked wide open in your chest.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t delicate. But it was real.

And when he pulled back, body jittering with energy, his eyes searched yours like you held the answer to everything.

“That,” he whispered, claws trembling where they gripped your sides. “Do that again. Please.”

Your lips tingled from the pressure of him—his mouth too cold, too soft, and too eager all at once. The taste of him lingered like sugar laced with something acrid, like old candy or sugar water. His nose brushed yours as he hovered, barely breathing, barely holding back.

And he was holding back. Barely.

“Do it again,” Jack breathed, his voice cracking with need. “Please—again. Just one more—”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have time.

Jack surged forward, kissing you again, messier this time—teeth knocking against yours in his desperation. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, tangling like he never wanted to let go. His other arm was tight around your waist, claws digging just enough to make you feel it.

You gasped into his mouth when his tongue—too long, too strange—flicked over your bottom lip, tasting you like you were spun sugar and heat. He moaned—moaned, like he didn’t understand how else to deal with the rush curling through him.

“You’re real,” he whispered into your mouth, dragging you closer, your legs tangled where he held you in his lap. “You see me. You let me touch you. You don’t scream—you don’t run—”

“I was terrified of you,” you said, breathing uneven. “I still kind of am.”

Jack paused. His brows pinched. “Then why did you come back?”

“Because Oliver isn’t the only one who needs me.”

With a shuddering sound full of teeth and snarls, Jack buried his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply—obscene and greedy—and you could feel his whole body tremble beneath yours. Then his hands—those long, strange hands—slid under your thighs, and in one effortless motion, he scooped you up.

You yelped, arms flying around his neck as he lifted you like you were made of nothing.

“Jack—!”

“Shhh…” he cooed, walking—no, gliding—through the hallway. “I can only keep Ollie asleep for so long, sweet girl. We need to be quiet.”

You squirmed a little, heart hammering, your voice caught somewhere between rationality and surrender. “W-We can sit down. We don’t have to—”

“You’re warm,” he murmured, cutting you off. “And when I touch you, it makes me feel good. I think… I think this is what people mean when they talk about loving someone.” He leaned down, brushing his nose across your cheek. “I want to be good at it. For you.”

The hallway was lit only by the dim nightlight near Oliver’s room, casting everything in shadow and silver. Jack’s body moved soundlessly, his boots not making a single creak on the old wood.

And then he reached Mrs. Dalton’s room.

You stiffened. “Jack, no. We can’t—this is her room—”

But he didn’t stop. He pressed the door open with his foot—which had a little bell at the top, jingling—and carried you over the threshold, and nudged it shut behind him. He walked you to the bed like he’d been there before—like he’d waited for this exact moment. And when he set you down, he was slow. Careful. His claws ghosted over your sides as he released you, reverent, almost trembling.

“You fit,” he whispered, kneeling beside the bed like a knight before an altar. “I don’t know why. But you fit. And I don’t want you to go.”

You sat there, breathing hard, watching as he tilted his head—those eyes wide, flickering with too many things—Adoration. Madness. Hope. And something like love.

He didn’t lunge again. Not this time. But you knew—this night, this quiet, this eerie stillness—it wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning—of your doom, your love—you weren’t sure.

Jack’s head tilted again, just slightly, enough for the bell at his collar to chime softly. The tiny sound filled the stillness between you like a warning, or maybe a plea.

“I don’t want you to go,” he repeated, almost childlike, hands resting on your knees—clawed fingers splayed wide, thumbs rubbing tiny, distracted circles into the soft fabric of your pants. “They always go. All of them. After a while. Even when I like them.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Jack…”

“I didn’t like the others like I like you. They didn’t make me feel like this.”

He leaned forward again, feathered collar brushing your arms, the scent of sweets and wrapping around you. His face hovered close, and for the first time… he looked serious.

“I get big feelings when you touch me,” he murmured, eyes searching yours. “When you talk soft. When you look at me like I’m not wrong.”

“You’re not,” you whispered, reaching a cautious hand up—fingers threading through the messy dark strands of his hair. “You’re not wrong, Jack. You’re just… not like us. And that’s okay. Some people don’t deserve you.”

He whimpered, the sound sharp and fragile as his hands suddenly moved to your waist—claws careful but firm, gripping you like he thought you might vanish again.

“Why does it hurt when you leave?” His voice cracked, nose brushing yours, his weight pushing forward until you had to brace yourself back on your elbows. “Why does it ache?”

You didn’t have an answer.

You just let your other hand come up, smoothing over the side of his jaw, your thumb brushing a smear of dried white face paint. “Because you’re learning to care. And that hurts sometimes.”

Jack leaned into your touch like a dog starved for affection. “Is that what this is?” he rasped. “Is this love?”

You froze.

His claws slipped beneath your shirt again, up your sides—not cruelly, but with that same aching hunger he didn’t know how to soothe. The pads of his fingers found the faint indents he’d left the night before, and he shuddered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder with a broken sound.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. “I just wanted you to see me.”

“I do see you,” you whispered, unsure if you were shaking from nerves or something deeper.

He looked up suddenly, lifting himself slightly to meet your gaze again. “And you still came back.”

“I told you I would.”

Jack didn’t like that answer. His mouth twisted—unhappy, needy—and his arms curled around your back, pulling you forward until your body pressed against his chest, your legs falling open around his wide hips.

“You wanted to come back,” he corrected, nose pressed into your hair. “Didn’t you?”

You closed your eyes. “I did.”

Silence fell.

Then Jack giggled—softly, sweetly, but with something strained and high-pitched underneath. “I knew it. I knew you were different. That you weren’t scared like the rest.”

“Jack…”

That’s all it takes for his lips to be crashing onto yours, biting back a little whimper at the messy clash of teeth, of spit, because one taste of your lips and he was already so addicted. One kiss wasn’t enough, neither was two.

Your breath caught when he shifted his weight, a knee sliding between your thighs as he loomed over you, long hair falling like a shadowy curtain around your face. That enormous feathered collar fanned around his neck, brushing your shoulders like wings, trapping you beneath him.

“You said love feels fluttery, right?” he asked, voice rough, cracking slightly. “It feels like you can’t breathe, like everything is spinning and hot and tight.”

You nodded—your throat too dry to speak.

“Then I’m in love,” he declared, eyes glassy and intense. “Because I can’t stop feeling.”

He pressed his nose to your collarbone, inhaling deeply, then let his tongue graze across your skin—warm and impossibly long, like silk and static. You shivered, your hand instinctively grabbing at the front of his suspender shirt, fingers curling into that ridiculous fabric ruffle beneath his throat.

He smiled at that, manic and pleased. “You like this, don’t you? Even if you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” you lied, voice tight.

That earned a laugh—soft and delighted, as if he could feel the war in your chest.

“You’re shaking,” he said, claws slipping lower, curved around your hips now, pulling you flush against his frame. “But not like before. Not like when you wanted to run. Now you’re trembling like… like I make your chest flutter, too.”

You didn’t answer, but your body did—arching when his hips settled against yours.

Jesus fucking Christ. You felt the boneyness of his hips, the slimness of his torso, and the absolutely—devastatingly, mouthwateringly—curve of his erection against his hip. Your hips jerked immediately at the feeling, eyes shooting wide when you felt him grind down just the slighted bit. There was no fucking way.

Jack groaned low, almost surprised by his own reaction, his clawed hand catching your thigh and hiking it up around his waist. “So little,” he hissed, voice shaking with something deeper now. “So small and warm in my hands…”

His head dipped, tongue trailing up your throat, stopping just beneath your jaw. “Want to taste your skin again. Is that okay? You said I need to ask permission.”

You managed a nod, your fingers still clinging to him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the manic glee that bloomed across his face was both terrifying and beautiful.

There was nothing gentle about it.

Jack kissed like a creature who’d only just discovered the act existed and couldn’t fathom living without it—which was mostly true. His mouth was hot and desperate, his tongue curling past your lips like he needed to taste everything you’d ever spoken. He moaned against you—guttural, starved—as he dragged your hips closer into his, arms caging you in completely.

The room spun, your senses burning, and when he finally pulled back for air, a string of spit clung between your mouths. His chest rose and fell like he’d run miles, pupils blown wide with something that wasn’t entirely sane.

“I want more,” he whispered. “Let me have more.” Jack gasps, chasing hotly after your lips. Eyes half-lidded to watch the snapping of those delicate strings of saliva, “You’re— you’re so—” And he’s way too impatient to get out his words, licking heatedly at the slit of your mouth, over and over and over. “I can’t help it.”

And the both of you are stuck on the way Jack’s moving again, hips fucking up in jagged, mindless little grinds. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, like he didn’t even feel the way his twitching erection was smearing along the insides of your thighs. You’re erratic, entire body shaking every time the tip of his cock catches your clit through layers of clothes. How was this even happening?

“I remember—” Jack started, tugging his hips off of you, leaning back, your legs still spread wide around his hips. “I remember what Ollie’s parents used to do. I remember seeing it. I think that was the first time I felt like this.” His voice is shaky, like he’s barely containing something running rampant behind those stripes and monochrome.

“What do you—”

Jack’s claws ran under your shirt, pushing the fabric all the way up until it bunched under your chin. You seized, hands letting go of his shirt and moving to cover your chest, bra slightly askew from all the prior movement. Jack didn’t like that—he wrapped a hand around your wrists, tugging them away with a huff. “I want to show you.”

He pushes your shirt over your head, throwing it somewhere against the wall, before he’s snagging one long, sharp finger under the main band of your bra. Your breath catches, hand wrapping around his wrist—before he’s snapping it up.

Your tits fall free, bra bunched onto your chest, nipples hard from the chilled air and rampant energy of your body. You shuffle in embarrassment, pressing your arm over your chest, “Jack—”

He stalks towards your trembling figure as if hypnotized, “Oh, you look even prettier this way.”

You don’t even have time to react. Jack’s painted lips are latching onto one nipple, giant claw snagging the other. You can fill the pinprick of his jagged teeth against your skin, and it elicits goosebumps all over. He’s groaning, humming sweetly against your nipple as that bastardous tongue laps and snakes against the nub.

“Jack—hah—oh god—”

His bright eyes meet yours through heavy lids, chittery little grumbles as he sucks and swirls and makes your head dizzy. Your hands curl into his hair, brushing the strands from his face as he pops off one tit and immediately locks onto the other. A thin ring of black circles your nipple, evidence of his dark lips that sucked a red spot onto your skin. You can hardly catch your breath, arching up into the feeling.

“Tastes… so good. You’re so sweet…” he moans against you, licking a thick stripe across one mound, then to the other. But he’s back up at your lips before you know it, slipping that tongue through your teeth and messing with your own. He forces his way into your mouth, dragging the muscle across your inner cheeks like he’s trying to memorize it.

You feel him slipping down, dragging your hips with him in a firm hold, until you hear the thud of his knees hitting the carpet at the side of the bed. He smacks one, hard kiss across your lips before retreating down your jaw, then to your throat. You gasp out, craning your neck as he nips and sears his teeth across your veins.

Then you feel the tug of your pants, thick claws snagging the fabric and pulling them down your thighs. You try to maneuver, moving to grab his shoulders, but Jack retreats—leaving your mouth and throat alone.

“O-Oh.”

Jack settles between your spread legs, tugging your waistband down your knees and off your ankles. You have enough mind to lean up onto your elbows, unclasping your bra and tugging it off your chest before it becomes too uncomfortable.

Despite your thoughts, despite the way your heart hammered so violently in your chest—Laughing Jack looked so pretty when he knelt obediently at the edge of the bed. A thin sliver of sweat sliding down his temple, breaths coming out in heated gusts, clawed hands balling into a fist and shivering once you smear your legs open just a fraction more. Twitching, white-knuckled like he was forcing himself to not just ruin you right then and there. 

“Let me taste you.” Jack said sternly, an edge of hesitation in his voice. “I’ll be gentle, I promise. I know what to do. Let me show you.” His words got faster as he spoke, frantic. Like if he couldn’t convince you in this moment, you’d up and leave. Your thighs shook, mind dizzy between right and wrong.

But the sight of him there, claws sneaking up to brush against the inside of your calf as your legs dangled off the side of the bed—not your bed, you’d have to make sure to tidy up. There was no point in stopping now.

“Okay.” You’re nodding, and the very action is enough for him to snap his eyes down where your cotton panties were starting to dampen and swallow. “Please—please—be gentle.”

With so much pent-up eagerness, Jack’s lips twist into a sleazy grin—crawling himself the few inches it was to stuff himself nose-deep between your pretty legs. First it was the tiniest tug on your restless hips, then it was a sniff—and then it was a bite of his sharp, pearly whites over the waistband of your underwear. A throaty groan snarling through his teeth, “Oh, sweet girl, I promise.”

Quick as a flash, he’s snagging his teeth on the flimsy fabric of your panties and all but tearing it off of you. Ripping to simply push its tatters to the side, Jack doesn’t even fully take it off before he was simply drooling. 

“Sweet,” he gasps out, tongue flicking past his lips to taste the air. You shrieked, gripping your fingers tight into the sheets, but he just smiled lazily, “So sweet.”

The fattened pad of his thumb sears down on your swollen folds and spreads you wide open, cock twitching at the deafening wet squelch that chimes.

“And mine.”

“Oh— oh fuck—” You’re shrilling out a syrupy moan once his singing tongue flicks at your clit like a lollipop, taking extra care to press down hard so that it has you thrashing.

“There? S’that good?” He’s roaming his mouth over your puffed-up lips eagerly, yearning, not knowing what he was doing, just addicted. “You’re so wet, sweetheart. S’this for me? A-All for me?”

The only answer he’s getting is a few soft gasps of oh! and yes! You couldn’t help but nod your head down and admire just how drunk Jack was as he’s sucked away on your twitching clit. The hollows of his pale cheeks sucked-in, spit-glossed mouth wrapped snugly around your sensitive nub. “So… so good…”

Your legs try to clamp around his head.

“E-Easy, Jack—” You mewl out in a tone that makes his tensed hips rut forward like an animal, immediately grinding against the firm base of the bedframe. You snake a hand down to intertwine with his messy hair, tugging the strands until his eyes snap up to meet yours. “Easy.”

Jack nods against your cunt, lips bumping your clit and smearing your arousal across your folds. You try to tug his head off, just to give yourself a moment—

“I want it.” He grumbles, popping off your clit, hanging his head back as he pants into the air. His eyes are so glassy, the tip of his tongue flashing across his bottom lip—until it’s not the tip anymore—wait—

The curly, dark end of it stingingly slaps down on your thigh, Jack’s tongue is so long enough that he can lace it all over your shivering leg and wrench them further and further open. You nearly faint.

“I want in.”

And then it feels like you’re being split apart—just a few solid, thorough inches of Jack’s slimy tongue burrowing past your puffy folds, keeping your jolting legs pinned firmly by his sharp claws digging in. Your head slams back against the mattress, hands taking a blinding hold on Jack’s hair. You’re being rendered utterly stupid by the jerky flicks of his pointed muscle stirring up your insides, wriggling in circular patterns around and around your gummy walls. Scarfing you down until his tongue reaches the very gooey bottom of your cunt and kisses your cervix so hard that you’re pushed up the mattress and he’s forced to reel you back down again. 

“What— oh…oh my god—” Tears drip down from your heavy lids, wailing whimpers breaking off from your lips at every smack he left on that spongy end, further pushing aside your panties. Then it’s retracting all the way back out, only to thrust in again. “Jack— it’s so big— your tongue—”

He grumbles his agreement, smacking his lips back against your folds, sucking your clit. He’s slashing his tongue almost aggressively inside, knocking your g-spot in-between his journey to fuck you with his tongue. You could feel the ridges of his tongue, feel how it had to bend and curve to fit all of it inside of you. It angled to the shape of your walls, making you feel so full.

“N-ngh please!” You could feel your resolve breaking, nearly hear the sound of your fear shattering and getting rebuilt into uncontrollable lust. You can’t help but rock into every second of his frenzied cadence, creeping down one of your hands to hook on the underside of his jaw, angling his head so that he could go even deeper, “I-it’s so good— don’t stop, don’t stop.”

And the look in Jack’s shiny eyes is the most raw glint of disbelief that you’ve ever seen.

His thighs clench as he hits his erection against the wooden board of the bed and grinds, unwilling to yank the button of his pants down, unwilling to take his hands off of you for a mere second.

He throws your thighs over his shoulder, your trembly hands guided through his sweaty scalp, mouth hungry. You nearly scream every time the sharp ends of his fangs snag on your clit, tongue fucking into your sopping cunt like he’s addicted to the mere taste and sounds of it—because he is.

Your noises, your smell, your taste. How did he go so long without you?

“Fuck- fuck, you’re making such a mess, Jack.”

“Mhmmmm—”

“I can’t— I can’t—” And you don’t know whether it’s the sight of slicked saliva falling from Jack’s mouth or the sheer overstimulation that has you jumbling up your syllables—but it’s enough to make Jack grin against your folds. “S’too much— hold on—”

Your brain’s fuzzily numb by the time you finally recognize that familiar twist at the bottom of your gut. Blubbering out an unsteady, “H-Hold on— Just give—agh— give me a minute.”

“I know— I know I know I know— make a mess.” He’s tugging his tongue out, letting a wad of saliva stream straight down your slit and licking it all up before he returns to probe your entrance fully, swirling every fold of his tongue until it was like he was stuffing you with his taste buds.

Tears pool from your eyes, hands jerks two thick strands of his hair and pulling—and your body absolutely shatters under him.

Jack picks it up immediately—keenly aware of the way your walls clamp down with a searing grip on his lashing tongue, flooding his tastes with such a sweet, sweet taste. You could practically see the fireworks exploding behind his eyes, eyelashing fluttering and lips twitching as he only shoves his jaw closer to your skin.

Your hips roll at the primal way Jack’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs with each eager swallow. Thin lines of sappy slick falling from the black, puckered corners of his lips and waterfalling all down the side of his throat. 

“Good— Good girl—” His sopping wet tongue drags up and down your open folds to pull you through your euphoria, every lolling flick of the curled end jostling against your thoroughly-stuffed cunt. “This— this is all for me?” He’s crooning out, dazed, letting his jaw fall open with every quiver you’re instinctively clenching with your cunt, “All for me. More— more, sweetheart.”

The waves of absolute pleasure ran through your gut, through your legs, until it slowly fizzled into sharp, jerking twitches of your legs clamping around his head. Jack let you, too busy tasting your orgasm to worry about his head getting squished between your shaky thighs. He wasn’t stopping, his tongue making it a point to clean every inch of your insides, to taste every sweet drop.

His tongue kept thrusting, lips continually sucking on your weeping clit. Your eyes rolled back, hips jerking off the bed and slamming back down into the sheets with every curl of the muscle inside you.

It wasn’t until you were hitting your fist against his head and pressing the bottoms of your feet against his shoulders that he flicked his eyes up at you, catching the absolutely fucked-out expression that lay before him.

“Jack— s’too much, too much—”

And he’s perking his head up like the thought didn’t even occur to him—slowly retracting his tongue from your folds and back to his own mouth. His glistening tongue licks his lips, catching all the spit and slick that got absolutely everywhere all over his face. His eyes are locked into yours, despite you rapidly blinking away tears. He smiled, innocently, all sharp teeth and giddy eyes, “Was that good?”

Your eyes flicked back and forth between his face and your body—your inner thighs and center absolutely covered in smears of white and black facepaint. You could see where a black O shape circled right around your cunt, where his cheekbones has pressed right into the meat of your thighs. It was an absolute mess—and that wasn’t even counting all the drool and slick accompanying it. But your eyes flicked back to his face.

Fuck. He was pretty.

Granted, you always saw him in the shade of shadows or in faint passing, but right now—with Jack’s dark strands of hair hooding his half-lidded gaze, what little you could see of his eyes gleaming, chest rising and falling rapidly—he was dreamy.

One gangly limb after the other, Jack crawls back up into the bed—well, grinds right between your legs so that he’s putting pressure on your throbbing cunt. He doesn’t even look like he knows that he’s doing it, not when he’s gripping your flushed cheeks in one claw and puffing your lips together.

Looming over top of you, his other claw grips into the askew bedding near your head, face quickly lowering toward yours as he catches your mouth again.

It’s all spit and tongues and the taste of you on his lips. You’re both panting into each other’s mouth’s, his sharp teeth catching against your lips and making you hiss. He grinds down again, making your hands grip into his ruffled collar, rutting his hips and dampening the front of his trousers with your wetness.

He’s whimpering into your mouth, eyes clenched tightly shut as you feel the head of his cocktip smear through your folds over thin layers of fabric. Your hands move before your brain does, fishing for the waistband of his trousers and finding the metal clasp that holds the layers together.

Jack feels your hands against stomach, knuckles running across those bandages tight around his waist, and angles his hips upwards. He can’t figure out why he feels so warm, why the fluttering in his chest has traveled south—but when your fingers latch on and snag the clasp open, feeling as his length bobs out from behind the fabric and smacks against your belly-button—it’s like he just touched a live-wire.

“What—” he started, popping off your lips to look at the space between you. His face is twitching, like he can’t pinpoint what expression he’s supposed to have, watching at his cock twitches and smears pre-cum against your stomach. It’s only when you let go of the fabric of his pants, mindlessly darting over to swipe your thumb across a pearly bead of pre that glistened on his slit—that Jack’s hips jerk at the feeling, chasing your hand.

“O-oh.” Jack grunts at the look on your gorgeous face once your hand wraps around the head of his cock, twisting slowly. His hips stutter, brow knotting as you slowly stroke your hand on his tip, smearing his arousal on his bulbous head. “No one’s ever touched me like this—hah!” You pump your hand lower, gaping at the way your fingers have to separate to get a grip on him, jerking his cock lazily while you drool over the sight.

“It’s okay, Jack— Mm, does that feel good?” You hum, shuffling up to press a wet kiss against his jaw, his eyes still glued on your hand.

“Ye-Yeah. Really—hnm—really good.”

“Yeah?”

He’s nodding frantically, rolling his hips until his tip is knocking against your stomach. He’s so long, so thick that you can see exactly where he’s going to end up inside of you, see exactly where the tip of his goes past your belly-button. Your stomach rolled with excitement.

You push against his shoulder, minding the ruffles and feathers, and wrap your leg onto his hip, rolling the two of you over.

“Oh.” He’s gasping—you settle on top of him, legs bracketing his hips as his length sits heavy against the curve of your ass. You’re completely naked above him except for the shredded remnants of your torn panties still hanging on. You couldn’t care less about them, not when he’s panting underneath you, staring up with wide, anxious eyes.

“Jack…” You’re sliding the curve of your ass gingerly against his aching hot length, shudders skittering down your spine at the sheer size of him pressing up against you. “Y-you’re so big. I don’t know if it’ll fit.”

“Fit? F-Fit where?” He’s whispering, in awe. Watching with damply bated breath as you reach between your legs, gripping the base of him—fingers not even close to touching—and dragging him to point that curved, bulbous tip right between your folds and sliding it up and down, collecting all your sweet arousal. Jack nearly snaps his hips up, if not for the weight of you on top of him.

“Right here,” you purr, grinding your clit against his weeping slit.

“Am—Am I really that b-big?” He’s panting at the first squeeze of his reddened, blushing tip against your entrance, his chittery voice wavers almost as much as his heavy eyelids, falling apart with just that first taste of your perfect cunt. “You got it—uh huh, yeah, you got it—Show me how good it feels.” Jack’s voice cracks with a whimper at that snug resistance, “You can take it—you can take it. I’ll make it fit.”

“Oh—oh my god—Jack, Jac—!”

“Is it too big for my sweet girl? Hm?” He giggles under you, claws latching tight onto your waist, pushing you down each and every time Jack jerks his hips off the bed and pushes just to fit in. “Sweetheart—” Jack gasps as you throw your head back with a mewl at the sheer size of him, planting your hands into his forearms.

His painfully-aching cock was so big that just the mere first inch being bullied inside was enough to make your vision blotch with black specs. His rounded head was stretching your slick-flooded walls so bad it burned, “I’m sorry, sweet girl— M’sorry I’m so big. But you’re my girl— my girl can take it— you can…you can take it.”

You can’t even move, let alone think very hard. Where all your teasing was prominent moments ago, it all fissiled the second Jack learned what he was meant to do, realized he could feel good too. You’re just limp in his hands down, stuttering fucked-out whimpers and tears dripping down your chin onto his frilly clothes. It was pathetic.

He had to be almost in—he had to be.

Your heart nearly fell to your ass when you looked down, eyes cracking open just enough to see when the two of you were connected—and realize he was hardly half way.

“Jack— oh my god— oh my god.”

“So tight, so tight, so— so warm— tight—”

“Mhm—” And you’re just letting out the cutest cry once he finally eases himself all the way in, practically impaling you. Your cunt gushes around him, thighs trembling as you feel both of your bodies untense.

Tenderly caressing your palm down his chest, you whine, “I-it’s in?” Your hitched tone makes his eyes flutter shut, and yet, he’s fighting to bring them back open and watch as you grind against him. “It’s in. O-oh my god, I can feel you— so deep.”

“It burns,” he whines, clamping his claws tight around your waist as he begins to haul you up, the bells on his clothes jingling as he shifts you higher on his length. He’s stretching you so wide, rubbing against every curve and sensitive spot inside of you, making you dizzy. “Need’a move.” You’re jostled ever-so-slightly on top of him as he’s sucking in a deep breath.

One jerk of his hips has you falling forward, draping across his long body, you’re nothing against his over eight foot height. He takes advantage of the angle, wraps his gangly arms around your back, and thrusts.

You feel the wind knock out of your lungs, feel your spine arch at the sheer fullness that erupts your thoughts. “Jack—” you cry out, gazing up to see his gleaming teeth on display, a feral snarl painting his features.

“Sweet girl—” Planting a rattling thrust you’re feeling all the way in your chest, his twitching length is so widely thick that Jack has to bite down on his lips and manhandle you for his thrusts to move to and fro, fighting the sheer tightness of your walls.

“Nghhh—Jack! Fuck, y-you’re in so deep—”

He nods, painfully so, and reaches to wrap a claw around your jaw, forcing you to lean up to him. “Kiss me, please.”

“Should’ve— should’ve done this sooner—” He hisses out through a narrowed pant, tongue flashing angrily across his lips as he pushes the tip between your lips. “Should’a had you like this from the start.”

“O-oh fuck fuck fuck—” The backs of your thighs ache after every slamming thrust you’re bouncing back into his bony hips, pounding away like he was crazed, every jackhammer only makes Jack grow more feral. The sounds, the absolute vulgarness of your skin slapping together.

His rummaging, fat-tipped shaft was so large that you could feel the way his ridged cockhead scraped your cervix, bumping against the end like he desperately needed to get deeper, impossibly deeper.

Facepaint practically smearing down his cheeks now, “Should’ve fuh-fucked you the moment I—hnngh—saw you. Should’ve dragged you into that closet— sh-should’ve—” You’re squealing once his sharp claws dart down to toy and pull at the curve of your ass. “I knew from that first night— Yeah, I knew it— You’re perfect.”

Oh, he’s babbling. 

Cooing, you slither one of your hands through the tangled strands of his dark hair, “Awww– it’s okay, I’m here. You’ve—hah—you’ve got me now.”

“Yes.” He’s seething, heaving thick swallows of air against your lips. Your smell was driving him mad, he can’t help but bite against your lips and pull. “Are you feeling good, too?”

Pace growing sloppier by the minute, he barely even noticed when you nodded, too worried about tugging you lips open with his jagged teeth and shoving his tongue back into your mouth. It’s almost as if you didn’t know if it was you bouncing back on his cock on him thrusting up into you, only fucked dumb with every sharp jut. His cock curved just right, targeting your g-spot over and over with his bruising tip.

You could barely breathe, especially when his tongue was yawning in your mouth, pushing to the tightness of your throat. It took your hand on his face, pushing his forehead back before you could gag. “I-I’m so close—” You’re hiccuping through your salty tears, brows scrunching at the overwhelming coil at the base of your gut. “F-fuck! Jack m’gonna cum.”

“Again? Hah— again?” His response comes out guttural, and it’s just so cute the way that he’s forced to gnaw on his bottom lip to stop himself from shoving his tongue back into your pretty mouth.

You’re nodding frantically, pressing your hands into his chest to raise yourself, fucking your hips back to match the unrelenting pace Jack was setting into your weeping cunt. The sounds had grown more lewd, slick and arousal coating your inner thighs, nails dragging along the bandaged wrap of his waist. Shocked, Jack sounds as if he could still barely even believe this was all real. “That feeling— the, the fluttering,” he whines, legs kicking out from under you like he’s trying to get away from some foreign feeling, “It’s worse—hah—it hurts, it hurts—”

His claws sear against your skin, pace faltering as his brow twists with unease, eyes flickering to your face and your cunt with panic. You reach to grab his face, forcing his shaky eyes on you, your fingernails pressing into his white-coated face.

“Don’t stop. Jack—aghh— don’t stop.” You’re grinning like wild, tear-heavy lashes fluttering so fast your vision blurs with flashes of monochrome. “You’re gonna cum. Inside— please, inside.”

“Ah—Alright— Oh, sweet girl. Oh, goodness.” You could feel the rumbling under his skin as his teeth pull back into a primal snarl, tear-glinted eyes locked permanently where his red, swollen cock was disappearing between your legs. “It hurts, it hurts. Need it to come out—hah—need it.”

But between all of his babbling and all of his jittery movements, Jack doesn’t even realize it—doesn’t even remember to breathe the very moment you’re creaming all down his monstrous cock. Violent twitches take over your body as you shut your eyes and ride it all out. 

The sheer amount of slick that pools out of your cunt is mind-numbing, every drop coating Jack’s cock for him to piston even faster up into you. You fall limp in his hands, your orgasm shattering every ounce of willpower you had left, reduced to nothing but a drooling fucktoy on his chest.

And, god, he cums. So thick, so much, straight into the gummy walls that constricted around him like a vice. He gnashed his teeth, claws scratching down your sides and gripping hard into the meat of your ass as he holds you there, forcing you to sit and feel every shot of cum that pumps into your cervix. He’s whimpering, teeth chattering so hard you were afraid he’d pass out.

And you’re just tapering off from your own orgasm, finally mustering enough energy to look up at him, you slur your words, “Didn’t that feel good? Ah— good job, good job, Jack.”

He’s not listening.

“Again. Again, again, again—” Urgent, rapidly he’s flipping the two of you immediately over to hover on top of you and rut like an animal. You’re gasping once your back slams down on the soft bedding, heels struggling to cling onto Jack’s slim hips until he’s wrapping his long arms underneath your knees and hauling them over his shoulders. You feel your back bend, and bend, and bend—

He had you manhandled like some toy into a mating press. All the air gets pressed out of your lungs as your heels hook onto his shoulders, ruffled feathers on his collar tickling your bare skin. You’re so open, so powerless, so… braindead.

“Need to make you cum again—” Growling through the tiniest gaps of his grit teeth, he presses his forehead to yours, his striped nose poking against your cheek, and inhales that sweet scent of yours still permeating the thick air. The straps of his suspenders rub against your skin as he begins to move again, searing his hips back to thrust back into you again. He laughs, rough and low and tired, chittering his teeth, “I want to feel it over and over. Want to make my sweet girl feel good again.”

He struggles to even focus his eyes on you properly, and Jack’s teeth grit at the lead squelch your pussy makes once he sinks all the way back in, drools of cum and slick pooling onto the mattress below. 

He picks up a brutal pace again, planting his claws on either side of your head, your hands wrapping around his wrists as you try to hold on for dear fucking life. The angle, the position, the sheer force of his hips have your jaw going slack, eyes rolling into the back of your skull. Jack’s length bumps into your g-spot so bruisingly that with only a few more strokes you’re cumming again. 

It’s only when you cry out, a shrill noise bubbling out of your throat, that Jack realizes it. A wide smile paints his face, every sharp tooth shining in the dim light as he watches every twist and turn of your expression, refusing to slow his pace even when fat tears roll down your cheeks. “Yes. Yeah, yeah, yeah— Yes, sweet girl. Give it to me, give it to me—”

He can’t even finish the damn sentence before he’s following right behind you, your cunt clenching so tight that he can’t thrust again before he’s spilling into you—even more. You can tell he’s sensitive, can feel the way his hips fight his mind to pull out, whimpering so pitifully as he fucks him cum into the already stuffed cavern of your walls.

“So good for me— so good. Feel how full you are, so full and— and warm…” He was practically twitching, trembling. “It’s so hot inside…”

You couldn’t even move without feeling cum slip down the curve of your ass, spilling onto the bed. You prayed Mrs. Dalton’s comforter was washable.

Yelping, your legs struggle to shut once his sloppy cadence turns even sloppier. Lazier. Heels slipping off of his shoulders and crooking onto his elbows. “O-one more—” Jack’s whining, black tongue lolling between his teeth, licking up the drool that pools onto his lips, “Keep— keep those pretty legs open f’me. M’begging— take it, sweetheart.”

One claw wiggles its way under your back, arching your body off the bed and pressing your chest to his, face-first into the ruffles of his collar. The other claw plants at the top of your head, and pushes you down.

“Jack—!” Your legs were shaking so violently every snap of his hips made you weep openly. So overstimulated, you could barely even be touched without lighting cracking through your veins. 

“Yeah? Feel good? S’all for you— only for you—” Purposefully pressing up close so that your poor clit gets rubbed over by the wrap of bandages that stop at his pelvis, the rough fabric tugging the sensitive bud. He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing, totally focused on making you as full as possible.

He was fucking you like he couldn’t get enough—would never possibly be able to get enough. Every thrust had him pushing you down once more after the stuttering recoil, grinding your bodies against each other because Jack couldn’t bear to part. “You’re never leaving again—never—Need you all the time.”

You can’t help but nod, can’t even think straight, mind completely full of the skin slapping and the strong smells and the horrible way you knew you were going to be so bruised after this. This was going to hurt so bad tomorrow.

“Cum. Cum on me, sweetheart. All over me.”

“Jack— please—” you cry, mouth falling into an obscene O shape as you feel your legs going numb.

“Now.” You could hear the grit in his voice, hear the absolute need. But more than that, more than his voice, you could feel the heavy tongue that slithered across your throat, across your shoulders, all the way into your mouth and to the back of your throat—choking you.

Feel it as you squirt.

“Yes.”

Simply spraying him with a searing flood of your sweet, soaking juices. Jack has the mindless audacity to crane his head and look between you, wide eyes catching just as your wetness sprays onto his hips and trousers and just everywhere.

“Fuuuck…” You feel like you’ve been dragged through the 6 rings of hell with the way your body absolutely burns. Gushing and gushing—it’s almost embarrassing how much you’re leaking around Jack’s creamy base. 

Jack didn’t seem to think so, though.

He was mesmerized, hypnotized. A glistening few droplets of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as he just watched himself get drenched in all your gushing orgasm whilst he cums for who knows how many times.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes—” Jack is absolutely losing his mind, every languid pump of his flinching cock sending massive shockwaves through both of you. He can’t even draw his hips back anymore, can’t even thrust, “Yes.”

He just grinds, just pumps you full again, this round of cum not even trying to fit into your cunt and just spilling out. Jack falls limp on top of you, muttering yes, yes, yes like a mantra, like his mouth can’t form another word. You both just lay there for a moment, all heaving breaths and shaky limbs, clinging to each other like you never want to let go.

“So full… Jack… soo full…” You mumble against his chest, tears and spit staining the white fabric. He nods against your hair, taking deep breaths of the sweet smell of you. 

The room was still heavy with heat and haze, the air thick and sweet as your chest rose and fell beneath him. Jack’s weight was heavy, his long, wild hair a curtain around your flushed face, his hands still curled loosely at either side of your head, claws twitching with the remnants of adrenaline.

You were boneless beneath him, throat raw from panting, lips swollen from being kissed breathless. Every inch of you felt claimed—touched, tasted, adored in that chaotic, frenzied way only he could manage.

Jack licked his lips, then leaned down to nose against your neck, humming softly to himself, as though delighted by the sheen of sweat on your skin. “You were… so good,” he murmured, voice thick with pride and possessive warmth. “So warm. So soft. I didn’t know… I didn’t know anything could feel that good.”

You swallowed hard, heart still hammering in your chest as you tried to blink the daze from your eyes. His tongue flicked out, dragging slowly along your collarbone, tasting you again. “Jack—” you breathed, trying to lift your hand, but he caught it midair, pressing it to his chest like a treasure.

He slowly lifted his hips, pushing your legs open so he could ease out of you with the least amount of pain possible. It was useless, your hips still stuttered upwards when the head of him caught in your entrance, snagging a shrill cry from your lips that he immediately swallowed up.

His cum gushed out of you, thick globs of him pulling out of you and pooling onto the bedding below. You felt your whole body shiver, felt Jack’s eyes rove over every curve and surge of your body.

“You felt good,” he repeated, more urgently now, almost reverent. “Like magic. Like you were made for me. Were you?”

Your throat tightened. “I… don’t know.”

“You are now.” He leaned down again, licking along the swell of your breast before trailing down your ribs, slow and unhurried, as though savoring the salt of your skin. His voice was muffled, cheek pressed against your stomach. “Mine now. Can’t give you back. Won’t.”

You twitched when his tongue dipped a little lower, lazily tracing over the marks he’d left. His claws gently held your thighs open as he worked, less frenzied now—just curious, affectionate. Worshipful. He pressed the thick curve of his tongue through your folds, across your lips, careful not to let your hips jerk away from him. 

You squirmed under him, both flushed and too sensitive to bear it. “Jack—enough, please—”

He huffed, nuzzling your hip as if reluctant to stop. “But you taste like strawberries,” he whined. “And you let me, didn’t you? You let me do everything.”

“I was trying to help you understand,” you said, voice thin and shaky, though you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Trying to make sense of… whatever this is.”

Jack blinked, resting his chin on your belly, his eyes wide and unusually soft.

“I don’t want to make sense of it anymore,” he murmured. “I just want you.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I love you.”

You felt your throat choke up.

“I love you,” His tongue moved easily, cleaning your inner thighs, cleaning your cunt, careful not to hurt you when he pressed the muscle against your entrance and into your pitiful walls. “I love you, I love you,” he muffled against your center. You squealed, tears hot and heavy against your cheeks. But Jack held your thighs, swiped his thumbs over your skin in comfort, easy as he cleaned every curve and slope of your cunt. “Mm love you.”

When you felt lightheaded, when you didn’t know if you would be able to open your eyes every time you blinked—Jack finally let up, licking his maw, and planting one, gentle kiss against your spoiled clit.

His hands slid up, wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you up against him again. You collapsed into his chest, exhausted and limp, your fingers curling into the soft, ruffled fabric of his shirt. Jack purred in his throat, the vibration sinking into your bones.

“I— hah—” you whispered. “I love you, Jack.”

Jack hissed quietly, pleased by the mention—but he didn’t stir you. He only curled tighter around you, his limbs tangling with yours like string and shadow, pressing soft, lazy kisses into your temple.

And as you lay there, sleep creeping in at the corners of your mind, you realized something terrifying: You didn’t feel scared anymore. You felt claimed.

── .✦

The first rays of sunrise spilled through the curtains in delicate streaks of gold, turning the bedroom air hazy and warm. You blinked groggily into the soft morning light, eyelids heavy, body sore in all the places that had been handled—held, touched, claimed.

But when you moved, it was with a jarring realization: Your clothes were back on. Neat. Clean. Smoothed over your skin as if nothing had happened at all.

The bedding beneath you was immaculate too—fluffed and freshly tucked like someone had come in during the night and changed the sheets around your sleeping body. There was no trace of feathers, no smudges of face paint, no claw marks in the mattress. No lingering shadow in the corners.

No Jack.

You sat up too fast. A bolt of dizziness slammed through you, your legs swinging over the side of the bed on instinct, your feet hitting the floor—only for your knees to buckle immediately, muscles trembling from the night before.

“Shit—!”

You pitched forward, panic flooding your chest, the carpet rushing up to meet you—

—but something caught you.

Sharp claws—long as branches, strong as iron. They snaked around your waist mid-fall and reeled you back up into the air like a ragdoll. You let out a yelp, twisting in surprise.

“Careful, sweetheart!” Jack’s voice cooed near your ear, syrupy with delight. “Can’t have you break yourself again so soon. I just put you back together.”

You looked up, heart hammering against your ribs. He held you easily in his arms, your feet dangling slightly above the floor as he giggled—a glittering grin splitting his face beneath that mess of black and white scruff. His long nose brushed your cheek affectionately, lips pressing a hot kiss there, and then another at your temple.

“You wore yourself out, silly thing. All that shaking and moaning and screaming my name—” he grinned wider, if that were possible, voice practically a purr. His eyes gleamed, lids heavy with smugness. “I’ve never seen such a generous girl before.”

You flushed furiously, pushing lightly at his chest. “Jack—shhh!”

But he only hummed, spinning you effortlessly in his arms like a toy ballerina before cradling you bridal-style once again. “Come on then,” he murmured. “Let’s go see our boy.”

With a gentle lurch, he carried you through the hall, humming a wilted lullaby that made the hairs on your arms stand up. And yet… you didn’t resist. You let your cheek rest against the soft feathered scruff of his collar, hands curled into the frilled edge of his sleeve.

The door to Oliver’s room creaked open on its own as Jack approached, and he stepped inside with a kind of reverence. You could feel the difference now—this wasn’t just a child’s bedroom. It was a sanctuary. A space Jack had claimed as sacred.

He placed you carefully on the edge of the bed, his clawed fingers brushing your cheek with startling tenderness.

You turned immediately to check on Oliver. The little boy stirred beneath his covers, his tiny fists rubbing at sleepy eyes. His hair was tousled, cheeks warm and pink from dreams, and when he saw you—his whole face lit up.

“You’re still here,” he whispered, beaming.

“I told you I would,” you said, smoothing his hair with a soft smile.

Oliver blinked up at you, voice quiet and dreamlike. “Jack says… he’s really happy now. He said he likes the way you smell when you’re sleepy. He said he wants you to stay forever.”

Your heart skipped. You turned over your shoulder—but the room was empty. No creak of footsteps, no swish of feathers, no glint of a manic smile from the corner. Just the soft hush of morning light, Oliver’s sleepy breathing, and the distant jingle of keys at the front door.

── .✦

It had been just over a week since that first night back—since the floodgates had opened. The days blurred together now in a soft, steady rhythm. Every evening, the sun dipped low over the Daltons’ quiet street, and you found yourself there, ringing the doorbell with your overnight bag slung over your shoulder. Mrs. Dalton had grown warmer, more relaxed around you. You understood her now, why she left so often, why her shoulders never quite fell from that constant state of tension.

The mornings were slower. You and Mrs. Dalton had even begun grabbing coffee at the little shop a block from the house before she left for work. She never asked questions, never made you explain the way your shirt sometimes looked hastily thrown on or how you wore the same dazed smile every morning. Maybe she didn’t want the details. Maybe she already knew with the way the energy around the house had completely shifted.

But tonight, something was different.

Oliver was already in his pajamas when you arrived, swinging his legs off the couch and grinning ear to ear.

“Guess what!” he chirped, bouncing up to meet you at the door. You smiled, setting the bag down and slipping off your shoes. “What’s up, bud?”

“I made a friend at school!” he announced proudly. “A real one! Her name is Ellie, and she has a pet lizard and everything.”

Your heart bloomed with warmth. It was the first time Oliver had mentioned a friend who wasn’t invisible or feathered or from some half-imagined memory. “That’s amazing, Ollie! I’m so proud of you.”

“We’re having a playdate tomorrow! Her mom and my mom set it up. She’s gonna come over after school.” He beamed up at you with all the brightness of someone who’d waited too long for something this simple. “You’ll be here, right?”

You nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Oliver hesitated then, tugging at the edge of his pajama top. Something in his expression changed—less excitement, more careful consideration.

“I think… I think I want you to keep Jack,” he said softly.

You blinked, crouching down to be eye-level with him. “What do you mean?”

“I think he likes you better,” Oliver said plainly, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “He always tells me how pretty you are. How you smell like strawberries. And he’s really, really happy when you stay. He used to be sad all the time. But not anymore.”

A small, fluttering ache pressed against your ribs. “Ollie… Jack’s your friend.”

“He is,” Oliver said, with a tiny, knowing smile. “But now he’s yours too. So you gotta take care of him.” He wrapped his little arms around your neck then, tight and firm the way kids do when they want to say something big without using words.

You held him close, whispering, “I’ll take good care of him. Promise.”

Later that night, after brushing Oliver’s teeth and reading through the last pages of Where the Wild Things Are for the fourth time that week, you tucked him in, kissed his forehead, and switched off the light. The house was quiet when you padded into the living room, curling up on the couch with a blanket drawn over your legs. You waited, like you always did now—breath slow, heart expectant.

The air stirred. And then, gentle as a whisper, black claws slithered around your shoulders, a familiar heat blooming against your back.

Jack’s claws slipped around your shoulders with slow, deliberate weight, his touch always somewhere between possessive and reverent. You let him pull you back against the solid press of his chest, feeling the faint ruffle of feathers brush your cheek as his breath ghosted along your ear.

“You heard him, didn’t you?” you murmured quietly, not needing to look. “Oliver… he said I should take care of you now.”

Jack didn’t answer at first. Just held you a little tighter. His long legs coiled beside yours as he crouched on the back of the couch, half-lurking, half-nesting.

“I heard,” he said at last, his voice lower than usual. “But I’ll still watch over him. Always. Even if I’m… with you now.”

You tilted your head back to rest against his collar, smiling softly. “You’re not gonna sneak around in my closet, are you?”

Jack snorted, the sound bubbling out of him like a hiccupy laugh. “Your closet’s much bigger than Ollie’s. I’d have space to stretch out… but it smells like laundry detergent and dryer sheets. Not strawberries.”

You smacked his arm lightly, and he giggled, his limbs shifting around you like a jungle gym. “Maybe I like the closet,” he said dramatically. “But I think I’d rather sleep in your bed.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Oh, would you now?”

Jack leaned closer, feathered collar tickling your jaw as he pressed the side of his face to yours. “Mhm. I like it when you get all squishy and warm and sigh real soft. I like your hair.”

You groaned, laughing despite yourself. “You’re so weird.”

“I’m yours,” he replied easily, chin now resting on your shoulder as his arms draped fully around your waist. “That’s what Ollie said. And I love being yours.”

A warm ache bloomed in your chest as he stepped over the back of the couch and sat next to you, pulling you into his lap like a ragdoll, curling himself around you like a giant predatory housecat. His weight settled, limbs folding over yours, as if making a cocoon.

The quiet stretched, and you leaned into him, no longer startled by his touch, by his presence—by what he was.

“You’re really staying with me?” you asked, voice hushed.

Jack made a low hum in his throat, his clawed fingers tracing idle shapes into the fabric of your sleeve. “Only if I get to sleep in your bed.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled as your head rested against his chest, the rhythmic thrum of something not-quite-human but not entirely monstrous beating beneath your ear. Outside, the world was turning slowly toward morning. Inside, the couch creaked beneath two bodies tangled together, something real and strange and maybe a little bit of magic settling in.

Or maybe it’s just your imagination.

This was a request from @valinpariss!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[goonforgeto]

push to pass

f1 driver!nanami x perfumer!reader

SYNOPSIS — It’s your big break: a private commission from a high-profile client brings you and your small-town French perfumery to gorgeous Monaco in the middle of July, where you’ve just begun setting up your first standalone boutique. But between construction delays, holiday crowds, and the chaos of Grand Prix weekend, peace is hard to come by. And when a handsome stranger stumbles into your unfinished shop—seeking shelter from the paparazzi and asking for a chance to see you again—your careful plans start to unravel in ways you never expected.

CONTENT — mdni, age gap (nanami is 31, reader is 23), takes place in the 1950s, inaccurate f1 history/general history inaccuracies, i cannot stop talking about f1 im sorry, hotel lobby reference wink wink, loss of virginity, nanami has a HUGE dick, semi public sex, public making out, thigh riding, fingering, oral (f! receiving), cum eating, creampie, unprotected piv sex, floor sex, biting/licking, strangers to lovers, mentions of a character death, fast paced romance, angst, happy ending

a/n: this fic is for @lily-bisque’s summer bash collab! thank you sooo much guys for like over 800 notes on part 1, ive never gotten that much on something that isnt an smau and im soooo grateful for every tiny like or reblog ily guys!

push to pass | masterlist | divider | part 1

July, 1956

“Welcome, madame,” your boutique manager greets, her accent prominent, eyes bright as you drop your travel-worn bags into the back of the perfumery.

You exhale as the cool, familiar scent of rose oil and bergamot washes over you, soothing the ache of the early train ride from Grasse. 

“Thank you, Colette,” you murmur, undoing the buttons of your linen coat. “How’s the stock looking?”

“Ready. Nervous,” she adds with a little smile, “but ready.”

It’s been almost a year since you opened the Monaco boutique. Though you still spend most of your time in Grasse, where your creations come to life, the boutique on the Riviera has become something of a symbol.

And timing, especially this weekend, is everything.

Outside, the city is already humming with Grand Prix tension. You can feel it in the air, thick with heat and engine smoke, the streets narrowing with barricades and velvet ropes. It’s not even noon and there are already men in suits drinking champagne on balconies and women in silks parading down the promenade like it’s a runway. The kind of crowd that lives for spectacle. The kind of crowd that will wander into your boutique curious, and leave with something expensive in their purse.

If you play it right.

The little bell above the door jingles as Colette unlocks it for the day, the gold-painted letters on the window catching the light.

What once was a dream is now pressed into reality: scent cards, silk ribbons, etched bottles, and the signature line—the very one that started it all. The perfume you made that week last year. The one that still clings to a memory you never quite shook.

You run your fingers over the familiar bottle, the lavender still present, faint and steady.

“Do you think it’ll be as crowded as last year?” Colette asks.

You nod, distracted. “Probably more.”

“I know it’ll be busy,” Colette says as she lines up the scent blotters near the cash desk, glancing sideways at you, “but do you think I could have a little time off this Sunday?”

You lift your head from the inventory sheet. “Sunday? What for?”

She hesitates—just long enough to seem guilty. “I was hoping to get an autograph.”

You arch a brow. “From?”

“Kento Nanami,” she says quickly, like she’s been holding it in all morning. “He’s doing a signing. Just a short one near the paddock entrance. Can you believe it? He never talks to the press, never does fan events—but this weekend, he’s actually showing up.”

You blink, caught off guard, the name punching through you with more force than you’d like to admit.

“He is?” you manage, keeping your tone even.

She nods, warming to her excitement now. “It’s all over the radio. Apparently his team asked him to do more public appearances this season. And now that he’s top of the standings again, people are calling it his golden year. Everyone’s dying to see him. Especially if the rumors about him retiring are true.”

Your eyes drop back to the sheet in front of you, though the numbers have already blurred into nonsense.

“I don’t mind if it’s just a few hours,” Colette continues gently. “I’ve never seen him in person.”

A beat passes. You nod. “Go ahead. Just coordinate with Léon so someone’s on the floor.”

She smiles, grateful and a little giddy. “Thank you, madame.”

But you barely hear her.

You slip out the back door just after noon, the boutique humming with low conversation and the occasional jingle of the entry bell. Colette’s handling the front just fine, and the deliveries are all accounted for.

You figure you’ve earned ten minutes and a cigarette.

The alley behind the boutique is shaded and narrow, still damp from last night’s wash of summer rain. You lean against the wall, one foot crossed over the other, and strike a match with the easy rhythm of someone who’s done this a thousand times before.

The first drag hits slow and warm.

You’re halfway through when a sharp crash—glass on tile—rings out from inside.

Then a muffled scream.

Your heart skips. You toss the cigarette, crush it underfoot, and shove open the back door in one quick motion.

The scent hits you first—something floral and heady, familiar—mixed with the sharp, unmistakable note of spilled perfume.

Colette stands behind the counter, eyes wide, hand over her chest like she’s trying to calm a racing heart. A shattered bottle lies on the floor near the display tray.

She doesn’t look hurt. Just stunned.

“I—” she starts, breathless. “I guess I can work Sunday after all.”

You follow her gaze.

And then you see him.

Nanami stands just inside the boutique, tall frame slightly hunched like he’s aware of the space he’s taking up, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other holding a bouquet.

Roses, white this time, with sprigs of lilac tucked between the blooms.

Your breath catches, somewhere between disbelief and something you can’t name.

He looks the same. A little older, maybe. A little more tired around the eyes. But still—him.

Colette clears her throat and turns to busy herself in the back, clearly trying not to stare.

Nanami steps forward, expression unreadable.

“Sorry about the bottle,” he says softly, voice like gravel warmed in the sun. “I didn’t mean to startle her.”

You’re still staring.

“Can I help you?” Colette asks, her tone polite but far too curious, already sauntering over like she’s hosting a royal guest.

You step in quickly, intercepting her with a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I got it,” you say lightly. “Go to the back and sort the new shipment.”

Colette blinks, just once, and then a slow grin creeps across her lips. She leans in close enough to whisper, “You know him!”

You lift an eyebrow. “You’ll still get your autograph, don’t worry.”

She exhales a dreamy little sigh, and disappears into the back room without further protest—though you know she’s going to eavesdrop shamelessly through the door.

The moment it clicks shut behind her, the boutique feels quieter. 

Nanami still hasn’t moved. His fingers are tight around the bouquet, knuckles paling just a little.

“I didn’t mean to drop in unannounced,” he says, eyes flicking over your face, as if checking to see whether he’s crossed a line.

You step closer, slow. “No appointment?” you tease. “You must be important.”

His smile is faint, but real. “I was hoping you’d still be here.”

You glance down at the flowers, then back at him. “It’s been a year, Kento.”

“I know.” A pause. “But I never stopped thinking about you.”

“Are you here to buy perfume?” you ask, folding your arms gently across your chest. It’s meant to sound teasing, detached—but your voice betrays you just a little.

“No,” he says simply.

Then, after a beat, “But if that’s what it takes for you to talk to me, I’ll get something.”

Your mouth twitches—almost a smile. The same steady, self-deprecating calm he’d had back then, folded neatly between his words.

“You don’t need to bribe me, Nanami.”

“I wasn’t sure,” he says, eyes earnest. “I didn’t know if I’d be welcome.”

You ignore him, ensuring he doesn’t feel too welcome. 

“We don’t really sell cologne,” you say, stepping around the counter, your fingertips grazing the edge as you move. “But we have some unisex fragrances in our signature collection. Toward the back.”

Nanami follows you, quiet as ever, the low sound of his footsteps syncing with the soft hum of the boutique. You stop at the display case—hand-cut glass, brass detailing still warm from the morning sun—and lift the lid.

He leans slightly forward, scanning the row of crystal bottles, each labeled with delicate script.

His hand hesitates over one, then closes around it gently.

You glance at the name etched in gold: Final Lap.

Your heart gives a small, almost imperceptible lurch.

He turns the bottle in his hand, brows slightly furrowed. “This one.”

It’s not a question.

You swallow. “That’s… our bestseller.”

He uncaps it, bringing it to his wrist, and breathes it in—slow and quiet, eyes closing just for a second.

“I didn’t know you kept it,” he says.

You try to laugh, but it comes out soft. “I renamed it. It didn’t feel finished until after you left.”

He meets your gaze. “You made it after that night.”

You nod. “You picked the last note, remember?”

A flicker of warmth passes through his expression, something just shy of wonder.

“It smells like you,” you add, gently. 

His smile is slow—small, but certain.

“Then I’ll take it,” he says.

“Then I’ll take it,” he says, setting the bottle down with a kind of finality that makes your heart stir.

You begin to ring him up, fingers moving automatically over the till, though your thoughts are elsewhere—on him, on the weight of a year spent wondering, on the ache that never quite settled.

“Why’re you here, Kento,” you ask quietly, not looking up.

He doesn’t hesitate. “You,” he says.

Your hands still.

“I tried to respect your wishes and leave,” he continues, voice low and even. “I thought maybe the space would help. That time would dull it. That you’d forget me, and I’d forget you.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes.

“But I didn’t,” he says. “Not for a second. There’s just something about you. About that week. About how I felt when I was near you, like maybe the rest of it didn’t matter.”

You swallow, the click of the register drawer the only sound between you.

“Do you really think this could work?” you ask, softly.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I know I want to try.”

You hand him the bottle, fingers brushing his. He holds your gaze like he’s anchoring himself to it.

“My contract expires after next season,” he says, voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m not planning on renewing it… and I know I’ll be lonely once this is all over.”

His eyes flick away, like he can’t bear to look at you when he says the next part.

“So, please. Just give this one chance.”

You don’t answer right away. The silence stretches. The boutique feels still, suspended between past and present, between memory and something that might still be possible.

He exhales. “This is embarrassing,” he says, shaking his head faintly. “I’m sorry. You must have found someone by now. I apologize—”

“Stop,” you interrupt, your voice catching. “There’s no one else.”

He looks at you.

“There never has been,” you say, more softly now. “It’s only been you.”

The words hang in the air, bare and unguarded, like they’ve been waiting a year to be spoken.

His shoulders drop with quiet relief, the kind that feels almost like surrender.

You step around the counter slowly, like you’re not entirely sure if the moment will hold—but it does. He doesn’t move as you reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You cave all at once—like something inside you finally gives way.

Your arms wrap around his neck, the movement sudden, a little desperate. The bouquet tumbles from his hands to the floor, forgotten, petals scattering across the tile as he pulls you in by the waist, his grip firm, grounding.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your face buried against the curve of his neck. “I was so rude to you last year. You must have felt so… used.”

“No, sweetheart,” he says, low and soft against your ear. “It’s okay.”

“It’s really not,” you breathe, pulling back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down to rest against his chest. “I was just scared. I didn’t know you that well, and I push people away because I’m scared they’ll treat me like my father did.”

His expression doesn’t change, but his arms tighten—just a fraction.

“I spent every day over the past year regretting not saying yes to you,” you whisper. “Every single day, Kento.”

He studies you for a moment—eyes steady, jaw tight with the ache of something he’s been carrying just as long.

Then, gently, like he’s afraid you might disappear again, he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Then let’s stop wasting time,” he says. “Let me try. Just let me love you the way I’ve wanted to from the beginning.”

You take a small step back, not in retreat, not in fear, but in the kind of pause that comes when something is too big, too important, to meet without breath.

Nanami doesn’t move forward. He lets you have the space. His gaze stays steady on yours, open and unflinching.

“It’ll be hard, I know,” he says. “But I don’t want to regret this—the way I regretted not being there for Yu.”

The mention of his name lands with a quiet weight. You’ve heard it before, once, whispered over dinner when he thought you weren’t really asking. Now it sits between you, a truth he no longer hides.

“I have no intentions of hurting you,” he says, voice firmer now. “Not ever.”

You blink, the lump in your throat pressing up against your silence.

“I know I can’t promise we won’t fight. Or that it won’t be messy, or lonely sometimes,” he adds. “But I can promise I’ll show up. I’ll call. I’ll write. I’ll make the effort, even when it’s hard. You deserve that.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, overwhelmed—not by doubt, but by how simple he makes it sound. Like the love you’ve always been afraid to ask for isn’t impossible after all.

“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” you say quietly.

“Then don’t be,” he answers, stepping forward now, slow, deliberate. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And when you let him gather you into his arms again, it feels different this time.

“Okay,” you say, the word soft but certain.

His brows lift, just slightly. “Okay?”

You nod, a faint smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. “Okay, we can give this a shot.”

For a second, he just looks at you—as if he’s making sure he heard you right, that he hasn’t imagined it. Then something unspools in his shoulders, something long-held and heavy, and his hand finds yours again like it always belonged there.

He leans in and kisses you—slowly, respectfully, like he’s savoring the moment as much as he’s asking permission all over again.

You kiss him back with no hesitation.

AUGUST 12, 1956

“NANAMI SPOTTED WITH LIPSTICK SMEARS AND A SMILE — WHO’S THE MYSTERY WOMAN?”Crowd-favorite keeps quiet after being photographed post-GP in Germany. Fans speculate romance.

OCTOBER 21, 1956

“NANAMI TAKES THE TITLE — REDEEMS LAST YEAR’S LOSS IN STUNNING FINAL LAP.” Victory at the Italian Grand Prix secured his fourth world championship title.

MARCH 5, 1957

“KENTO NANAMI BREAKS SILENCE ON BEST FRIEND’S DEATH — ‘THIS CAREER WAS NEVER JUST MINE.’” In a rare interview, the four-time champion reveals the truth behind his racing origins.

JULY 14, 1957

“THE MYSTERY WOMAN RETURNS — NANAMI’S COMPANION SPOTTED AT BRITISH GP.” Identity remains unknown, but sources confirm she traveled with the team to Silverstone.

OCTOBER 6, 1957

“‘IT’S TIME.’ — KENTO NANAMI ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT FROM FORMULA ONE.” Four-time world champion says goodbye to racing, announces plans to move to southern France.

MAY 18, 1958

“FORMER MASERATI DRIVER KENTO NANAMI MARRIED IN MONACO.” Weds longtime partner in private ceremony. Sources confirm he will join her perfumery business in Grasse.

taglist: @bluukive @callme-naomi @seellove @southrasiansandas @roresgf @bxnfire @seokjinfairy @araveticazx @mylilsodapop @nanasrambelingsons @dilfkentolover @papoiyu @hannibuttered @cherryredkissez @tqrxi @angelkiyo @caffine-exe @meikstv @crustyaintdusty @thegriffinbird @blueemochii @xombied @salmonroebonitoflakes @casssiesthings @homeslices

[docrobinavitch]

force of nature, pull of gravity | part three

dr. robby x f!attending!reader force of nature masterlist masterlist content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, the entirety of this fic navigates grief in depth, death of mentor (adamson), death of child/family member, suicidal ideation, swearing, canon medical events, alcohol, smoking (marijuana), mentions of drug use, angst words: 10.7K synopsis: robby and reader put their issues aside as they navigate pittfest, but they're never very far. as things begin to taper off, they discuss the future a/n: hooo baby welcome to the third and final part of force of nature. this one almost killed me. i hope you love it. please note that i fucked with the canon timeline heavily. as promised, we leave off on a happy and hopeful note i think! anyway, please come yap to me about all your thoughts about them i would love nothing more. i'll still be thinking about them for quite a while. <3 syd

It didn’t feel like any of it was real. It had felt like that for about six months now, since March, when everything shut down. Except, of course, the hospital.

You don’t remember everything, it only came in snapshots. Like a damaged film reel, it played in and out, the blanks filled with static. Your therapist explained that not being able to remember was your brain’s way of protecting you. Without your permission, your mind had filed things all the way in the back, in a safe you didn’t have the key to. You alternated between being grateful and being angry. After all, those were your last few months with Adamson. You both wanted to remember everything and desperately wanted to forget.

What you remember most about that period of time, the worst of it, before the rollout of the vaccines, were the feelings. The anger, the fear, the grief. But mostly, the loneliness of it.

You were with people all day long, but not really. Masks and goggles and hazmat suits and gloves keeping enough distance between everyone. A touch on the shoulder that didn’t reach skin. A squeeze of the wrist but no warmth from a pulse. You couldn’t tell when someone was smiling or not. It was as if someone had wrapped the world in wool, muffling everyone from everything that made you human. 

The first time you got sick and the test lit up positive for Covid, it felt like a moral failure of some kind. 

You spent the next couple of weeks secluded to your apartment, at the mercy of your own hypervigilance, constantly checking your pulse ox and heart rate and fever. Anything that might indicate you were worsening. 

But you were fine, in the end. It stayed relatively tame for you. Which made everything feel so much worse when you watched Dr. Adamson deteriorate just a month later.

“He’s gonna be fine.” You and Robby would repeat back and forth to one another almost every hour after he had been admitted for having difficulty breathing.

But then the treatment wasn’t working, he was getting worse. Robby had to put him on ECMO. And you and Robby stopped talking. Stopped seeking each other out for reassurance because it was obvious what was happening and neither of you could say it aloud.

You regretted that most, now. That you had let him stop talking to you.

Today seemed determined to drag all of those feelings back to the surface for you. Especially the feeling like none of it was quite happening. You were worried you might fully untether from your body in the face of this fucking mass casualty. You had no idea what you were going to do now, now that you had kissed Robby in the ambulance bay. Now that he had finally admitted that he was in love with you. Your head was spinning. 

But there wasn’t time for you to spin out, because now they were preparing for an MCI. And Jake was there and not answering his phone. And Robby had that look on his face, like he did when the EMTs rolled Adamson into the Pitt four years ago. Like he was absolutely terrified, but his brain was already skipping past that feeling to find a solution. 

It was this look that terrified you because it usually meant he thought he was the only one capable of finding that solution and he would block everyone else out to get that result.

“Hey,” You caught his wrist in your hand as you walked back into the ER, instinctually ran your thumb over the tattoo there. You could feel his pulse racing under your touch. He paused, looking down at your hand and then back up, meeting your eyes, “I’m here.” 

You said, just as a reminder. Despite whatever trainwreck had just occurred between the two of you, you needed him to know he could lean on you right now in whatever capacity he needed to get through this.

He nodded, “Yeah,” He grabbed your hand and squeezed it lightly, “Yeah, me too.”

When Abbot walked into the ER, immediately, you were relieved at the sight of him. The tightness in your chest eased when he squeezed your shoulder. The both of you listened as Robby gave his speech to the staff about what was happening and what was about to happen, jumping in if either of you thought it was necessary.

“You and Robby doing okay?” Jack asked quietly.

You turned to look at him and shook your head, “I don’t know.” You swallowed, “And I guess since I’ve told him, I should tell you as well, that I… accepted a job offer at Presby.”

He stared at you for a moment, “What a fucking day.” He shook his head, arms crossed over his chest, “Alright. We’ll talk about that later.”

You stuffed some eleven blades in your pockets after Robby handed you the Primary Triage MD vest. “You know the drill?” He asked, handing you the belt with all the different color wrist bands.

You nodded, taking the belt from him and strapping it around your waist, “Assess based on mental status and pulse strength. Mental status, AVPU, alert, response to verbal, response to pain, unresponsive. Pulse next, radial, femoral, carotid.”

You weren’t new at this, but repeating the textbook instructions back to him soothed your nerves. The adrenaline rush whenever you knew a bunch of traumas were headed your way. 

“Excellent,” He said and managed the smallest of smiles. And for a second, it felt like he was a senior resident again and you an intern. Before everything got complicated. “I’ll help you get started.”

You followed him out to the ambulance bay and almost immediately, a car pulled up with gunshot victims. You and Robby don’t need to speak to each other as you spend those ten seconds per patient, this is where the two of you had always worked best, side by side on patients. It’s the one place you trusted each other implicitly, where there was no gray area between you.

After getting three patients triaged and moved inside in about thirty seconds, the two of you shared a smirk and a high five, Robby wrapping his hand around yours and keeping it there.

“Bet they can’t triage that fast at Presby.” He said softly, hitting you fully with his big, woeful brown eyes.

You scowled at him and pulled your hand from his, “Don’t look at me with that face.”

“What face?”

You gesticulated towards his face with your hands, frustration clear in every movement, “Your fucking kicked puppy face.”

He titled his head, frowning, but there was a hint of amusement in his expression, “This is just my face.”

“Well it’s fucked up.” You said, looking away and towards the road, waiting for more incoming.

“My face is fucked up?” Yeah, that was definitely amusement in his voice.

You sighed, “You should go inside, they need you in there. Send out Shen to help me.” You felt his stare on you, hot and heavy, “I’ll come get you if I see Jake.”

He watched you for a moment longer before you heard him leave, the ambulance bay doors sliding open and closed.

His absence had your pulse racing again until all you could hear was the pounding of blood in your ears and the slow crescendo of the approaching sirens.

***

Robby was out to dinner with Janey when his phone rang. As he fished it out of his pocket, Janey sighed, and he knew whether or not he answered it he had already lost.

He and Janey had been together a year and a half when your niece drowned. At first, Janey was gracious whenever Robby had to cancel plans or came home later than usual because you were having a hard time. But as the weeks and months passed she became less and less forgiving.

Robby couldn’t really blame her. He knew he was being an awful partner, putting the needs of his friend above his girlfriend. He tried asking Jack to keep an eye on you instead occasionally, but Jack himself admitted he couldn’t quite get through to you the way Robby could. And lately your behavior had grown more erratic and unpredictable to the point where Adamson had forced you into another leave of absence. 

The conversation between the two of you had been muffled through the family room door, but Robby had still gotten the gist of it. You were snapping at patients, often putting yourself in unsafe situations on purpose. It was obvious you wanted to physically endanger yourself and Adamson wouldn’t tolerate it in his ER. He told you to take your leave and get help while you were out. You wouldn’t be welcomed back until you got a handle on both your behavior and your grief. You had stormed out of the ER, tears of frustration rushing down your cheeks.

That was three days ago and Robby hadn’t heard from you since. At first, he thought it might have been best to give you space, but then he really started to worry. And now his phone was ringing and it was an unknown number.

He gave Janey an apologetic look, but she waved him off, and he was already out of his seat to pick up the call.

“Is this Dr. Robby?”

He rubbed at his beard anxiously with his free hand, “Speaking.”

“Hi, darling, sorry to bother you. It’s Mrs. Carpenter from 57B.” 

Your neighbor. He had forgotten he had given her his number the last time he was at your apartment, in case of emergency.

 “I haven’t seen her in a few days, but the last few hours she’s been blasting that Fleetwood Mac album and she won’t answer her door. I can handle the noise,” She said quickly as he tried to interrupt to apologize, “but I’m starting to get worried about her and I know you have a key.”

Already, he was nodding, “Yeah, of course. I’ll be right over.”

Hanging up, he sighed and ran a hand over his face. He really, really, shouldn’t be running at the drop of a hat to your apartment. Not when he knew it was going to upset Janey.  

But even as he thought it, that he should stay with Janey, he could see the faraway look in your eyes you’d had for months now. The nails chewed to the quick, cracked and bleeding. The bruises beneath your eyes because of the constant nightmares. 

He heard the arguments he and Janey had had about you over the last few months. Her saying you weren’t his responsibility. But it didn’t feel like that. Hadn’t felt that way since your first day of residency when he cleaned up the cut on your forehead. When he said he would make sure you got through the day and you had looked at him like no one had ever offered you help before.

He did feel like you were his responsibility, and if you slipped through the cracks now, he wasn’t sure he could live with that.

Robby hadn’t even opened his mouth to explain to Janey that he had to go when she was already shaking her head in frustration, “She’s not a child, Michael, she’s a grown woman–”

“She’s going through some shit right now–”

“Everybody’s going through some shit!” She scoffed, “Look, I… I understand that she’s your friend, that you’ve been friends a long time. And I love that you’re such a supportive, giving friend. But I–I’m sorry, I can’t keep being your second choice.”

Robby looked at her sadly, “You’re not my second choice.” He insisted.

She tilted her head slightly, “If you walk out to go to her right now, I’m sorry, but we’re done.”

He sighed and dropped his head, rubbing a hand down to the back of his neck, “Can’t we talk about this later?”

“No,” She said softly, “I’m tired of talking in circles with you. It’s time for you to make a choice. And I think we both know what choice you’re going to make.”

He looked back up at her. He wanted to be angry with her for giving him an ultimatum, but the truth was, they both knew it wasn’t a choice to him. He didn’t know how to choose anyone who wasn’t you. He could no longer imagine his life without you in it.

He sighed, “Janey, I don’t… I don’t want to end it like this.”

“Then don’t.”

He looked down at his phone and then back up to Janey, “I have to go check on her.” He said softly.

Janey nodded, like she had been expecting that answer, “So go, Michael.”

“I’m sorry.” He said, and he meant it. He didn’t want to hurt Janey, but you needed him. 

So he showed up at your apartment that night, banging on your door and calling your name for minutes. No answer, and you were blasting Rumours very loudly. Eventually, he called out that he was letting himself in and used the copy of the key you had given him to open the door.

The apartment was a mess. Clothes strewn haphazardly, empty takeout containers stacked on top of one another on most surfaces. A coat was draped over the record player which Robby moved so he could turn off the music.

You were nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t like you to leave your apartment in such disarray. You liked order, control. He had never known you to leave a dirty dish lying around. It was unheard of for a coat to not be on a hook or clothes left outside their proper spot in your drawer or closet. It scared the shit out of him to see it like this, it felt like a very blatant projection of your current mental health.

With the music off, he called out your name again, but still no response. However, he heard the shower running and followed the sound to the bathroom.

He knocked a few times, but there was no response and he started to panic. When he jiggled the doorknob, he expected it to be locked, but it was open and he pushed it ajar. He was prepared to find the worst, but you were fine, physically anyway.

The shower was running, but you weren’t in it. Fully clothed, you stood on the toilet, head out the open window, a lit joint between your fingers.

You turned to look at him and your eyes were bloodshot, from the drugs, or from crying, he couldn’t tell. For a second, he felt relief, but then he was annoyed. He had left Janey, ended things with her for good, for fear something was really wrong and you were just fucking getting high.

“Is there a reason you won’t answer your fucking phone?” He asked gruffly.

You took a drag from your joint, and watched him as you held the smoke in your lungs, before slowly exhaling in his face, “It’s in the other room, why the fuck are you here?”

He scoffed, “Because I’m an idiot, I guess.” He shook his head, “Mrs. Carpenter said she had been knocking on your door for a while and you weren’t answering, I thought–I don’t know, no one had heard from you in a while.”

“Well,” You jumped off the toilet, “I’m alive, as you can see, so you can go.”

He plucked the joint out of your hand, “Where did you get this?”

You made to grab the joint back from him, but he held it out of your reach and you scowled, “I bought it off Marcus, the guy who lives at the end of the hall. Now would you stop killing my peace?”

“Is that all you bought from him?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. You were pretty high and had also drunk a whole bottle of wine earlier, so you weren’t positive, but you thought you knew what he was implying, “Are you… are you asking… if I bought pills?”

He stared at you silently, jaw clenched.

“Is this a fucking joke? You’re joking?” Still, he said nothing. You scoffed, “Robby, I’d never do that. You know that.”

He shook his head, “I don’t know that. You’re scaring the hell out of me,” His voice broke, “I thought when I walked in here I was gonna find your body.”

You sighed, “You’re being very dramatic.”

“Am I?” He bent his head to meet your eyes, “Can you tell me honestly that you haven’t thought about it?”

You couldn’t. Since your niece had passed you had been in a sort of fugue state and when you weren’t fully dissociated, you wondered what the point was of anything. What was the point of being an emergency medicine doctor if you couldn’t save your goddaughter? And if you weren’t an emergency medicine doctor, who were you? You had allowed your career to dictate your entire adult life so far and all you knew was being good at medicine.

But maybe you weren’t very good at medicine at all, because when it mattered most you failed.

So, yeah. You had thought about buying the drugs. You had thought about going up to the roof and not coming back down. You had thought about getting in your car and heading for the ocean. But you were still here.

You broke Robby’s stare and stepped around him, turning off the shower and walking to your kitchen. You grabbed two glasses from the top shelf and a bottle of bourbon, poured each of you a generous glass and pushed one towards Robby.

He shook his head, “I don’t want any. I want you to talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say?” You asked softly, too exhausted to fight.

Every line of his face was etched with desperation as he looked at you and shook his head slightly, “That you’ll stop punishing yourself like this,” He gestured to the alcohol, to the disaster that was your apartment, “You can’t keep going like this, it’s unsustainable. You need help. You need to figure out how to forgive yourself.”

You swirled the amber liquid around your glass, “I don’t know that I can.” 

He took the glass from your hand and pushed it away, taking your hands in his instead, “Look at me,” He said softly and your bloodshot eyes trailed up to his. His thumb made gentle circles on the back of your hand, “You can,” He said slowly, “But you have to want it. For you.”

You weren’t sure you did want it. You didn’t think you deserved to want it. But even through your drug and alcohol induced haze, you could see Robby was scared and desperate. Seemingly, at the prospect of losing you. Maybe you’d want it for yourself one day. Right now, you just wanted him to stop looking at you like that.

“Okay.” You said softly.

“You mean that?”

You nodded, “I mean it.”

He pulled you into a hug, sighing in relief as he rested his head on top of yours, “Tomorrow, we’re going to find you a psychologist. Tonight, I’m going to clean up your apartment and make you something to eat, okay? Why don’t you go lie down?”

You pulled back to look up at him, “Really? You’re going to make me something to eat?”

He smirked, “What, you think I can’t do it?”

You shrugged, “I am intrigued at the prospect, but my expectations are very low.”

He laughed and released you from his arms, “Well, we’ll see. We can always order takeout if I fuck it up.”

He burned a sauce so badly you had to throw the whole pan away, apologizing to your neighbors for the smoke alarm. Robby’s face was beet red with embarrassment as he apologized to you over and over, but you laughed so hard you snorted. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed like that.

He stayed the night and you fell asleep on the couch. When you woke up, the Sun was just beginning to peek through the blinds. A blanket was draped over you and Robby was asleep on the other end of the couch. It was the first time you hadn’t been woken abruptly by a nightmare in as long as you could remember.

***

When you heard Jake’s voice coming from the back of a pickup truck, you sprinted immediately to him, “Jake?”

There was so, so much blood all over him you thought your knees might give out at the sight of it. 

“It’s not mine,” He said, tears streaming down his face, “It’s Leah’s. She was shot in the chest. I–I’ve been putting pressure on it, but there’s so much–”

“No, that’s– That’s good, bud, you did good.” You leaned over his girlfriend who laid unconscious in his lap and searched for a pulse, found the barest flutter of one at her carotid.

It didn’t look good. In fact, you thought her heart would probably stop within the next minute or so. There was too much blood, the bullet looked like it maybe had gone right through her heart.

“She’s gonna be okay, right?” Jake asked, voice breaking.

You took a deep breath, “Are you hurt?”

“I–I don’t know, maybe my leg?” 

Quickly, you put a red wristband on Leah and a yellow on Jake and started taking off your bright orange vest that indicated you were Primary Triage MD, “John!” You shouted, and almost immediately, Dr. Shen was beside you, “You take over as Primary Triage, I’m bringing these two in. You good?”

“Yeah,” He said, strapping the belt of wristbands around his waist, “Yeah, I got it.”

Nurses helped you get Leah on a gurney, you shouted at someone to put Jake in a wheelchair and bring him in, ignored his frantic shouts to come with you. You didn’t have time. You hated leaving him like this, in distress, but Leah was likely seconds away from no longer being able to be resuscitated. 

“Robby!” You called out as nurses were already opening an intubation kit. You heard Robby behind you before you saw him, too focused on securing Leah’s airway, “This is Jake’s girlfriend, Leah. Jake’s fine, I think he might have been shot in the leg.”

“Okay,” Robby said, and you could hear in his voice the worry warring with what he was seeing in front of him, “Okay, you go take care of Jake, I’ll take Leah.”

You had finished the intubation and another nurse had climbed on the gurney to begin CPR. They had lost her pulse, “I… I don’t think she’s gonna make it.” You said softly to Robby, voice wavering slightly.

“Let me worry about that.”

You glanced at him and recognized immediately the tunnel vision he was having. This was the problem he was determined to solve and you worried it was not solvable, “Robby–”

“Jake.” He said shortly, “Go. I’ll call you if I need you.”

You did not like this. You did not like it one bit. But you backed away, turning your attention to the rest of central that was a flurry of activity and zeroed in on Jack, “Could you keep an eye on Robby?” You asked as you passed him, “He’s working on Jake’s girlfriend who I think had a bullet tear through her heart. He has that goddamn savior complex chip on his shoulder today and I’m worried it might break him when she doesn’t make it.”

“Yeah, I got him,” Jack said, looking up briefly to spot Robby, “Jake–?”

“He’s fine,” You said quickly, “I’m gonna go patch him up now, I think he just took some bullet fragments to the leg.”

Jack nodded and bumped his fist to yours, “I’ll shout if I need you.”

You smirked, it was nice to be working with Jack again. It had only been a few shifts, but you missed the banter and the the way the two of you had worked so seamlessly together, “Same here.” You said, and then you headed to find Jake.

***

It was a while later after you had patched Jake up and made your way back to the red zone after promising to check up on Leah. Immediately, you saw Robby, still working on Leah, hopeless faces all around him.

“Was looking for you,” Jack said, coming to your side, “He won’t let her go.”

“Fuck,” You sighed, heart sinking.

“He’s wasting resources–”

“I know,” You said quickly. You knew what he was doing, because it was what you would have done. What you had begged Robby to do years ago when your niece came in and he insisted she was gone. It was what you and Robby had done together when you put Adamson on ECMO. “I know.” You repeated, more to yourself the second time.

“He thought he had the pulse back for a few seconds, but when Emery came to check it was gone again.”

You swallowed, “Okay, thanks.” You patted him on the back before heading over to Robby, biting hard on the inside of your cheek.

“Robby,” You said softly when you were close enough. Briefly, you exchanged a look with Dana who subtly shook her head at you, “Robby, I think that’s enough.”

He looked up at you and gave you a quick shake of his head, “No, no she’s right on the edge, we can still get her back–”

“How long has she been down?”

“People have had their hearts restarted after being without a pulse for thirty or forty minutes.”

“Not when a bullet has torn through it. Not when there’s that much blood loss.” You said quietly, “I know you know she’s gone. If you’re not calling it because you don’t want to tell Jake, I can do it–”

“No,” He shook his head and sighed, “No, I–I can do it.”

You waited and watched while he did one last pulse check, voice shaking as he called time of death, marked it on her wrist chart, and covered her up. 

“How’s Jake?” He asked, turning back to you. 

Your eyes searched him, looking for new and infected wounds. You knew they were there, hiding just below his skin. Knew it like you knew your own.

“He’s fine. There was a lot of bleeding, but it was all superficial. I debrided and wrapped the wound. He’s sitting on a gurney now to keep the wounded leg elevated.” 

He nodded along as you spoke, but you weren’t sure how much he really heard beyond the fact that Jake was fine. You reached for his hand, hoping to ground him, but at the brush of your fingers he pulled away, “You should get back out to Triage.”

You frowned, “Shen’s got it–”

“No, I want a more senior attending on triage. Please.” He threw his bloodied gloves away and walked away before you could say anything else.

It was frustrating, watching him walk off like that, knowing he was teetering on the edge. Wanting to follow after him, knowing you couldn’t. He had to tell Jake himself, and then you’d be there to pick up the pieces. Like you always were.

One last time, you told yourself. Just one more, then you could let him go. You’d let him go, it was what you should do, what you needed to do. It was too late for third act love confessions, things were too broken between you. What happened in the ambulance bay didn’t change anything, but you could be there for him one last time.

“Hey,” You grabbed Dana gently by the arm as she passed you, “You’ll come get me if… If Robby seems…”

She nodded, “Yeah, of course, kid.”

You gazed off back in the direction Robby had disappeared into for one last moment before heading back to the ambulance bay.

***

Someone was knocking at the door. It pulled you from the edge of sleep back into full consciousness. You waited for a few moments as you woke, lying on your back in bed, hoping you had imagined it or he had left.

Because you knew who was at the door. You had fought with him earlier on shift. He was snapping at residents and nurses, and then he had snapped at you. 

“You need to fucking get it together. You do not speak to me or anyone else like that—“

“I don’t need another fucking lecture from you, alright? I shouldn’t have raised my voice, understood. I’m sorry, can we please move on—“

“No, Robby,” You laughed incredulously and ran a hand through your hair, “We can’t move on because you insist on staying stuck on the same fucked up carousel ride.”

He shook his head, “This isn’t about Adamson.”

“Oh, give me a break. You think I can’t see that trying to fill his shoes at the same time you’re grieving him is tearing you apart?”

“It’s not. I’m fine, I can handle it.”

You sighed and looked down at your shoes, “I can’t do this anymore. I won’t enable your self destructive behaviors, I’ve asked you over and over to see a goddamn psychologist and you don’t listen—“

“That’s because I don’t need a psychologist.”

“Then explain to me why you keep showing up to my apartment in the middle of the night fully in the throes of a panic attack?” He wouldn’t look at you, jaw clenched and staring off stubbornly in the distance, “You need professional help,” You said quietly, “And if you’re not gonna get it then I can’t keep doing… Whatever this is.” You gestured to the space between you.

He shrugged, “Fine. Are we done?”

You stared at him for a moment and then sneered, “You don’t think I mean it.”

He sighed and looked down at his feet, hands shoved deep in his pockets, “I didn’t say that.”

“Okay,” You scoffed, “Don’t show up at my door tonight.” You said and began walking away.

“Won’t be a problem.” He called after you.

But now there was someone knocking at your door. You waited, counted to thirty and back down again, but the knocking continued.

“Motherfucker,” You murmured and swung your legs over the edge of your bed, forced your feet to move to the door. You looked through the peep hole and saw Robby, head bent towards your door, fist resting against the wood.

Sighing, you unlocked the door and opened it just enough so you could see him, “What are you doing here?”

He looked up at you, eyes red rimmed and glassy, his chest heaving in and out, uneven breaths, “I’m sorry.” He choked out.

You ran a hand over your face, “I asked you not to do this.”

“I know, I know, I–I swear I’ll do whatever you need me to, I’ll call the psychologist in the morning, please.” He reached for you, his fingers settling on your hips, “Please.”

Every time he did this, every time he showed up, a wreck at your door, you remembered how he showed up for you when you didn’t want to be found. When you were intent on destroying yourself and everything around you. He had reached an unflinching hand down into the cold dark abyss of your grief and hauled you out. It wasn’t lost on you that he’d saved your life that year.

You didn’t know how you could refuse him.

You blinked away the wetness in your own eyes and pushed the door open further, lacing your fingers with his as you did. After closing and relocking the door, you led him to the couch, turning on a single lamp as you sat down, pulling him after you.

Robby immediately laid his head in your lap and you stroked his hair, his beard. Between his hyperventilating and sobs, he whispered apologies and promises into the bare skin of your thighs. It felt like a well choreographed dance at that point, your reassuring touch and his contrition. 

When his breathing slowed and quieted, you squeezed his shoulder lightly, “Let me make you some tea.” 

He sat up and trailed after you as you went to the kitchen. When you filled the kettle with water and turned it on, you braced your hands against the counter, facing away from him. It was hard to be with him like this, knowing how many times he had come here just like this, apologized and made promises he wasn’t going to keep. You were tired and worn down and still trying to come to terms with your own grief. 

He came up behind you as you waited for the water to heat and wrapped his arms around your waist. “I’m sorry,” He kept repeating, peppering kisses to your shoulders. You weren’t sure why he was still apologizing. Perhaps because he knew he was just going to do it all over again a few days from now and he was trying to get ahead of it.

He pushed the straps from your tank top down and began sucking lightly at the skin, his beard scratching against your skin in a way you were all too familiar with, that sent goosebumps down your arms.

“Robby…” You said lowly, because you knew you should stop him. You knew what came next, when you’d be powerless against his touch and his kisses, all grievances forgotten.

“Please,” He murmured against your skin, “Let me do this, let me make it better.”

You swallowed hard and then turned in his arms. You placed your hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him away, “Tea first.” You said softly, and then turned back to the kettle, waited for him to step away from you, waited for your pulse to settle with the absence of his touch.

Once the tea was steeped, you pushed his mug toward him and warmed your hands around your own. You could feel him staring at you from across the counter, but you wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Do you remember when Gemma died and I refused help for months and months until Adamson removed me from the ER?”

He was silent a moment, and then you heard him clear his throat, “Yes. Of course I remember and I know what you’re trying to do. This is different.”

You looked up at that, head tilting curiously, “Really? How so? Because Adamson isn’t here to kick you out?”

He sighed, “No, because I’m not endangering patients.”

You nodded, “Maybe not the way I was. Maybe not right now. But eventually the grief and the hurt will grow so big you won’t be able to keep it from spilling over into everything. Your family, your friends, your work. It’s inevitable.”

“I already said I would call the psychologist in the morning.”

You looked back down at your mug, “I think we both know you only said that so I’d let you in. Like you always do.”

Neither of you said anything for a while after that, until finally, Robby broke the silence, “Let’s go to bed.”

You nodded, let him lead you to the bedroom. His careful hands undressed you, pulled you into him, kissed you in the dark until your lips were raw and aching. Foreheads bent together, he pushed himself into you. The sex was so good sometimes, you allowed yourself to forget. You loved his hands, the way he touched you, the way that he gripped your hips so tightly when he was about to come it left marks like ripened plums.

For a while after, you’d feel better, his arms wrapped around you as you drifted into sleep.

But then, the morning would come and Robby would leave silently. Forget everything he had said to you the night before. And the cycle would repeat.

You didn’t know how else to reach him. Part of you thought maybe if he just loved you the way you loved him, he would've gotten better by now. It was what had gotten through to you, the thought that you were worrying him, that he was scared for you. You didn’t want him to feel like that. And eventually you realized you didn’t want to feel that way forever, either. But it had been his concern that pushed you over the edge.

It didn’t seem to affect Robby that you were upset. That you felt alone in your own grief because you were so busy trying to make sure he wouldn’t drown in his.

It made you feel like a failure. So you stopped trying to reach him. You let him in when he showed up at your place, held him and let him take you to bed and you stopped asking him to go to therapy. 

If he tried to pick a fight at work, you stopped taking the bait. You just… checked out.

It wasn’t long after that he turned his attention to Heather. 

It devastated you, but it also felt a bit freeing. You felt like it gave you permission to fully push him out and close the door, knowing there was someone on the other side of it with him. 

Perhaps it was unfair to Heather, to unknowingly burden her with that, but you could feel yourself slipping. Your therapist was starting to gently suggest that if something didn’t change, she would have to recommend an inpatient program.

So you fully disappeared from Robby’s life.

***

Robby was missing. You had come back inside as triage was starting to quiet and you thought they might need more hands inside.

You had gone to yellow to see what the new kids were up to and had walked right into Mohan giving a guy a burr hole with an IO.

You had stopped short, wide eyed as you watched, “Holy shit.” You breathed as she extracted some blood and the man began to regain consciousness.

All heads turned to you in a panic.

Mohan immediately launched into an anxious explanation, “There were no attendings, he would’ve died—“

“Samira, relax. It’s fine, it’s excellent, even. You did what you had to to save a life. Just maybe… Don’t mention this to Robby, yeah?”

She gave you a small smile, “Won’t be a problem. Nobody can seem to find him anyway.”

You frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Nobody’s seen much of him since they took Leah to pedes.”

You shook your head, “Okay, um, are you guys good over here? Nobody’s dying?”

They all looked at you blankly like a bunch of little ducklings until Samira said, “I think we’re okay, you go find Robby.”

You gave them all and their patients another once over, not entirely convinced by their silence, and then started quickly walking to pedes.

What greeted you on the other side of the pedes door stopped you short. Robby was on the floor, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks as he clutched the Magen David that hung on a chain around his throat in a shaking hand. He was murmuring something to himself in what sounded like Hebrew.

It took you a minute, but you recognized it as a prayer. You had heard him recite it only once before, shortly before he had extubated Adamson. Shema, you thought he’d called it the first time you asked. A declaration of faith. A plea for protection. 

Immediately, you turned back to the door, pulling the privacy curtain in front of the glass door.

Then, you sat on the floor next to him, said nothing, but put a hand on his leg and waited. After a moment, he turned to you and buried his face in your chest. It surprised you, the way seeing him like this seemed to have your walls springing a leak. The emotions you’d kept at bay for most of the day began to push forward.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” He said over and over into your chest, knotting his hands into your scrubs and pulling you impossibly closer.

You weren’t sure who the apologies were meant for. For Leah. For Adamson. For you. All he had wanted, you knew, was to be forgiven. He couldn’t or wouldn’t forgive himself and so needed everyone else to.

“It’s okay,” You said, voice shaking as you brought a hand up to cradle his head to your chest. You pressed a kiss to his head, “You’re okay.”

You held him like that for a couple of minutes, until his breathing settled enough, “We have to get back out there.” You said quietly.

“I don’t think I can.”

You sighed through your nose, “What happened? With Leah?”

“I told Jake,” He sniffled and pulled away from you, rubbing the tears from his face with the heels of his hands, “And he blamed me. And I know what you’ll say, that he didn’t mean it. That he loves me. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? The logic of it?” He raised his hands between the two of you, “Everything I’ve ever loved in my adult life I’ve broken with these two hands. Adamson, you, now Jake.” He lowered his hands and shook his head, “I’m done. I can’t do it anymore.”

You bit your lip as you tried to find the words, “You’re framing everything the wrong way. I know you’ve heard it a thousand times, but there was nothing else you could’ve done about Adamson. And besides, I was there too. I helped make those decisions. Do you blame me for what happened?”

He looked at you sadly, “Of course not.”

“What makes you any more culpable for what happened than me? Because it was your hands that physically extubated him? That’s silly.” 

He ran a hand over his face, “And what about you, hm? Can you say you don’t blame me for all the pain and suffering you’ve endured the last few years? More than that, even?”

Your eyes softened as you examined each line of his face, each freckle. It was true that he had been the source of a lot of hurt in your adult life, but he had also been a lifeline. 

You raised a hand to his cheek, brushed your thumb tenderly over his cheekbone, “There have been many times over the years where your friendship was the only thing standing between me and a black hole.” You swallowed thickly, “I would do it all again just for the chance to know you.”

His face threatened to crumble and he reached a shaky hand to the back of your neck, pulling you to him until your foreheads touched, “I would, too.” 

“We have to go back out there.” You said softly after a few moments.

He nodded, “Yeah. Fuck.” He pulled away and rubbed at his face.

You rose to standing and he followed suit, both of you going your separate ways outside of pedes without so much as a goodbye.

***

You nearly physically collided into Janey when you were heading to the ambulance bay to check on triage, your hands immediately reaching out to steady her, “Oh, shit–Sorry–Janey?”

She smiled tightly at you and you dropped your hands, “Hi, Y/N.” Her words were terse and sharp, but you dismissed that as just stress from the crisis that had unfolded over the last few hours, “It’s been a while.”

You nodded, “Yeah, um,” You gestured over your shoulder, “I can take you to Jake, he’s doing alright, but–”

“Could you just take me to Robby, please?”

She was avoiding making eye contact with you, which you thought was strange. Lips pressed in a firm line and shoulders tensed. It was true you hadn’t seen her since her and Robby had broken up, but you didn’t remember her being so cold to you before. 

“Uh, yeah, sure.” You swallowed, “Just wait by the hub, I’ll be right back.”

Once you brought Robby to Janey, you went behind the hub towards Dana.

“Seems like Janey still holds a grudge, huh?” Dana said, smirking at you from over her glasses.

Things had finally slowed down enough that they could catch their breath and start getting the emergency room back up and running. You cracked open a can of Diet Coke and took a sip as you turned to Dana.

You frowned at her, “Why would Janey be holding a grudge against me?”

Dana’s smirk widened, “It is so exhausting sometimes bearing the entire historical archive of this emergency room on my shoulders.”

Scowling at her, you waited, “Well?”

“Why do you think Janey and Robby broke up?”

In truth, you didn’t think much about Janey and Robby’s relationship anymore. It was one of Robby’s longer relationships and as such, you had tried to bury your feelings for him six feet under while they were together for fear that it would be the one to take him away from you for good. Besides which, Gemma had died while they were still together, and in the months that followed your memory was pretty fuzzy.

“I don’t remember,” You said slowly, “I don’t remember much from then other than my crushing existential dread.”

She looked at you sympathetically and patted your hand lightly with her own, “Maybe you do remember how Robby was with you nearly 24/7 for a while after Gemma died. Because he was worried for you.”

You shrugged, “Yeah, sure. I think 24/7 might be exaggerating, though.”

“Well, it was enough that it bothered Janey.”

You narrowed your eyes at Dana, “Are you implying that they broke up because of me?”

“Sweetheart,” Dana shook her head, “Robby made the choices he did, it wasn’t your fault. But the way he told it to me was that he was out to dinner with Janey, someone called worried about you and Robby was going to go to you, but Janey made him choose. Said she was tired of being second choice and if he left they were done. So Robby chose you.”

You blinked at her and then turned your attention to where Robby was talking to Janey, “He said that?”

“Yeah, kid.” Dana sighed, “Janey thinks she lost him to you.”

You scoffed and turned back to Dana, “Well, joke’s on her I guess, because we both lost him.”

Dana shook her head as you walked off toward another patient, watched Robby’s head turn to follow your movement as you walked by him, “I don’t know about that, kiddo.”

***

Robby was, quite literally, too close to the edge. The moon cast shadows on the roof of PTMC as he looked out over the Pittsburgh skyline. It was early enough that he could still hear the rush of the cars below and the faint call of sirens. He had just got done notifying Leah’s family and he couldn’t breathe again. All he knew was that he wanted it to stop. 

He didn’t want to tell another family he had failed to save their loved one. He was tired of having to hold the whole ER together, he wasn’t sure he could keep teaching incoming doctors when he didn’t think he deserved to keep practicing medicine himself. He wanted so badly to keep them all from making his mistakes, but the fuck of it all was that he thought that was probably inevitable. That it was a necessary evil to become a doctor.

He wanted to stop letting you down, but he thought it was too late for that. You were leaving and it was his fault. No matter what you said earlier, even if you really didn’t blame him, it was unforgivable how he’d treated you.

And a small part of him thought, as he looked over the edge, that things would be better without him. Maybe they’d make you head of the department. It was what should have happened in the first place anyway. PTMC wouldn’t lose you as a result of his failings. 

Then he heard the soft padding of your footsteps behind him, a gait he could recognize anywhere, in his sleep, in the busiest train station.

You leaned over the railing behind him and sighed, “Wish you wouldn’t stand so close.” You said quietly.

“I’ve seen you stand closer.”

You huffed a laugh, “Always a competition with us, isn’t it?”

“No,” He said, “Not anymore. I’m done.”

There’s a beat of silence, then, “That’s a scary fucking thing to say when you’re on the edge of a roof.”

“Yeah, well, it’s how I feel. Isn’t that what you’ve always asked me to do? Talk about my feelings?”

He heard you blow out a long breath, “The police found the shooter, I don’t know if you heard. It wasn’t David.” He didn’t say anything, so you continued, “Thought you’d want to know. You were right about him.”

He huffed a laugh, “Yippee.” He murmured, heavy with sarcasm, “Doesn’t fucking matter. People are still dead.”

“No one else could have gotten our department through a mass casualty like that with only six fatalities. Except maybe Adamson.” A beat of silence passed between you, “PTMC needs you. I need you.”

He heard the note of fear and desperation in your voice, “You don’t need me. You’re leaving. Because of me.”

“It’s not because of you–”

“Bullshit.”

You sighed, “I’m leaving to prove to myself that I… That I can do it on my own. Without you. I need you. I’ll probably always need you or want you in some capacity. PTMC is home to me, but only if you’re here.” You inhaled a shaky breath, “I’m leaving, just for a little while, because we’re destroying each other. And we both need to heal without the other. You’ve only ever wanted me when things were bad, when you were falling apart. You might not want me once you get your shit together.”

He turned to face you finally, leaning his forearms on the railing next to you, “I can’t imagine a time when I won’t want you. My only problem has ever been wanting you too much.”

You looked at him sadly and shook your head, “It never felt that way to me.”

He watched you carefully, noted the way the breeze blew a piece of your hair into your face. Without thinking, he reached out and gently tucked it behind your ear. His fingers lingered and then traced a path down your neck before he dropped them back to the railing. He nodded, “I know that. And I’m sorry.” He sighed, “But you’ll come back to the Pitt?”

“I hope so,” The corners of your lips tugged up slightly, “Depends on if you really mean it. About getting professional help.”

“I mean it.” He said, “Do you think…” He paused and cleared his throat, “Do you think you’ll ever want to give it a real chance? You and me?”

You swallowed and looked down at your hands, “I don’t know. It’s difficult for me to imagine being with you in a way that isn’t painful.”

He closed his eyes against the wave of hurt that sent through him. It was his own fault, he knew. He had had any number of opportunities to tell you how he really felt over the years. But he had hidden from it like a coward.

“I’m not… I’m not saying never,” You said slowly, “I love you,” You reached your hand forward, running your fingers gently along his jaw, through his beard, “And I’ll always be here whenever you need me. But I… I don’t want to put us both in another situation that’s… unsustainable.”

“I love you, too.” He covered your hand with his own, keeping it anchored to his cheek, “I understand.”

“Will you come down now?” You asked quietly and he heard the way your breath caught in your throat as you said it.

He stared at you for a few moments, committing the image of you up here with your eyes that glinted in the moonlight to memory. The way the softness of your hand felt against his skin. He wasn’t sure when he’d feel your touch again, if ever. The thought sent an ache through him.

“Yeah,” He sighed, “Let’s get out of here.”

***

Six Weeks Later

You and Robby hadn’t spoken since you left the Pitt four weeks ago. Even before that, the conversation had been sparse. You had helped get him a referral to a therapist at the same clinic as your own therapist. You knew he had been attending sessions because you occasionally ran into him to and from your own appointments. But you would mostly just nod at each other as you crossed paths. 

Now that you were gone, the day shift felt emptier. He longed to text or call you, but held back each time.

“What’s stopping you from reaching out?” His therapist had asked during a session.

Robby shrugged, “She doesn’t want me to.”

“Did she say that?”

“I–Well, no.”

His therapist had nodded and jotted down some notes, “Do you think it’s possible that the real obstacle is that you’ve always used her as a method to punish yourself and you’re just continuing the pattern of behavior by not reaching out?”

That had stunned him to silence. And he still thought about it now, a couple weeks later, as he walked around the Pitt. He saw your ghost in every corner of this place.

When he walked into the staff break room that day, Perlah and Princess had a bunch of sticky notes around them and looked up in horror when they saw who had walked in.

He smirked, “What’s this? Recent betting pool?” He looked over the sticky notes, “I don’t remember any pools since the ambulance was stolen.”

Perlah looked at him nervously, “Uh, no, it’s uh– It’s an old one.”

He picked up a neon green sticky note that read Marriage. $100.

Robby frowned, “This looks like Adamson’s handwriting.” Princess and Perlah both just stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say, “How old is this?”

Princess elbowed Perlah when neither of them spoke, “It’s from around 2018 or 2019,” She sighed, “There was a stupid bet going around about you and Y/N. We… We were gonna revive it when she came back to the day shift, but…”

But you were gone now.

Robby blinked and waved around the sticky note, “And Adamson was part of it?”

Princess smirked, “He was one of the first to make a bet.”

Robby reread the sticky note, “He thought we were gonna get married.” He said softly, “Can I keep this?” 

Princess and Perlah both nodded and then Robby headed out to the ambulance bay, the sticky note with Adamson’s handwriting still in his hand. 

With his other hand, he pulled out his phone, waited for his Face ID to unlock before opening the Phone app and clicking on his Favorites. You were at the top of his list and his thumb hovered over your contact picture as he stared at the sticky note.

Do you think it’s possible that the real obstacle is that you’ve always used her as a method to punish yourself and you’re just continuing the pattern of behavior by not reaching out?

He didn’t want to punish himself anymore. He wanted to be worthy of good things, of you. Adamson thought he was deserving of good things, as evidenced by a years old sticky note. You had thought so, too, once upon a time.

He pressed his thumb against your name and brought the phone up to his ear.

“Hi,” He said when you picked up, closing his eyes at the sound of your voice, “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” You said slowly, “Sorry, is–is everything okay with you?”

“Yeah,” He said, running a thumb over the old sharpie ink, “Yeah, I just, I wanted to hear your voice. Is that okay?”

There was a moment of silence, “Yeah, of course. It’s nice to hear your voice, too.”

“How’s Presby?”

You gave a short laugh, “It’s not home, but it’s alright. I’m adjusting.”

He hummed, “There’s always a place waiting for you here, you know?”

“I know.”

He cleared his throat, “I’m off on Sunday and I was wondering, if you’re also off, if you’d want to just– I don’t know, grab a coffee, go for a walk or something. Catch up.”

You’re quiet for a while and he told himself it would be okay if you said no. If you didn’t want to see him.

“I’d like that,” You said softly, “But, just to be clear, I am accepting a platonic coffee date, yes?”

He smirked, “Yes. I just want to see you.”

He listened as you took a deep inhale, “You sound better. Therapy’s helping?”

“I think so, yeah.” And he means it. He is starting to feel just a little bit better.

“Have you called Jake?”

He bent over his knees, resting his head against his free hand, “I have, yeah.”

“And?” You asked after a moment of silence.

“It’s still not great, but he said he’d be willing to come to a therapy appointment with me. To try and start sorting it out.”

He heard you sigh in relief, “That’s great, Robby. I’m… I’m really proud of you.”

He smiled and felt his eyes water. He was so happy he had called you.

The two of you slipped into an unspoken tradition, walking side by side through the park by the river, mostly on Sundays, or whenever your schedules lined up. It was easy and it was fun and for once it wasn't heavy with unspoken grief and trauma. If something triggered a conversation about Adamson or Gemma, for the most part you were both able to navigate it without fighting, without shutting down.

Until six months have passed since you left PTMC and Robby’s walking you all the way back up to your apartment.

“Um, do you…?” You looked at him almost shyly, a flush working its way up your neck. It’s so ridiculous to think that you might have been nervous around him, it had a smirk stretching across his face, “Do you wanna come in?”

He wanted to, badly. He was overjoyed that you seemed to want his company as much as he wanted yours. But the two of you were in a good spot right now and he was so scared he might fuck it up.

Robby had stuck Adamson’s sticky note to his fridge when he had gotten home that day as a sort of unspoken goal for himself. He wanted to marry you one day, if that was something you also wanted. His therapist had told him that if he did want that, he was going to have to do things that scared the shit out of him sometimes.

Like go into your apartment when invited, even if he worried he would make a mess of things again.

“You have to learn how to trust yourself again or you’ll stay stuck here in the same patterns, shackled to your self doubt and unable to move forward.”

He swallowed, “Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

You lasted all of two minutes before he was pushing you against a wall and kissing you. His hands were almost frantic as they touched you, but he kissed you slowly and thoroughly, almost tenderly.

It had been years since he had been able to kiss you without there being some fight or other tension looming above you. It felt freeing that all he felt now was love and longing.

He took you to the couch, undressing you as he did and you were moaning into his mouth, grabbing at his shirt and running your fingers over the skin there. He laid you down on the couch and pulled his shirt over his head, watched the way your eyes traced down his chest hungrily.

“I missed you,” He murmured, lowering himself over you again, palming one of your breasts in his hand.

You hummed and arched your back into his touch as he watched one of your nipples pebble beneath his thumb.

“I’ve been thinking about this, about being able to touch you again, from the moment you left.” He panted and kissed his way down your chest, your stomach, until he reached the tops of your thighs.

“Me too,” You sighed, and then his mouth was on you, hot and needy, “Fuck, I missed you.”

He’s surprised to find that he still knows just what you like, exactly how much pressure to apply, how fast he needs to go to bring you to the edge. It’s muscle memory, like performing a medical procedure he hasn’t done in years, his hands still know what to do, but his brain is three steps behind. Your hand knotted in his hair and he watched eagerly as your hips bucked up and into his mouth until you’re coming and he’s sucking up every last drop of you.

When you caught your breath, you sat up and pushed him onto his back. He was happy to lie back and watch you and in fact, he relished the way you looked at him. Kissed every patch of his skin you could reach, an adoring look in your eyes. He thought he had to have been an idiot to have never noticed the way you looked at him before.

You sank down onto him, both of you sighing in unison as you adjusted to the stretch of him. “You okay, honey?” He asked breathlessly, gripping your chin in his hand.

You nodded and rolled your hips. It had been years now since he’d slept with someone and the sensation of you around him, just that slow grinding of your hips, had him seeing stars, “Jesus fuck.” He swore.

You sped up your movements slowly and he helped move you up and down, gripping your hips as you pressed your hands to his chest. He could feel that you were already barreling straight towards another orgasm, your walls pulsing around him, and that was fine, because there was no way he was gonna last much longer.

“Can you touch yourself for me, sweetheart?” He asked breathlessly, “I want to watch you touch yourself. Want you to come with me.”

Your eyelids fluttered open as you processed what he said, and still grinding down on him, you circled your fingers over your clit, “That’s it,” He sighed, “Just like that.”

Your moans grew louder and your hips moved faster and faster. You looked euphoric as you tumbled over the edge again and you were so fucking gorgeous, he was immediately coming, swearing as he did.

Both of you trying to catch your breath, you folded forward, laying down against his bare, sweat slicked chest. He ran a hand over your hair as you settled, watched the rise and fall of your breathing, and was overcome with such tenderness for you his chest ached and his eyes watered.

“I love you,” He said quietly, tears caught in his throat, “In case you were unsure, I still love you.”

You pushed yourself up slightly so you could see his face. Your cheeks were flushed and sticky with sweat, “I know,” You said and smirked, “I love you, too.”

He kissed you again, sighed as your fingers came up to scratch at his beard, “Could I take you out to dinner next week? Only if… If you’re ready. I want to try to do things right, this time.”

You nudged your nose against his and bit your lip. This was dangerous, this hope that was building in your chest. But he was trying, was going to therapy, was voicing his feelings as he was feeling them. Was doing all this for himself, but also for you.

“Yes,” You pushed your lips forward to give him a quick peck, “Take me out to dinner, Michael.”

He smiled against your mouth and thought again of that sticky note on his fridge. One day, he’d show it to you. That was a promise he wouldn’t break.

[meadowfics]

we should be lovers instead

cho hyun ju x f!reader

synopsis: hyunju wants to ruin her friendship with you

warnings: bffs to lovers! based off of 'jenny' by studio killers!

this is a request from my girlypop @dyingofcookies! I'm sorry this took forever. I realized that writing fics with songs are not so easy lol

all of the neon lights from the city centre of seoul flicker outside your window, casting a great amount of colors across your tiny apartment.

you’re sprawled on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling through old photos of you and hyunju.

hyunju, your best friend.

your everything.

she is the ache in your chest that grows heavier with every picture. one example is a photo of her laughing at a street food stall, her hair catching the sunlight at han river, her shy smile when you caught her off-guard.

you’ve been in love with her for years, but you’ve never said it.

how could you?

she’s your best friend, and the fear of ruining what you have keeps your lips sealed.

ever since her transition, you've been nervous about her stance on relationships.

hyunju’s been different lately, though.

the woman's texts are shorter, her glances linger longer, and sometimes you catch her staring when she thinks you’re not looking.

it’s confusing, exhilarating, terrifying.

you want to believe she feels the same, but what if you’re wrong?

what if you confess and lose her forever?

your phone buzzes.

hyunju: 

meet me at the noraebang tonight?

8pm? 

your heart skips.

you type a quick sure then toss your phone aside, already spiraling.

noraebang means singing, laughing, maybe drinking soju until you’re both giggling messes.

it also means being close, sharing a mic, her voice soft and teasing in your ear.

you’re not sure you can handle it tonight, not with this ache threatening to spill over.

jenny, darling, you’re my best friendbut there’s a few things that you don’t knowof why i borrow your lipstick so ofteni’m using your shirt as a pillowcase

you arrive at the noraebang a little early, nerves going through your body like static. the place is tucked in a narrow alley, its sign glowing pink and blue.

inside, it’s all dim lights and plush booths, the faint smell of soju and floral perfume lingering in the air.

you pick a private room, the kind you and hyunju always get, and wait.

your fingers fidget with the songbook, flipping through pages without really seeing them.

when hyunju walks in, your breath catches.

she’s wearing a black maxi skirt and a loose sweater that slips off one shoulder, her dark hair tumbling in waves. she’s always been beautiful, but tonight there’s something different...her eyes are brighter, her smile a little shaky.

“hey,” she says, sliding into the booth across from you.

hyunju's voice is soft, almost hesitant.

“hey,” you manage, your throat tight, “ready to lose at singing again?”

she laughs, and it’s like music already.

“you wish,” she teases, grabbing the remote to queue up a song.

your best friend's fingers brush yours when she hands you the mic, and you swear your heart stops for a second.

you start with safe songs. for example, pop hits you both know by heart, belting out lyrics and laughing when one of you goes off-key.

as the night goes on, the mood shifts.

maybe it’s the soju, maybe it’s the way her knee keeps bumping yours under the table, but the air feels heavier, charged.

she picks a slower song, one you don’t recognize at first, and her voice trembles as she sings. y

ou watch her, mesmerized, as the lyrics spill out about longing and unspoken love.

i wanna ruin our friendshipwe should be lovers insteadi don’t know how to say this‘cause you’re really my dearest friend

the song ends, and the silence is deafening.

hyunju’s staring at the screen, her grip tight on the mic.

you want to say something, anything, but your words are stuck. she turns to quickly, her eyes searching yours.

“y/n,” she says, barely above a whisper, “can we… talk?”

your stomach flips.

“yeah. of course.”

she sets the mic down, her hands twisting in her lap.

“i’ve been thinking a lot lately. about us.” she pauses, biting her lip.

“we’ve been friends forever, right? and i love that. i love you. but…” hyunju's voice cracks, and she looks away.

"it’s more than that for me. it’s been more for a long time.”

your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure she can hear it.

you’ve dreamed of this moment, but now that it’s here, you’re frozen.

“hyunju…” you start, but she cuts you off.

“i’m scared,” she admits, her voice raw.

“i’m scared of losing you. but i can’t keep pretending i don’t want more. i borrow your stuff, i wear your shirts to sleep, i… i think about you all the time. and it’s killing me, not telling you.”

you’re dizzy, her words sinking in like rain on parched ground.

she feels it too.

the yearning, the ache, the need to be closer.

you reach for her hand, your fingers trembling as they lace with hers.

“hyunju,” you say again, softer this time, “i’ve been in love with you for years.”

hyunju's eyes widen, a mix of shock and relief flashing across her face.

“you… what?”

“i love you,” you repeat, the words spilling out like they’ve been waiting forever.

“i didn’t say anything because i was scared too but i want this. i want us.”

for a moment, she just stares, like she’s trying to process it.

after she laughs, a shaky, teary sound, and pulls you into a hug.

your woman's arms are warm, her scent familiar and intoxicating.

“oh my goodness,” she murmurs against your shoulder, “we’re such idiots.”

you laugh too, the tension breaking like a dam.

“the worst,” you agree, holding her tighter.

jenny, take my hand‘cause we are more than friendsi will follow you until the endjenny, take my handi cannot pretendwhy i never like your new boyfriends

you pull back just enough to look at her, your hands still tangled together. her eyes are glistening, but she’s smiling, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“so… what now?” you ask, your voice barely steady.

she brushes a strand of hair from your face, her touch gentle but sweet.

“now,” she says, “we stop pretending.”

before you can respond, she leans in, her lips brushing yours.

it’s soft at first, tentative, like she’s testing the waters.

when you kiss her back, it’s like a spark igniting.

the kiss deepens, years of longing pouring into it, and you feel like you’re floating. hyunju's hands cup your face, your fingers find her waist, and the world outside the noraebang fades away.

when you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, foreheads pressed together.

“i’ve wanted to do that forever,” she whispers, her voice shaky but happy.

“me too,” you admit, your heart racing, “god, me too.”

as you look at hyunju's beautiful face... a memory pops into your mind.

over two years ago, you remember when hyunju never hid her disdain for your ex-boyfriend, minjun.

every time he was around, her usual warmth would vanish, replaced by a tight-lipped scowl and clipped responses. she’d make excuses to leave, claiming she had plans or felt unwell, anything to avoid being in the same room as him.

you noticed the tension but chalked it up to her protective nature, not realizing it ran deeper...her hatred stemmed from seeing how he dimmed your light, how his careless words and wandering eyes made you shrink.

he had you, and she didn't.

she’d bite her tongue, but her eyes betrayed her, burning with a mix of jealousy and frustration, wishing she could tell you how much better you deserved, how she could be that for you.

when minjun left the country, you found out he’d been cheating, screenshots of his messages to someone else lighting up your phone while he was halfway across the world.

the breakup was swift, a mix of anger and relief washing over you as you cut him off.

hyunju was there the night you cried, her arms around you, her voice soft but fierce as she whispered, “you’re worth so much more than him.”

it was the first time she let her guard slip, her touch lingering too long, her eyes searching yours with a hope she couldn’t voice. she realized then, with your heart newly broken and her own pounding, that she had a chance, a real chance, to be more than your best friend.

you didn’t know it then, but hyunju’s feelings had been screaming beneath her silence all along.

if you’d known how she felt...how her heart ached every time minjun pulled you away, how she dreamed of being the one to make you smile...you would’ve left him in a heartbeat.

the thought of her loving you, not just as a friend but as something more, would’ve been enough to rewrite your story. unfortunately, hyunju held back, terrified of losing you, her fear outweighing her longing until that night when the truth about minjun set you free.

now, she has you.

the rest of the night is a blur of laughter, stolen kisses, and songs you barely pay attention to.

you’re too caught up in her and in the way her hand fits perfectly in yours, the way her smile lights up the room, the way she feels like home.

you sing the chorus of “jenny” together, giggling at how perfectly it fits your life with her.

when she pulls you close to dance to a cheesy ballad, you don’t care how ridiculous you look.

oh, come on, darlingi’ve been waitingi know you wanna be more than friendsoh, come on, honeyi’m not playingand i think you’re kinda sweet

weeks pass, and everything feels new.

you and hyunju are still best friends, but now there’s more.

now there is holding hands in public, late-night talks that end in kisses, and quiet moments where you just exist together.

it’s not perfect since there are still fears and still moments of doubt.

hyunju’s transition hasn’t always been easy, and sometimes she worries she’s not enough, that you deserve someone “simpler.”

you shut that down every time, reminding her that she’s everything you want, everything you’ve always wanted.

one night, you’re at her place, curled up on her couch under a blanket.

you're wearing one of her hoodies, the sleeves too long, and hyunju can’t stop staring at how cute you look.

“what?” you ask, catching her gaze.

“nothing,” she says, but her smile gives her away, “just… i love you.”

you smile, and you duck her head, but she sees the smile you're trying to hide.

“i love you too,” you murmur, leaning over to kiss her.

it’s soft and slow.

you pull back, resting your forehead against hers.

“no more hiding, okay?” you say, “just us, from now on.”

“just us,” she agrees, her voice steady this time.

masterlist

authors note: I hope you loved this, cookie <3

[greenandsorrow]

Sunflower, in a field of roses.

CHAPTER 3: Accidents

Cho Hyun-ju x fem!reader

🌻 Masterpost & Summary: click here

!!! strangers to friends to lovers, co-worker tension, mutual pining & mutual sapphic awakening, pre-op!Hyunju, early transition, dysphoria themes, blonde!reader, flirty!reader, a tiny sprinkle of jealousy, miscommunication, ANGST, slow burn, w|w, POV changes

Me writing this fic: Constantly kicking my feet. Melting into my emotional support fan while the cicadas scream outside my window like the little demons they are.

This chap ended up even longer than the last two! I felt like we needed a bit of angst to pave the road for the slow burn & sexual tension to really boom. That way, Chap4 can be full of fluff & sweet girlhood moments 🩷

Sometimes it's fine. Other times, like today, it's not.

You had touched her waist earlier.

Just playful.

Something about "Your hips are coming in, look at that!" and then you had leaned in, boobs brushing against her upper arm, and had made a dumb little joke about her "glow-up era."

Hyun-ju had laughed, low and throaty, and then –the heat.

It snuck up fast.

That dull, pulsing pressure tucked painfully against her pelvic bone. Her jeans cutting in. A shame—she had felt so great when she put them on this morning. Their stitching's lilac, she thought you'd like them.

Like the jeans or her in them?

And now the panic, because she can't let it show. Can't adjust herself. Can't go to the bathroom without raising suspicion. Or at least, that's what she thinks.

"Not now. Not like this. Not for this reason."

"If she saw -if she knew- would she still touch me like that?"

"Would she still laugh with me? Would she still see me as a woman?"

She goes silent for the rest of the shift. Snaps at someone. Feigns a headache. Retreats to the locker room and sits on the cold tile, breathing through her nose, ashamed of her own body for reacting to a touch that wasn't meant that way.

Still, despite these moments of utter dysphoria, a friendship's taking root, and oh, how beautifully it's blooming.

You keep showing up.

"Wanna split a snack?"

"I found a lipstick that's your color."

"Hyun-ju, you looked really cute today, y'know."

You mean it. Every time. But you don't know what it's doing to her. Don't see how the friendship is slowly carving her open.

And Hyun-ju -tough, quiet cookie, scarred Hyun-ju- lets you. Because even if it hurts, it's something.

It's more than she's been allowed before.

This time, it's her who finds you in the locker room.

This room shouldn't be so eventful.

It's supposed to be calm in there. Quiet. An unassuming space.

Maybe it was, until the door swung open and suddenly the air changed.

You're half-dressed, fumbling with a new nude bra, too busy trying to fasten the clasp behind your back to notice she's already inside.

Hyun-ju.

She startles, halfway through tying up her hair. She doesn't say anything at first. Just stares for a second too long, eyes trailing over your bare back, your shoulder blades, the curve of your waist.

You turn with a sheepish smile. "Sorry. I didn't think anyone was in yet."

Unselfconscious.

Her gaze snaps away. "It's fine."

You pull your shirt on slowly, catching the subtle flex of her jaw in the mirror.

You don't know why you do it. Why you shift a little slower. Why you smile and blush when she finally looks again.

Maybe because she never really looks at anyone else.

She still doesn't talk much. You fill the silence most of the time. You ramble. About everything. Your family, your childhood dog, that stupid influencer who said lavender oil cures everything.

Sometimes she hums. Sometimes she nods.

But sometimes, she stares at you with that expression. The one that's not envy, not causal fondness either. It's warmer and sharper. Needier.

You notice it again when you sit next to her during lunch, legs almost touching. She shifts. Tenses. Like she's holding herself still on purpose.

"Are you okay?" you ask.

Her voice comes slow. "I'm tucked, and have been like that for a bit too long today."

The air stalls.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable" you say softly.

"You didn't. That's the problem."

"I–I can come with you to the restroom. Y'know, stand guard outside for my princess."

She almost spits her water.

"What? It's almost imperative."

You share the same route after work. Walk to the bus stop together.

Hyun-ju keeps her hands in her pockets, occasionally adjusts her bag strap, shoulders slightly hunched.

You reach out without thinking, tugging at her sleeve, gently.

"You don't talk much."

"I'm not used to people like you."

"Annoying?"

"Accepting."

You laugh a little. She doesn't.

The silence blooms again.

And when the bus comes, you sit together as always. Not talking. Just breathing. Decompressing.

You think she might be your favorite kind of quiet.

It's a couple days later.

It's late and everyone's gone home, but you stayed to help finish inventory.

Of course you did.

Always sweet. Always helpful. Always a little too much perfume behind the ears.

Hyun-ju stayed too, because the boss asked her. Dah. Or maybe she just didn't want to leave without you.

Either way, now it's just the two of you.

Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Boxes stacked neatly. And you, sitting cross-legged on the counter, swinging one leg slightly, humming a song under your breath.

"You always do that" Hyun-ju murmurs, not looking up.

"Do what?" you look at her, smile soft.

"Sing when no one's around."

"Is that a bad thing?" you tease –while internally screaming once again, this time for the cliché choice of dialogue.

"This ain't an indie film, you moron, manic pixie dream girl. Get a grip. She's probably just tolerating you. Change the subject, quickly!"

Hyun-ju simply shakes her head no, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

You stare at her for a long second. Then...

"You know, I never see you without that sweatshirt."

Hyun-ju stiffens.

"It's cold."

"It's June."

A beat.

You swing your foot a little closer.

"Don't you ever get tired of hiding?"

She doesn't answer. She tapes the last box shut, too hard. The sound echoes.

You quiet. Cease the leg swinging.

"I didn't mean it like that. I just… I mean—look at you. You have these crazy cheekbones and you've got that mystery thing going on. Like, intimidating-hot."

"I'm not trying to be hot" she answers flatly, still not looking.

"Doesn't mean you're not" you insist cheekily.

Hyun-ju looks up.

There it is again.

That ache. Sharp and humiliating.

Because you don't know what you're doing. You're being playful. Friendly. Feminine(?). That easy charm that comes from never having to dissect yourself in the mirror or explain your decisions to strangers.

You don't mean anything by it –she believes.

Still, she feels and sees everything.

Hyun-ju feels the blood moving in her neck. The light layer of sweat coating her back after a busy work day. Her stomach protesting from hunger and the weight of her dosage in the pocket of her cargo pants.

She sees how your lipstick has almost faded completely, only the lip liner remaining intact. How your concealer has creased slightly under your eyes and how a few, white flecks of dry shampoo have appeared on your hair.

She wishes she could just reach out and pick them off for you, but something is still holding her back.

"She'd freak out. She'd flinch. Her smile would freeze. It'd be too awkward to recover afterwards."

However, what makes it worse -what burns- is that she wants you. Not just to be in your shoes. She wants your perfume on her pillow. Wants those long nails in her hair. Wants you to lean in close and say you're allowed to be soft too.

Wants you to put your hand between her legs and not be afraid, but flustered.

"Hey, Hyun" you say gentler now. "You alright? Sorry if I—"

Hyun-ju turns her face slightly, eyes dark. Her voice low.

"Don't flirt with me if you don't mean it."

Your breath catches.

"Well, I wasn't—"

Pause.

"Okay. Maybe I was. I just… thought it was safe. You never looked at me like—"

Another pause. A realization dawning.

"Wait. Do you?"

Hyun-ju stands, fast.

Too fast.

She grabs her bag. She doesn't answer.

"Hyun-ju, please—"

"Don't" Her voice shakes. "Just. Don't."

And she leaves.

You're being extra girly today and Hyun-ju wouldn't have noted that in a bad light, if it wasn't performative, purely for the gaze of the new guy.

She might also subconsciously blame herself, because after all, she was the one who told you to stop flirting with her.

Elaborate lip combo, bow in your hair, talking a mile a minute about subjects that feel hollow in comparison to your usual ones. In a different pitch as well.

It's deliberately lighthearted. Orchestrated.

And Hyun-ju breaks.

"Can you stop talking like that for five minutes?" she snaps.

"Like what?" you ask, startled.

"Like everything's pink and soft and easy and funny. Like your girlhood is some fucking costume you just get to wear every morning."

The room falls silent.

Hyun-ju instantly regrets it.

But it's out.

All the pain. All the quiet rage.

The jealousy?

"You don't get it. You get to be a girl. I still have to prove I am one. So maybe I don't want to hear about your goddamn skincare routine, or bra size, or how weak and fragile and delicate your arms are! Not right now."

You don't cry. You don't yell.

You just stand there, eyes glassy, stunned into silence. This is it. Your downfall as a human. Called out by another woman for being a pick me. You're not even sure if that's fair. But it still stings, because what if it's true? What if that's how she sees you now?

Later, you slip a granola bar and a post-it note that says "I'm sorry" into Hyun-ju's locker.

She keeps it in her locker for a week before she can bring herself to throw it away.

One stall. One mirror. One moment too many.

It's a busy afternoon. Inventory rush before the end of your shift. You're in a hurry, arms full of paperwork but not as full as your bladder, and you burst into the unisex bathroom of the floor without knocking. If it's unlocked, why would you knock?

Perhaps because the frickin' lock broke this morning? You're not aware of such thing.

The overhead light buzzes and–

Hyun-ju is mid-adjust.

Back to the door. The cute jeans with the lilac stitching pulled halfway up. She's hunched, one hand awkwardly between her thighs, the other braced on the wall.

There's no mistaking what she's doing. And you see. All of it.

"Oh—fuck, I'm so sorry—!" you gasp, stumbling backward, covering your eyes like you walked in on someone naked. I mean... close enough.

Hyun-ju whirls around, face burning, hands flying to yank her hoodie down, teeth clenched tight. Rage and humiliation and something like panic flood her system. Her voice comes out sharp, too loud.

"Get out!"

You do. Door slamming behind you and papers flying.

Unfortunately, it's not the first time something like this happens. By now, you are certain she must think you're some perverted creep. It's unknown if you'll cry or pee yourself first.

Hyun-ju stands frozen. Her breath comes in hard bursts. She doesn't know if she wants to cry, scream, or put her fist through the mirror.

"She saw. She knows now, not just in theory. She saw me -saw that- and she's going to treat me differently. They always do."

She stays in the bathroom for ten minutes. Just breathing. Just… existing, painfully.

When she comes out, you're pretending nothing happened. But your eyes are different now. Too careful. Too soft.

"Hey girl. The bus will be-"

Hyun-ju doesn't look your way, doesn't let you finish, doesn't answer. She walks past, but her fists are tight in her sleeves.

Later, at night, you text her:

"I didn't mean to walk in on u. I didn't see anything bad. I just saw u. That's all. U don't have to explain anything to me, ok? And I still like talking to u. I still want to."

"But I'll totally get it if u don't want anything to do with me after that, I'm an ass, ik."

It's almost worse, that kindness. Because now Hyun-ju is crying alone in her humble apartment, furious at herself for reacting the way she did.

It's been a few days since the bathroom incident.

Hyun-ju's been extra silent. Cold. She responds in clipped nods, doesn't linger, nor meets your eyes.

And you? Still the same. Pretending not to notice the walls going up, while quietly finding ways to chip at them.

Like today.

You're accidentally scheduled on the same closing shift as her.

You bring two drinks. Make no mention of what happened. Just… smile.

"I got you an iced coffee, with oat milk. You look like an oat milk girlie."

"…Thanks."

"You still mad at me?"

"I'm not mad."

"Okay" you say brightly. "Then stop flinching like I stepped on your tail and leaving me on read. Not cute."

Later that shift, you're boxing up product samples in the stockroom. The new guy has proven himself useless so there's stuff still left to do.

It's hot. Late.

Hyun-ju pulls off her hoodie and you catch a glimpse of her arm. Defined. Veined. Smelling like vanilla and dreams.

"You're ripped" you blurt, poking her bicep with two fingers.

"We've already talked about this. Military genes." Hyun-ju mutters.

"No complaints."

Pause.

"You know you could probably break me in half, right?"

Hyun-ju turns, eyes narrowing. Her voice low.

"Don't say things like that. How many times do I have to repeat myself?"

"Why?" you say, soft. "You wouldn't?"

Your eyes lock.

Silence.

Heartbeats.

Hyun-ju's hand stills mid-box. Her jaw tightens. Her pants feel just a little too tight again.

You look away first. Smiling, like you didn't just throw gasoline on the fire.

That night was a catalyst for you. You're very interested and very curious now. Not in a fake way. You don't even fully realize it at first –it starts with questions.

Soft ones. Safe ones.

"Do you like when people call you pretty?"

"What kind of clothes would you wear if you weren't worried about… y'know?"

"Can I do your eyeliner sometime? I bet you'd kill in a cat-eye."

"Do you… date?"

Warm, intimate curiosities that gently pull Hyun-ju closer to feeling seen. Not dissected. Just… noticed.

And Hyun-ju? She starts dreading and craving every shift.

Because every smile, every offhand compliment, every brush of your fingers when you pass her the duct tape make her heart race. Especially when you lean close, or burrow your eyebrows when you're concentrating, or bend over and that cleavage doesn't quit.

The "She wouldn't treat me like that if she knew" is slowly but surely turning into "She knows and she chooses me every day".

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[snail-day]

Tw: Yandere Behaviors, Power Imbalance, Use of gun and violence

Okay, that new Superman movie is already rotting my little pebble brain because I'm already halfway through writing a fic. Still, I really need to just talk about how insufferable yandere Superman would be.

He doesn’t mean to be condescending. Truly. He’s just stronger than steel, faster than sound, raised by a pair of sun-soaked Kansan sweethearts who taught him that kindness solves everything. And in his warped, doting little head, every scream you let loose, every desperate plea to leave you alone, that’s just another tantrum. Something to soothe.

Something he can fix, because he's Superman, and yes, he does get a little grumpy with a low chuckle when you refuse to call him Clark or darling or any pet name he likes. Always catching on that one nerve when you spit out, “Superman,” like it’s a curse word that'll get your mouth washed with soap, those eyes of yours full of fire that only make his heart melt.

You come home, exhausted from work, feet aching, and emotionally decimated from another call with the insurance company (because apparently your renter’s insurance no longer covers alien attacks, lucky you), only to find him in your apartment. Again. Third or fourth time this week. Acting like he lives there.

Currently standing in your kitchen like it's his own, using your groceries, your pans, just placing himself into every little crevice of your life. His cape is draped over the back of your dining chair. He’s wearing your apron, the pink one with the frills, somehow making it look absurd on top of that broad, ridiculously sculpted chest. He hums as he stirs something warm and buttery on the stove, sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms strong and dusted with flour. Looking over at you with a smile, "Welcome home, I'm making you pancakes, I think I got the shapes down - "

Instead of a warm greeting, you shove at him. Fists slamming uselessly into the span of his back, your voice cracking, tears threatening to form - not from sadness, not even fear, just pure frustration. “Get out! I don’t want you here!”

He only laughs. Soft and amused, the sound rumbling up from that barrel chest. His blue eyes crinkle at the corners, impossibly kind, like he finds your rage endearing.

“You’re grumpy today,” he says, flipping the burner off to face you properly and brushing your hair back with two fingers far gentler than they have any right to be. “It’s okay, honey. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Your hand flies to the knife block. You grip the handle tightly, knuckles already turning white. He just tilts his head, curls of dark hair falling over his brow, and gives you that same look he gives runaway trains and meteor threats, harmless. The knife barely leaves your hand before he catches your wrist mid-air with one hand, effortlessly. The knife clatters harmlessly into his other palm.

“Careful now,” he murmurs, warm and coaxing as usual, “You’ll hurt yourself.”

And maybe that's the most maddening part because you can't do anything to him.

You tried using a gun once. Your hand had been shaking so badly it was a miracle you didn’t drop it. You aimed it straight for his chest, hoping, maybe even praying, for something.

He stepped forward without pause, allowing you to press the barrel of the gun to his chest, right where his heart lies, beating solely for you.

Click. No blood or any reaction. Not even a little twitch on that stupid, cocky grin of his.

“Shh,” he cooed, gently prying the weapon from your hands. His fingers - long, thick, a little rough from all that saving-the-world nonsense - wiped your tears away. “I know you don’t mean that. You’re just overwhelmed.”

He always says that. You’re just overwhelmed. You’re just tired. You’re just having a bad day. As if none of your terror matters. As if he hasn’t torn the world in half just to be here with you.

He smiles like he knows best, as if he’s the only one who will ever know you. His lips brush your forehead, too soft for someone who could level cities with his bare hands, and you go limp, too tired to fight anymore. Because this will all happen again tomorrow and the next day.

And when your sobs slow, when your body gives in from sheer exhaustion, he’s carrying you to the couch, a doll in his arms, wrapping you in a blanket, brushing your hair back from your tear-stained face, a kiss to the forehead.

“I’ll always take care of you,” he whispers. Then, with that same unfaltering warmth: “How about some pancakes? I’ll feed them to you, can’t risk you working up another attitude and hurting yourself…”

Just another day in hell with Superman beside you :)

[neeeooon]

can…. Can…. Can we get reader who works at mcdonalds and they meet Nagi there and its just a crack fic basically i would gigfle GIFGLE FGIGGLE KILL ME??!!! giggle oh my god

- rin anon

HELP I LOVE THIS. YES.

fries in the bag

nagi seishiro x gn!reader. crack. platonic?? with a little smth at the end?? cussing!

“alright, gang! this is nagi. he’ll be on drive-thru with you, y/n.”

you groaned. the last three people they hired were shit, and you’d just gotten a scolding for “training them so poorly” when it was never your job to train in the first place.

rather than talk back to your boss (again. you were on thin ice, apparently), you forced a tight smile and said, “great. welcome to the team.”

the boy with white hair didn’t smile back. “thanks.”

rude, you thought to yourself, and after sharing a look with a few of your more reliable co-workers, you knew they were thinking the same.

you almost laughed when one mouthed, “okay, but why is he actually fine as fuck?”

though it wasn’t your job, you took pity on the new guy when you found him fumbling while adjusting his headset. “here,” you began, silently holding your hand out for the headset. nagi gave it to you with a defeated sigh, and you smirked before adjusting it and placing it over his hat. “it’s gotta click, otherwise the notches aren’t in place, and it’ll come loose.”

“thanks,” nagi said when you took a step back, and it sounded more genuine this time.

as you walked him through opening duties and showed him where everything was, you decided to strike up some casual conversation. “so, what do you do? besides this, i mean.”

nagi shrugged. “soccer.”

“soccer. cool.” you pursed your lips, giving him three seconds to elaborate before moving on. “the others and i in our age group are only here to make money for tuition. it’s not easy, and the customers can be complete assholes, but the pay is surprisingly good. you get a lot of tips and overtime, too.”

nagi nodded as he brushed some crumbs off the counter and onto the floor. your brow twitched. you’d have to sweep them up later.

“what’re the hours again?”

you blew out an irritated breath and waved nagi over as you walked to the weekly schedule. he followed your finger as you dragged it across the calendar. “tsukino makes the schedule. here, give me your number so i can add you to the group chat if you ever need to drop or pick up a shift.”

nagi handed his phone over. you ignored how boring it looked as you typed your number in and sent a text from his phone.

you: shared a new contact!

you: nagi’s number. say hi

a flurry of texts came in, which seemed to slightly startle the white-haired boy. you dropped his phone back into his hand, fingertips slightly grazing his palm. it surprised you how warm he was. “there. you’re set.”

"thanks," nagi replied boredly, shoulders hunched as he followed your boss when he was called over. you watched them leave, intrigued by your new co-worker.

☆ 🍟

nagi wasn't half bad at the job.

he was a little slow and zoned out at times, but he didn’t complain. he listened when you explained something to him, and most importantly, he was good with customers and racked up an insane amount of tips.

“hi. welcome to mcdonald’s. can i take your order?”

“no worries. take your time.”

“nah, it’s cool. sauce is free if you ask.”

"you want the fries in the bag?"

since you were both on drive-thru duty, your headsets were connected. hearing him converse with customers was… oddly sweet. you hated to admit it, but he was the best addition to the team you'd had in a long time.

you were on your break one evening when you found him slumped against the back wall of the storage room, scrolling lazily through his phone. his fingers moved slowly, so you guessed he wasn’t doing anything too important. brushing any nerves aside, you plopped down beside him and held out your packet of fries. nagi looked at you, turned to the fries, and took one without question.

“you’re not the worst new hire we’ve had,” you said after a moment, raising your voice just slightly to be heard over the ice cream machine.

nagi took another one of your fries and chewed. “thanks.”

his reaction made your brows scrunch. is that the only word he knows how to say to me? so much for complimenting him. “the bar was pretty low, just so you know.”

“still. thanks,” he said with a shrug.

you didn't realize until later, while you were both leaning over the fryer basket watching nuggets sizzle, that you kind of liked him. he was quiet, sure, but easy to be around. funny without trying. best of all, nagi made those long, tiring shifts pass by quicker than when you worked with anyone else.

when your shift ended, nagi waited for you to grab your things and held the door open for you. his lip lifted, but just slightly. “see you tomorrow.”

your chest fluttered in a way you did not appreciate. “yeah,” you said, brushing past him lightly. “see you, fry boy.”

nagi blinked. “huh. cute.”

you almost tripped.

[jedisupernova]

must be love — kwon jiyong

notes minors dni contains old hollywood au, fem reader, unabashedly plus sized reader as i am myself but anyone can read, all of my fics are written with poc-friendly language (as i am myself) though it is more apparent in this fic, both jiyong and reader are actors in their late twenties, made-up lore to build dynamic and set the scene, quiet, gentle, and poetic love, hints of secretive relationship to preserve privacy, atomic understanding of one another's souls, yearning, longing, fluff, slice of life, vignettes of smut (oral f receiving, p in v, on the couch, in the car, in the bathtub, body worship,) mentions of drinking and smoking, and inevitable typos.

author's note i've been listening to laufey lately. this is inspired by and named after her song, must be love. i got this idea when her song was stuck in my head at two in the morning, and i couldn't lull myself asleep. this is my gift to you before i head to the uk. i hope you enjoy, my love.

jiyong kwon—or james kwon, he was nearly known as. he never got along with his first agent. or the first three, for that matter. too caught up in fine-tuning his image to remember it was his face that sold out ticket booths for his first feature film, not his name—not yet, at least. scouted outside of the chinese theatre in los angeles at just twenty years-old (his family was in town for his cousin's wedding, mind you,) jiyong could have never guessed he would be the talk of the town—no, talk of the nation just seven months later in a cowboy western. he had the undeniably smallest part, yet the impact surpassed the lead's: he kicked his feet up on the saloon table, flicking his lighter open, taking a puff of his cigarette, letting it hang off the corner of his mouth. he lifted his head, cowboy hat no longer gatekeeping the beauty that stole the breath of young women and men, eyeing the male lead with a mischievous grin as if to say i know something you don't. it was his utterance of twelve words that changed jiyong's life as he knew it, "what makes your sorry ass think this town knows anythin' about that?"

he landed his first lead role at twenty-one. he dodged petty producers with tenacity, though was caught in the throes of proving oneself worthy. he moved with silence and poise, all in an effort to protect his peace, intent on sticking it to them on the silver screen. and that he did—playing danny: a directionless young man fresh out of college who falls in love with an even more directionless young woman his age a few apartments down. my goodness was he dashing; "Capturing brilliance on screen all the while being the most handsome creature one could ever see," a film critic wrote opening weekend. jiyong has the newspaper clipping framed in his study, next to an article detailing how theaters were so filled to the point where moviegoers sat in the aisles. his next two roles fulfilled his popularized archetype, though not only did he soon graduate into more mature, dynamic characters, but also dancing.

he spent his leisure time—between learning lines and negotiating salaries with hard-headed, bigoted studio executives—in a dance studio off sunset boulevard. it was here that he not only formed close friendships with the few people he trusted in such an unpredictable industry, but also added something to his rolodex of a resumé: tap dance. jiyong entered a meditative state, watching himself in the long pane mirror, sweat dripping down his back in the midst of mastering a routine for an audition the following week. jiyong thought he'd heard everything there was to say about him as an actor. in the first few years of his career, it didn't take long for the public to get bored, pick out flaws, or go as far as to call him 'rehashed potential' as he wasn't the shiny, new phenomenon anymore. "Beauty is made bountiful by the beholder, though it seems talent is of the select few," the same film critic wrote almost three years to the day, comparing him to his male co-star in a buddy comedy.

despite the noise, jiyong showed up and showed out in his first musical role. he inadvertently broke the fourth wall with his pearly white smile, hair molded handsomely with pomade, and skin kissed by angels; all to say you may be bored, but i'm not done. his director knew his gut feeling to cast jiyong wasn't in bad faith, despite the vitriolic protests from erratic studio executives with their blown-out pupils and white, powdery casts below their nostrils. it didn't matter how many times a producer threatened to rescind their investment from a project—the camera loved jiyong. he commanded his scenes with both subtlety and effortless poise, enviable by those who just couldn't see what he saw; too deep in their egos to realize what was really in front of them. it seemed jiyong scored back favorability amongst audiences, too. he came out swinging in his follow-up role: another musical, but taking on another life-form: fashion. he was dressed in the pinnacle of masculinity for the time: a smart-fitting polo paired with handsome trousers; a dandy suit with a boxy fit on his shoulders, complemented by his soft, genuine features, casting an androgynous glow on anything fortunate enough to drape his frame—better yet, everything was in color.

perhaps jiyong's most unexpected accomplishment was facilitating the unexpected resurgence of stiff straw hats. he wore one in a seven minute-long number, paired with a maroon suit and platinum blonde hair he dyed after long, strenuous conversations with his director regarding character design, tap dancing from beginning to absolute end with his love interest in the film. his look sent shockwaves not only throughout hollywood, but it seemed pop culture was never quite the same, either. he remembers sitting in his convertible at a red light on rodeo drive on the eve of his twenty-fourth birthday, looking around in awe behind his polarized lenses. hats on women out and about with their friends, men scattered throughout outdoor seating at restaurants, and even on the couple bickering over the right parking spot. many were accented with a trademark black ribbon, similar to the one jiyong wore in the film. he was taken out of his trance by a devoted fan recognizing him, shouting his name and waving from the other side of the street. he waved back gracefully, offering a polite smile, driving away once the light turned green.

he frequented parties, though at some point, he couldn't take the chaos of it anymore. it was frightening at times; seeing people lost in the haze of fragmented ego, suffocated by the rhythmic power struggle sex, drugs, and money had to offer. though it was admittedly alluring, the smell of sweat was also just god-awful. jiyong often found himself slipping away, his go-to being heading outside for fresh air and a crisp smoke, lighting his cigarette once the boisterous live music became muffled behind the walls of a mansion in the middle of nowhere, california. he then waved to the valet to bring his car around, driving back to the city without another thought. he either returned home to his beloved cats, paid for his own table at his favorite jazz club; enjoying a whisky on the rocks whilst the live band played, sometimes accompanied by professional dancers, or settling in at his local cinema. that was where he first saw you—not in person, but on film.

there you were, pristine and in delectable technicolor, making him feel as if he's been graciously bestowed a sixth sense. you played the main protagonist's good-natured best friend with an infectiously irreverent sense of humor, oftentimes out-doing your co-star in terms of both comedic and emotional cues. you were effortless on screen, churning genuine laughs from his diaphragm but also refining the awestruck twinkle in his eyes. it was as if he was reminded of why he was so dedicated to his craft, so keen on fighting for his place in this industry—it was because of beauties like you. and my goodness, were you divine: sat during a picnic in a park with your co-star, listening to her goss on about a date she went on with her love interest, yet if jiyong didn't know any better, he would think he was watching the birth of venus.

sure, you were just sat there on the plaid-patterned fabric, nodding and reciting your character's scripted commentary effortlessly, but the way the shine of your supple cheeks glimmered so elegantly under the spring sun . . . your dress complementing your figure in a way he's never seen in real life, let alone in cinema . . . the color of the silk chiffon in harmony with your skin tone . . . and perhaps the best part, the sound of your melodious laughter that led him to tune out the female lead entirely. if only i paid attention during the opening credits, he thought to himself, walking to his car after the film ended. then i'd know who she is.

jiyong got your name after asking around his circle. luckily, someone from his dance studio saw the picture you were in, too. "isn't she marvelous, though?" his friend asked, passing jiyong back his lighter. "like a beauty i've never seen before." "i know." jiyong concurred, taking out his own cigarette, inhaling after lighting it. "i'm afraid i've never seen anyone like her." he shook his head, exhaling the smoke through the other corner of his mouth. "i mean, i don't think i've seen someone from the ensemble take the spotlight away from the lead." he said with a grin, though genuine. his friend gave him a look, illustrating misunderstanding. "oh, jiyong, i was talking about," he named-dropped the lead.

jiyong's expression fell a little, though he kept it light. "sure, sure. yes," he nodded, hoping to move past this. "she was wonderful as well." a week later, you still lingered at the back of his mind. if it weren't for his schedule, he would have gone to another screening, just to see you again. you almost didn't feel real, like a figment of his imagination. so beautiful that he felt ordinary. so captivating that he felt a fool for thinking he'd seen everything. so chic that it should be you doted on in the papers, let alone the billboards on the sunset strip. perhaps his fate only included the fortunate of witnessing your divineness through a cinemascope lens; so close, yet so far.

he came to a gradual halt outside of a longstanding friend's home, parking in front of her mailbox. pocketing his keys, jiyong reached to the backseat of his convertible, grabbing the bottle of rosé he brought for her summer barbecue. though it wasn't her first time hosting, it was jiyong's first time attending. they had met several years ago, working together what was her fifth and his third feature film. she was also the one whom got jiyong in contact with the dance studio on sunset, motivating him to diversify his filmography. she's remained a close confidant since. though tight schedules left minimal wiggle room for his personal life, for the first time in a long time, jiyong had the day off, and was finally able to attend what's known around the hollywood hills as the summer event. it wasn't raucous, but intimate—perhaps playing into the exclusivity of it all.

clad in a short-sleeve striped button down tucked into tailored trousers, complemented handsomely with a black belt, jiyong talked casually amongst the familiar faces. a seasoned producer here, a son living off daddy's money there, catching up with an actress he'd done a chemistry screen test with by the bar. he swiftly brushed off questions of about what he wanted to do for his upcoming twenty-seventh birthday, politely excusing himself after a colleague she hadn't seen in a while came up to her, heading for the food. jiyong packed his plate with helpings of classic potato salad, seasoned barbecue chicken, green olives paired with squared off pieces of colby jack cheese, and a handful of chips. he settled comfortably into a cushioned lounge chair by the poolside, adjusting the way his sunglasses rested on his nose before eating. he looked up from time to time, waving to whomever else had arrived before returning to his business. he momentarily left his seat to get a cup of crisp ice water from the bar, finishing his food with a definitive napkin to his lips.

he downed the remainder of his water, handing his dishes to the busser who came up to him, sending them off with a polite nod. he cleared his throat, looking around, taking in the clouds peppering the otherwise clear sky, listening to the subtle hum of cicadas in the trees lining the gated neighborhood, tuning out the commotion of nearby conversation. the sound of laughter caught his ear, turning his head to his right. there were two women who looked about his age, sat in the shade on the tan concrete on the poolside opposite to him, soaking their feet in the water. the one on the right lifted her head into view. his lips parted in muted shock—it's you. there, in the flesh, right before his eyes. my goodness . . . were you mystifying. jiyong didn't know what to do. he sat up straighter in the lounge chair, as if to preface getting on his feet, but he didn't move. perhaps it was just plain old shock as this was the utmost last thing he expected to unfold today. but it was also the shock of she's real. her beauty is before me, and i don't know what to do, his inner monologue rambled.

you looked like a natural; comfortable in what looked to be navy blue capri pants paired with a breathable white short-sleeve button-up blouse. a stiff straw hat adorned your head, accessorized with a baby blue ribbon around it, protecting you from the unforgiving summer sun, but also making jiyong's heart stutter at the sight of your brightened smile. though you didn't notice, caught up in finishing the telling of an anecdote you couldn't for the life of you stop laughing through, jiyong couldn't stop staring. he just couldn't. no one knew or could've known, considering his eyes were hidden behind a pair of tortoise-shell sunnies, and everyone was in their own worlds, but was just enamored. completely speechless. i mean—what're the goddamn odds? his thoughts reveled. he sucked in a small breath of panic, seeing you and the other woman suddenly get up, footsteps soaking into the concrete. without thinking clearly, jiyong got on his feet, making his way over. his strides picked up in both speed and urgency once the other woman walked away, leaving your back facing him. "ex—excuse me? miss?"

you don't know who you expected when you turned around, but it certainly wasn't him. "yes?" you looked over your shoulder, offering a polite grin, only for your expression to fall once you recognized who it was. your subconscious entered an autopilot-adjacent state, unable to stop yourself from turning, facing him entirely. let alone keep your mouth closed, "oh my—" your voice fell quiet. you somehow found your footing, words only repeated, yet more tangible to his ears: "oh my goodness." "i'm sorry if i startled you," though jiyong didn't mean it in a way addressing his celebrity, but rather catching a person off their guard. "i just—" he shook his head minutely, licking his lips, trying to find the words. "i just couldn't pass you by. forgive me."

you were beyond floored. me? your inner monologue was flabbergasted, nearly short-circuiting, descending into a ramble. does he know who he is? am i not looking at the man who singlehandedly re-invented musicals with the tip of his straw hat? let alone be praised by fred astaire just last week in a profile for the new york times? wait, oh my fucking god—the hat. you quickly took your straw hat off, awkwardly holding it in your hands, avoiding eye contact. it didn't take long for jiyong to notice, let alone understand why. thinking quickly on his feet, he wanted to put you at ease, hoping his smile would disarm you. though his word choice was admittedly awkward, too: "are you—" he cleared his throat. "are you a fan?"

your shoulders deflated somewhat, "is it that obvious?" you glanced at the concrete below you, gradually gaining the gall to look him in the eyes. at least he's got sunnies on, you thought to yourself. "i mean," warmth crept up your neck. the summer heat wasn't to blame, "who isn't, right?" a shy grin graced your features, humbling jiyong. "also, the hat's just practical, too. considering, you know, a heat wave's just around the corner." you chuckled nervously. your heartbeat palpitated, hearing his sweet laughter. "yes, that's true." jiyong affirmed. "it suits you. the choice of ribbon is quite chic. it complements you." he assured with a nod, gesturing to his face as a reference to your own. the nerves crept up on him, too, putting his hands in his pockets in an attempted thwart. "thank—thank you." you nodded, quickly looking down at your hands. your mind irrationally told you it would sour the moment if you put it back on, opting to remain holding it.

his voice beckoned your attention, "i'm jiyong, by the way. do call me that, please." he pushed his sunglasses up to his head, extending his hand. "its wonderful to meet you." it was surreal looking into his eyes—a dark brown; gentle, even more devastatingly beautiful than any film reel could hope to capture—let alone feel his clammy hand mold against yours. "its—its wonderful to meet you, too." you couldn't bring yourself to say his name, though somehow introduced yourself, the initial shock of circumstance aptly coursing through your veins. if you thought the world was playing a trick on you, certainly the next thing he said confirmed it: "i really admired you in 'primrose at three.'" your eyes widened. jiyong could've sworn he heard the earth halt its rotation, "you . . . you saw that?" he smiled beautifully, "yes, i did. you were brilliant." "how did you . . ." you were gobsmacked, trying to solve him like a riddle, wondering how in the world the cosmic forces of the universe could have aligned in such an unfeasible way. your initial question remained, puzzling everything you thought you knew: does he know who he is?

"how did you even find the time? what're the chances?" you thought aloud, looking at him with slightly furrowed eyebrows. "i mean, you're you." you said. jiyong momentarily took your words in, eventually nodding, understanding. "i am myself," he said. "but in the same way you're you." before you could respond, he gestured to the lounge chairs to your left. "come," he offered smoothly. "sit with me." your body moved, stalling your logic, sitting across from him. in his periphery, he saw you putting your hat back on, realizing you were sat directly under the sun. he looked up, seeing he was under a wide patio umbrella. "you'll boil." he tutted disapprovingly. "here—switch with me." you did, letting out a breath, taking your hat off. you swiftly brought your hand up to fix your hair, just knowing the heat was having a frizzy field day. it did, though to jiyong, as he put his sunglasses back on, thought you looked alluring. enough to elicit the discovery of a new art form, his inner monologue marveled.

silence brewed, either of you unsure of where to steer the conversation. jiyong played the card he knew all too well living in hollywood: small talk. "how long have you known—" he named the hostess. "i've known her assistant for about five years now," you told him, seeing him nod whilst listening. "she was the first friend i made when i moved to los angeles." you glanced down at your hat in your lap, catching sight of your toes, remembering you were very much barefoot at the moment. "we were—" you pointed to the pool, shy smile tugging at your lips. "we were just soaking our feet, actually." "i saw, yes." jiyong chimed in, his own smile forming. "when did you first come out here? i was freshly twenty." "not too long after you, i don't think." you shook your head in thought. "i believe we're the same age? i'm turning twenty-seven this year." "we are." jiyong affirmed with a nod, smile widening. "how has the city treated you?" he asked, genuine.

"fine." the nicety slipped out before you could catch it. though it caught up to you just as quickly: "well," you let out a breath. "those first two years were not optimal. actually, if i'm to be candid, i discovered a new meaning for the word 'lonely.'" the memories entered your periphery, a swift chuckle leaving your lips to cope with the bittersweet feeling. jiyong wasn't smiling, however. if years in his profession taught him anything, its that anyone can be an actor. so many of the art form's fundamentals are in everyday life, the most prominent being masking. you were living proof in real time—hiding pain, though thankfully healed, behind a polite smile. you looked at him, "but then i met her." you continued. "and now i'm here. much happier." you nodded. though you couldn't see behind his sunglasses, jiyong's gaze softened. "yes," he concurred, tone gentle. "here we are." his unexpected emphasis humbled you, stirring an indescribable feeling in your chest. you looked at one another, in mutual silence, but also in understanding. somehow, someway, for some reason, the two of you are here. sharing the same space, breathing the same air, thinking the same thing: it was only a matter of time.

silence returned, though this time, it was comfortable. jiyong attempted slyly wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, heat barreling down his back, though you were quick to notice. "you're boiling, jiyong." you tried not to think too much about saying his name, aptly distracting yourself by sitting further up on the lounge chair. you looked at him, patting the free spot next to you, "come." "is that alright?" "its more than alright." jiyong was relieved to return to the shade, though felt his heartbeat tighten with his thigh unexpectedly lined right next to yours. "are you sure you're—" "—hush." you cut him off sensibly. you looked over your shoulder, reaching your arm out to the table behind you, grabbing a few napkins from the stack left next to a rouge drink. you handed them to jiyong, "you're glistening as i was." you quipped, an upside down grin tugging at your lips. jiyong put his sunglasses in his hair, "thank you." he chuckled, accepting them with a nod. he dabbed his forehead and upper lip with care. "you seem to be one step ahead." "always." you riffed, enjoying the sound of his laughter.

conversation flowed smoothly from then onward. jiyong learned you not only did plays in school, but wrote them, too: "college was never an option. my folks didn't have the money. even if they did, i wouldn't be let in, anyway." you heard jiyong hum in understanding, "i never went to college, either." he told you. "they wouldn't want me there anyhow." you went on to say how a relative who studied english literature lended you his study materials and books, ultimately bringing them with you when you decided to leave home. "there isn't a specific reason why." you told jiyong earnestly, shrugging your shoulders. "i just remember feeling tired. of everything." perhaps your next anecdote was the most striking of all: "'primrose' came about when i filled in for a friend who called in sick to set," you explained, hearing jiyong hum as he nodded, letting you know he was listening. "he's the coffee guy. sometimes handles the boom mic, but luckily i wasn't made to present faux expertise that day." you quipped, delighted by jiyong's chuckle.

"but then, the most curious thing happened," you prefaced. "the director called for the usual stand-in to finalize set-up for camera and lights. called and called—turns out no one kept track of her, found out she'd been stuck in traffic all morning. took a pick of the room, pointed to me, said to get in front of the camera. and so i did," jiyong felt goosebumps trace up his spine. "and he let out this gasp. i thought i'd done something wrong—heinous, even. then he handed me the script—told me until i had the following monday to learn my lines, then told his assistant to re-do the filming schedule entirely." you turned to look at jiyong, who was looking at you in awe. you grew sheepish, "i suppose its a very hollywood story." "what happened to the actress that i was originally casted?" asked jiyong. you shrugged your shoulders, jutting out your bottom lip in thought. "i wouldn't be surprised if she placed a hex on me." he couldn't hold back his laughter, soon catching you in the mix, too.

it earned you some curious eyes to the backs of either of your heads, and whispers after he leaned closer to you. "its not like the picture did well, anyway." you brushed off, wiping a bead of sweat off of your eyebrow. "the job was merely a one-off thing." jiyong shook his head, firm in his belief: "but you must be in more." he countered earnestly. "i mean, you have to be. you're inventive—exactly what the medium needs. you'd be fantastic in a drama." you looked at him, taking in his remarks. "you flatter me too much, jiyong." he tutted in good faith, "its not flattery. its the truth. please—believe me." you looked down at your lap, using every neuron in your body to not succumb to the whirlpool of shyness stirring in your heart. your gaze returned to his, thwarting it with characteristic humor: "if you fetch a mint julep from the bar, i just might consider it."

jiyong scoffed, turning his head once he couldn't help his smile, not wanting you to know you were getting to him. not in way that got on his nerves, but breathed life into him. he suddenly felt he was a day out of high school, quickly looking away once his crush felt his gaze. "always one step ahead, huh?" he thought aloud, amused. he peered over his shoulder, seeing the bar was mostly empty, most of the attendees having dispersed throughout the backyard. "i won't be long," said jiyong, standing to his feet before heading over, putting his sunglasses back on. he kept his word, bringing you back your drink of choice, and himself a colorful mai tai. "do you still live in the city?" he asked out of curiosity. you swallowed your sip, "just on the outskirts." you clarified. "i'm now in burbank." "i live in this neighborhood," jiyong told you, seeing you nod. "just a few blocks down—that way." he gestured towards the left with his hand, making either of you grin. you stirred your drink with the small black straw it came with, thinking. "want to something else that's curious?" you asked. jiyong answered without a second thought, wiping his glass's condensation on his shirt, "of course i do."

"what is it with managers, agents, and the like being so obsessed with finding the right name? i mean, is mine not good enough?" jiyong felt as if all was right in the world. "i can't even begin to tell you the circus i was put through," he started, tsking. he looked to you, gesturing with his free hand. "my first three agents? all said the same thing: 'its about star quality.' i told them 'to hell with it.'" your eyes widened, relieved to find another person who just understood what it felt like, "those words haunted me for weeks." you said, shaking your head. "did they try to change your entire name? for me, it was only my surname." "it was mainly my first," jiyong explained. "but one of them did try to sneak in a complete name change, but i remained stubborn." "as you absolutely should." you affirmed. "your name is beautiful. distinct—as a name should be. i know actors are meant to sell a fantasy, but surely there should be a boundary, no? i mean, do i look like a conrad to you? or a laroy? hugo? a fucking vera? who would even believe that?"

jiyong nearly choked on his drink, descending into a fruitful chuckle. "not at all, no." he concurred. "you look as much of a laroy as i do a james." "exactly," you said, smiling, grateful he ran with the joke. "all i'm saying is that i was born with the sun having nurtured my pigment. i don't pass for anything else, no matter how bright they make the studio light." jiyong took a moment, letting your words soak into his memory. "your name is beautiful, too." he said. "i don't let compliments fall one-way. at least not for people who deserve it." you didn't give in to him immediately, "what makes me fit the bill, then?" you were more-so pointed with your tone, taking a sip of your mint julep. jiyong was prepared, "you have a genuineness where if i had to guess, people don't like you all that much for it." he humbled you, stopping you in your tracks. "i should know. because they did it to me. still do." he swiftly corrected himself, finishing. his words soaked into your memory, sitting in amicable silence.

suddenly, a memory sifted from your periphery: an article you read some months ago—perhaps it was in the new yorker?—featuring commentary on numerous hollywood stars, spotlighting the evolution of their career, and what it meant for the culture. jiyong was one of many mentioned, though it was a particular anecdote you remembered: his dye job for 'a mile a minute'—the musical picture that not only put jiyong back on the map, but also sent hats flying off shelves, revitalizing local economies through tailoring businesses and fabric shops in an effort to emulate what he wore in the film. though you could guess most readers treated the journalist's analysis akin to rumor, you knew there was truth to it: Mr. Kwon has long proven he fits the mold. Though the determination behind his silver-screen comeback points to an additional problem: the existence of 'The Mold' itself. Tinseltown prides itself in being All-American, but must one dye their head a blinding platinum blonde, thus blurring the lines between creative direction and cultural submission?

no wonder he dyed it back so quickly afterward, you thought to yourself. you looked at him, seeing him swirl around the remaining ice in his glass. the subtle furrow of his eyebrows communicated he was deep in his own thoughts, perhaps in the same vain as you. you spoke, sympathetic, but truthful: "i always preferred your hair black, anyway." jiyong's head nearly sprung your way, taken aback. you felt his eyes behind his polarized lenses, meeting them. "you look much more handsome." he saw your eyes flitter upward, taking in how it laid messily yet looked purposeful on his forehead; shining with the familiar glare of pomade, yet relaxed by the summer heat. jiyong felt his heartbeat stutter, "you—" he licked his lips, trying to get his words out. "you never answered my question." "hm?" you hummed. "you have to be in more pictures," he said. "would you?" "i—i don't think i'd get casted again, jiyong." you answered, shaking your head. "but it would depend." "then you have to let me take you to dinner." he countered, leaving you stunned. jiyong put his sunglasses in his hair, looking into your eyes, silently pleading. "if the world doesn't want to see you, then i will."

the pictures, as idealistic they could be, got one thing right when it came to portraying love: it is all-consuming. suddenly, time was moving much slower. a pessimist would be led to believe it was the world playing a joke, laughing at either of you for falling so foolishly quickly—but something was different about this. traffic on sunset boulevard didn't phase jiyong anymore. in fact, he was unusually composed, turning the corner and heading to rodeo drive in the middle of his morning commute. he parked his cadillac outside of his go-to jeweler, perusing the italian pearls and ornate diamonds, settling on a necklace, intending on gifting it to you tonight with his usual rose bouquet. he briskly waved off his director berating him for arriving late to set, not a care in the world. i'm not so used to being happy, jiyong thought to himself, glancing at his shoes, making sure he was in position to hit his mark before the cameras started rolling, but she has me floating down the street like its nothing. you, on the other hand, were unreachable to your friends: losing yourself in the hours disappeared in his eyes, and his in yours. its not like you wanted to be found, anyway—lost in the wonderland of his lips spoiling yours; hours spent in a restaurant booth, talking of anything and everything under the sun; waking up in his bed to his light snores; or becoming more beloved by his cats than he was.

when it was you two, it was only you two. no one else existed in the world—shut out like an incessant mosquito, tuned out like a bad song. it was like that the night you first made love, falling into it poetically on your couch—the world quiet in your apartment. you took your time unraveling his tie, his eyes relaxed on you, watching you with a look that could only be described as love in its purest form. jiyong discarded his suit, letting you undo the buttons of his white long-sleeve. you both were silent. it was tender, lovingly broken by his lips in a slow, purposeful kiss to your soft jawline, sneakily moving to your mouth; leading you into him with his tongue, gifting him your sweet giggle. you untucked his shirt, working his belt next. though you couldn't help yourself once the button and zipper of his trousers were undone, reaching inside, palming him through his briefs. jiyong sharply sucked in an unexpected breath, catching himself with your lips. "always o-one step ahead, aren't you?" he chuckled, voice quivering towards the end.

he unzipped the back of your dress with care, watching it fall to your ankles with unbridled ease. you heard your bra unclasp, easing the tension on your back, discarding it yourself onto the floor. you felt his breath tickle your now bare shoulder, eyes fluttering closed when his lips molded against your supple skin, trailing to your neck. jiyong opened his eyes, meeting the sight of your bare chest. "my divine." he murmured. his palm carved around the rolls adorning your waist and hips, fingers etching past the zig-zags of your stretch marks, making his way to the homeland. the most delicate of gasps fluttered between your teeth, melting into his touch, nipples hardening in his hands. the back of your head fell to his shoulder, palm finding his cheek, keeping his lips on your ear. "that's it," he praised, voice low, tone doting. he kneaded your breasts, thumbs gently pressing into your skin, shallowing your breaths. "melt into me." he whispered, letting his lips run lazily down your ear, nipping at your pearl earring, pressing slow kisses into your neck.

you laid back on the couch, lifting your hips for jiyong to pull your panties and stockings off, leaving you in nothing but your earrings and the accompanying necklace he gifted earlier in the evening. your bottom lip suffocated between your teeth, eating some of your deep red lipstick in the process, feeling the crisp chill of his wristwatch seep into your hip, tracing down the side of your thigh. jiyong pulled his undershirt off, tossing it to the floor, getting on his knees. he took in the sight of your puffy lips, silently inhaling, though you watched his eyes flutter closed. "fuck," he cursed quietly, head spinning in his lustful haze. he lingered there, though his hands traveled your thick thighs, squeezing and kneading anywhere the divine feminine guided him to. his eyebrows furrowed at the curious feeling doting his fingertips, lips parting upon realizing it was the prick of body hair peppering the dimples and lumps carving your divine figure. he inhaled again, though this time, he made sure you heard.

you made a sound he thought only possible in his daydreams. "my temple," he murmured to himself. his cock hardened in his briefs, satisfied in the feeling of your fingers carding through his hair. he looked up, meeting your gaze. "may i?" he asked politely. his breath was hot against you—so fucking close to where you needed him most. you nodded, "y-yes." your mouth fell open, eyebrows stuck in a perpetual furrow, watching his tongue disappear inside you. he slurp and suck with ease—not too messy, but not muted either. jiyong nested his hands on the backs of either of your knees, keeping your legs comfortably spread. "oh!—" you gasped, voice entering a octave you hadn't heard before. "o-oh—oh my g-goodness, jiyong!" "feel nice, baby?" he murmured into you, vibrations of his voice making your hips jolt. "y-yes! keep—keep going." he popped off your puffy lips repeatedly. you felt your body intensify your mess, sounding wetter with each of his ministrations. "you're a-almost—ha—a!—you're almost where you need t'be, honey." you told him, chest heaving. "show me," he said without question. "i'll listen." you attempted to lead him to the center of his universe, your trusting touch to the back of his head, palm pushing him deeper into your cunt. "j-just a little—just a little h-higher—" you let out a gasp so sharp, you forgot to breath. "yes!" you exclaimed, voice hitting a pitch so high you woke your next door neighbor's dog.

your toes curled in the air, feeling every inch of his tongue's ministrations fondle your clit in a way that unearthed a sixth sense. "that's it!" you cried out, nodding fervently, encouraging him. "that's—that's s-so good, j-jiyong—oh my f-fuck—h-ha—a—" jiyong relished in your lipstick smothering against his mouth, deepening the kiss to make himself just as pretty as his lady. it was a sight to behold: his glossy eyes looking into yours, red hues smudged all over his slightly swollen lips, eyebrows knitted whilst his hips worked wonders into yours. "y-yes! yes!" he mewled, falling into a trance as your plush, warm walls swallowed him whole and spit him right back out so graciously, breath stuttering at the feeling of the balls of your feet resting on his lower back. "oh, i love you! i love you!" he cried, syllables coming out fragmented, fucking you harder. his words followed his sincere, clear-headed confession at dinner earlier in the evening. you moaned from your gut, back arching however you could muster, your breasts merging with his chest. "oh, j-jiyongie," you elongated your syllables, losing all common sense. "keep moving just like t-that, honey. keep—keep—oh, fuck!"

what started as blind items became unabashed name-drops in the papers. Spotted cozying up in a restaurant booth this, Spoiling one another with late-night kisses in the Cadillac that ("correct me if i'm wrong, but this reporter writes as if she wishes she were me." "i don't think thats far-fetched, baby. have you seen yourself?"), Dancing out of a popular jazz spot as the sun came up, or both of your favorite: Seen in Cadillac with beloved cats in either lap. though the attention was escalating, neither you nor jiyong paid any mind. no one had the gall to ask him about you on set, though the cameramen and caterers could piece together why he scurried off the lot at the end of a late-night shoot. you found it humorous, sometimes spotting reporters trailing up and down your block, all the while jiyong was on the other end of your landline. "if only they knew," you thought aloud, looking out of your kitchen window. you heard his satisfied huff, jiyong settling into his sitting room couch. "that only a handful of buildings down, their biggest payday awaits." "don't wish that on yourself, my love." jiyong tutted. "i'm not the best with sharing." "you've made it known," you said. a smile graced your features, watching the group of suited men on the street turn the other way, clueless. "i just find it funny." "my misery?" jiyong quipped. "absolutely," you riffed, hearing his hearty chuckle. "but i meant just the general ineptitude of men." "its our most recognizable quality," he concurred, smiling wider at the sound of your laughter. "we're not us without it."

you went public in your own time: accompanying jiyong to a gala he was invited to, following celebrating six months together. he kept a comforting hand on your back through the camera flashes, introducing you to colleagues and friends alike. he keenly kept you away from any producers with tendencies of running their mouths and not knowing where to keep their eyes, but carefully chose directors that were respectable in both reputation and morals. they were few and far between, but jiyong took his chances, marveling in how you worked the room. the night came to a close at around half eleven, making your way to his house in the hills, as you often did on long weekends. though it was the middle of winter, california remained characteristically warm, ending in you two stuck on his driveway, not intending getting out of the car anytime soon. the chirps of crickets amidst the night air fell background to your lips spoiling his. jiyong kissed you slowly and with purpose—just the way you like it, and he's learned to love—encouraged by your hand on his nape, the other resting on his clothed chest.

jiyong gradually broke the kiss, giving either of you the chance to breath. your hand on his chest reached up, fingers combing back fallen strands of his hair—he hadn't applied his pomade evenly, having been in a time crunch before heading to the gala—though his slicked back side-part looked handsome nonetheless. his palm traced up the side of your thick thigh, feeling the sequins masterly crafted into the black fabric of your ankle-length dress. his nose followed the scent of your perfume—always spritzed on your neck and nowhere else—eyes fluttering closed, cold chill of diamonds glimmering on your necklace he gifted for your anniversary grazing his cheekbone, making his way down your chest. your neckline gave way to your cleavage—hemmed to protect from wandering eyes, though sewing your man's attention for eternity—feeling jiyong press the tip of his nose into your plush, supple skin, pressing slow kisses to what was exposed of your left breast. he hummed lowly in content, moving to your right. with how your hand moved to hold the back of his head, your left shoulder strap fell.

"hike this leg up f'me," he murmured, his free palm brushing over your left thigh. "put it over my knee." "the dress—" you took a breath. "it'll tear. its—its a loan." "we'll hike it up, then." he said. "could you stand for me, baby?" "yes." "here, honey—" jiyong reached down, taking your shoes off for you, putting your black pumps in the backseat. "hold the top of the windshield, hm?" he said, seeing you nod, gradually standing with the limited space you had. "a few wrinkles should be fine," you thought aloud, looking down, seeing jiyong take hold of the bottom hem of your dress, traveling up the lower-half of your body, collecting the fabric in his hands, reaching your waist. "bunch it up in the front, baby." he said. the bottom of the dress now rested on top of your ass, your palms scooping around your waist, the weight of the fabric draping your arm. jiyong's fingers tucked into the hem of your stockings and underwear, pulling both down at the same time, discarding them once you sat back down. "there you go." he said softly. his hand curved around your left knee, lifting to rest atop his right knee. "that comfortable for you, honey? yeah?" you nodded, wanting his lips on yours. "yes," your hand reached for his cheek, knowing what was coming as his palm traced your inner thigh. "c'mere, jiyongie."

you moaned into him, mouth suddenly hovering his mid-kiss, halted by his fingers nursing your clit. "o—oh!" you gasped. "o-oh—oh f-fuck—" your fingers wrapped tightly around his tie, untucking it from his buttoned suit, pulling his face to yours, though you didn't kiss. your eyes fell closed whilst his remained open, taking every inch of your face in—every crevice of your furrowed eyebrows, soft lips framing your open mouth, lustful whine meekly escaping your throat; everything. he tilted his head to his right, aligning his nose next to yours, breathing you in whilst his fingers worked between your puffy lips. he went to slide his middle finger in, though you were quick to voice what you preferred: "n-no," you muttered. "jus'—just want what you're doing." you tried to catch your breath. "keep—keep spoiling me how you are." he listened diligently, satisfied with how your head fell back into the seat. jiyong looked below, watching his hand work you. he caught his bottom lip between his teeth, hearing the subtle slosh of your wetness through his rhythmic ministrations. all the while, your hand retained your grip on his tie.

jiyong couldn't help his moan when you tugged—voice sat on a higher register than usual, ending with a curt whimper. you tugged again, just wanting him closer. if only you knew his trousers now felt tighter, "what is it? tell me, baby." he whispered; if he spoke any louder, his voice would crack. "you keep pulling me like that, i won't have much left to give. y-you'll make a mess of me, honey." you tested his theory, tugging at his tie. he gifted you a sound that took your breath away more than his hand already was, "fuck!" he gasped, rattling his diaphragm. his expression turned sinful, mouth hanging open, his cock pulsating between his legs. you saw him palm himself with his other hand, trying to level his breathing. "fuck!" jiyong whimpered, heart racing. "h-holy shit—m'yours, baby. completely." your cheek caught his lips, his heavy breathing into your supple skin making your eyes flutter backwards. your grip on his tie kept him close, feeling his hand pull your left leg, laying it across his lap. jiyong, in his desperate haze, grinded himself into the side of your bare, thick thigh.

he did it again. and again—the lewd friction making his temples perspire. "you—you see w-what you do to me?" his breath caught in his throat, heart stuttering. "no woman's ever made me unrecognizable. n-not—hngh!—n-not like this, baby." your toes curled into the carpeted floor of his cadillac, watching his face, bottom lip begging for mercy between your teeth. "i'm all fucking yours, baby." he shook his head desperately, losing common sense. you tugged at his tie, bringing his forehead to yours. it was as if he got the message: fingers working your clit again; the filthy, creamy sound of your pussy deflated either of your lungs, obnoxiously lost in your libidos. "keep going," you looked into his eyes, breath stirring upon your inhale. "you better k-keep f-fucking going—a—agh!" your moan echoed into the barren trees, barreling through the quiet sidewalks, fluttering in the night breeze. jiyong moaned with you, "honey. . ." he stretched his syllables pathetically. "you look so fucking pretty like this." "you too," you told him, relishing in his gasp, descending into a horrendously lewd moan. "you look so pretty, jiyong."

his fingers held no mercy, making you a disturbance to his neighbors. your moans became guttural, spurring from your diaphragm, knuckles whitening around his navy blue tie. jiyong maintained his due diligence, sending your back arching, your divineness melting into his hand. "g-good god!" you cried out, chest heaving through your euphoric haze. jiyong sucked his blessings off his pointer and middle fingers, returning his hand to your inner thigh, soothing whatever he could. you reached for him, and he listened without question. you let go of his tie, palms encasing either side of his face, breathing life back into each other. jiyong's kisses were doting yet intentional, his hand riding up your chest, settling on the side of your neck, ushering you to tilt your head; deepening the kiss. "my love," you whispered. "yes?" he whispered back, goosebumps tracing down his spine, hearing your hum of approval, his tongue toying with yours. "take yourself out," you told him. "i—i have unfinished business."

jiyong's fingers scrambled, undoing his belt, unbuttoning and pulling his trouser's zipper down. he tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs, banishing the ensemble to his ankles. he leaned back into the seat when you stood up, carrying the fabric of your dress in your arms. though he knew what was coming—offering his hand to help you maintain your balance as you turned around, his other carrying whatever he could of your dress to ensure you didn't trip—he looked up at you in boyish awe, satisfied breath flurrying past his throat. the weight of the divine settled into his lap, his legs spreading, keeping the love of his life afloat. your palms settled on his shoulders, knees secure as they could be on the leather seat. you hummed lowly, jiyong's hands caressing your wide hips, his palms making selfish residence on your backside. he looked down, watching you unbutton his double-breasted suit, working on the buttons of his white long-sleeve next. you loosened his tie, but kept it on, untucked whatever of his shirt was lodged beneath your thighs, feigning disappointment at the sight of his undershirt.

"you're no fun." you tutted. "i'll make it up to you," he said with haste. he held the base of his cock upright, ushering you to his tip. he looked up at you, as though asking for permission, or perhaps: do me the honor; dub me worthy. you eyed him, though not with hesitance, but with poise. here jiyong was, completely succumbed to you, at your behest, under your approving gaze. admittedly, you've long since pieced it together: the sparkle in his eyes receiving your praise for perfecting a monologue, his doting hand on your waist whilst you've bickered over what to make for breakfast, how his touch ever so lingers on your nape after he fastens the clasp of your diamond necklace; eyes growing tenfold meeting your loving gaze in the mirror, how his lips chase after yours if you kiss him just the right way . . . my oh my, its written in the stars; how your love loves you. you tested the waters: thumb tracing his bottom lip, though it seems jiyong was one step ahead.

your lips parted, watching and feeling him take your thumb between his lips. he ran his thumb over the pad, sinking his head. you tutted, though your pussy called you insane; carnal heat churning between your puffy lips. your remaining fingers lifted his chin, returning his eyes to yours. "let me see you." you said. "yes ma'am," he murmured. you took your thumb out, tracing his bottom lip with his own saliva. jiyong happily obliged, nuzzling his nose into your palm, pressing soft kisses, looking up at you for your next move. you humbled him, sinking without warning, watching him unravel like a lotus flower. "h-how am i already so—s-shit!" he cursed sharply. jiyong's eyes rolled back, that telling knot forming in his abdomen. he was at a loss for words, regaining enough sense to watch your hips roll back and forth, biting his lip at the muffled sound of your knees squeaking against the seat. jiyong looked up, nearly succumbing to his pending orgasm. there you were: head thrown back, chest glimmering with a thin layer of sweat, nails digging into his shoulders. "j-jiyong—" you let out a gasp, his cock brushing past a spot so deep you didn't know what to do with yourself. "you f-feel so good, honey."

jiyong was attentive, though every roll of your hips stripped him of his composure. "i—i do?" he licked his lips, trying to get your attention back. "t-tell me—hgnh!—tell me, baby." you did, but with your body: moving yourself up and down on his cock, your thick thighs clapping against his. you saw his eyes roll back before squeezing them shut, "o—oh!" he cried out, at your complete helm. "oh my f-fucking god! y-yes!" you tried to ignore your knees feeling ablaze, and your thighs beginning to ache, but you're only human: "i—i forgot—" you huffed. jiyong was in his own world; head laid back, mouth hung open, hands lifeless on your hips. "i f-forgot—s-shit! ha—a!—how t-tiring this can be." "let me do some work," he pleaded. you ceased any movement. jiyong readied himself, adjusting his posture. "i'll take good care of you, baby. jus' let me—jus' let me . . . s-shit!" he thrusted up into you, pounding you deliciously—like you deserve. "t-thats it!" you cried out, toes curling. "t-thats it! k-keep—keep going!" it was filthy and raw. neither of you wanted it any other way. "i l-love when you d-do that, honey," you mewled. "no man's ever c-come close. n-never—f-fuck! agh!—ever will, baby." jiyong whimpered like there was no tomorrow, "i'm w-wrapped around your finger," he panted, feeling your backside jiggle in his palms. "i-i'm—i'm so close—" he gasped, you tugging his tie, bringing his ear to your lips. "d-don't you dare soil this dress," your abdomen headed warning. "do you hear me? d-don't—don't . . . oh! o—oh!—" "i—i won't, baby!" he babbled like a lovesick fool. "i p-promise i—i . . . f-fuck! fuck me!"

he loved when you visited him on set. it wasn't often, as you lived your own life, stubbornly trying to make your way into the industry on your own terms—though you often met with his matching energy—but you never failed to disarm him. cameramen and crew alike witnessed the most genuine smile they'd seen from jiyong to date, watching him admire you in your smart sweater and cuffed denim pants, the both of you in deep conversation when production broke for lunch. your sandwich was temporarily forgotten, attention enveloped in the copy of his script in your hands: "the pacing here is just awkward," you critiqued the writing, eyebrows furrowed behind your sunglasses. "your co-stars big monologue is fine, but it shouldn't be this early. also," you turned a few pages, landing on 47. "the most pivotal scene happens so randomly. and why did they write it to take place in a fumoir? i thought this was supposed to be a summer picture." "you should tell them that yourself." jiyong said earnestly. you brushed him off, "and what?" you tsked, closing the script. "ban myself from the lot? have you not only jobless, but black-listed, too?" "we'll make our own pictures one day, anyway." jiyong's palm encased your cheek, bringing your temple to his lips, his sunglasses tinkering against yours. "no more riddling yourself with the incompetencies of others," he tucked his script back into his lap, seeing your amused grin. "you've hardly made a dent in your sandwich."

you were in films here and there, but everything felt rather passive. unserious, even. jiyong wasn't having it: "what do you mean you're scheduled for only a day?" he asked one evening. he looked to you across his kitchen counter, eyebrows furrowed, in the middle of plating the chicken parmesan he prepared for your shared dinner. "i thought your part was bigger than that, baby." you broke it to him, halting your setting of the table, "they cut most of my scenes out in the rewrite, jiyong." his face fell, "what?" he put down his utensils, walking to you. "i'm so sorry, baby." his hands found either side of your face, lips doting your forehead. he shook his head, growing frustrated, "you don't deserve that." "its fine," you assured, offering a weak grin, "i can't be disappointed when they've already decided who i am before i even walk through the door." "they're far from saving," said jiyong. his arms wrapped you in his embrace, his chin settling on your shoulder. "you'll amount to more than they'll ever be." your hand traced his back, holding him closer. "i think i want to write. solely," you clarified. "i can—i can only stand so much of saying lines that would fit elsewhere. or are just god awful." "i'll make that happen for you," jiyong kissed your shoulder, "if its the last thing i do."

your one year anniversary was spent at a beach house in venice. sleeping until the late morning, holding each other under the fluffy duvet like lovesick teenagers, spending time alone in the plant-filled courtyard before heading to dinner, staying out even later going dancing, making love as the sunlight peppered the early morning sky. some of the most tender moments of your relationship were born from this long weekend. like when you came home at half three in the morning—jiyong gripping the door knob extra tight, trying to keep himself steady after one too many manhattans, and you giggling your way to the bathroom, him trailing behind whilst the aftertaste of your third daiquiri lingered in your senses—standing in amusing silence in the en suite of your bedroom. "freshen up before bed, baby." said jiyong, pinching the bridge of his nose. he used every active neuron in his body to remain on his feet, leaning against the counter for support. "we're gonna feel this in the morning."

meanwhile, you re-applied your lipstick, watching yourself in the mirror. "jiyongie," your hand held onto sink, taking the two steps to him, a hiccup punctuating your sentence, "gimme your face." "hm?" he lifted his head, only to be caught between your palms, feeling you kiss his forehead. you took a wobbly step back, marveling the sight of him. he was left in the dark, "what is it?" he asked, syllables slurring. "what'd you do?" "look in the—" a low burp rumbled from your chest, heard even in your attempt to cover your mouth, making yourself giggle harder, "look in the mirror." he gradually turned, standing so close to you his shoulder gently grazed your chest. his eyes were glued to his reflection, but most notably to the off-center dark red hue in the shape of your puckered lips adorning his forehead. his knees turned to jello, face warming faster than the summer sun, the shy grin tugging at his mouth the kind that made angels sing. "you look so darling," you doted. jiyong nearly melted into himself, unable to form words in those first few seconds. "i do, baby." he murmured sheepishly. he gained the gall to meet your eyes, "thank—thank you."

"can i give you one more?" you whispered. you failed to stifle your grin, paying no mind to how some lipstick transferred to your pointer finger, smudging your bottom lip. "just over here," you pointed to your left cheek. you smiled when he nodded, taking a step forward, doting on his supple skin. "well . . . now this side's all lonely. can't have that, hm?" my goodness did you make him putty, "no, we can't." he smiled stupidly, his heart racing in his chest. you peppered kisses on the right side of his face, each more selfish than the last. jiyong felt like a fool, unable to look at his reflection for longer than five seconds without succumbing to his boyish heartbeat, let alone his lady's eyes. "you made me beautiful," he told you. "not as divine, though. now that's only exclusive to you." you kissed your teeth, nudging his shoulder. "you're not allowed to still be so charming even after we've drank ourselves silly. you'll upset me so much that i'll take on another phony role just to do away with you." jiyong descended into a fit of giggles, hiding his face in his hands. "oh, love of my life," he caught his breath. "you're one of a kind. you spoil me rotten." "what do you expect me to do? just stand here while you—while you look like how you do?"

sunday evening brought an end to that long weekend, closing it out with dinner at his home in hollywood hills before begrudgingly dropping you off in burbank. jiyong waited patiently for the right moment, making his move once you finished your glass of chardonnay: "my love?" "hm?" "before i take you home," he cleared his throat, subtly trying to calm his simmering nerves. "i have something for you. in my—in my study." you gave him a look, "i thought the trip was your gift?" "well, yes, but i also—" "—jiyong," you tsked, though your voice was soft. "you do more than enough. what could this possibly be?" "i can't not give you this," he countered. he got up from his seat at the dining table, taking your hand in his as you stood, pressing a kiss into your soft skin. "and i could always do more. and i will." he led you just down the hall, past the garage and the laundry room, to the second door on the left. you had been in his study plenty of times before—perusing his shelves; reading a book on his gondola sofa lodged in front of the double pane windows; leaving a sweet note on his desk for him to find another day—though this time, you stopped at the doorway. "you didn't." your voice couldn't muster above a murmur. jiyong turned around, seeing the look on your face, smile widening with each shake of your head in disbelief. "you didn't, jiyong." "of course i did, honey."

there it was: a typewriter, and by the look of its sleek grey hues and pristine keys, it was brand new. on display on jiyong's desk, facing you in its case, as if to say its been a long time coming. you were stunned—unabashedly speechless. you approached his desk, fingers tracing the keys, in utter awe. jiyong followed after you, sheepishness making him shove his hands into his pockets. "i—i . . ." his words caught in his throat. "when you were freshening up before dinner, i scrambled to make this look presentable for when you first see it." he chuckled nervously. "it—it was delivered on friday. i signed off on it right before i picked you up to head to venice. i . . . i made sure to get this kind, since its reliable. it'll last as long as you—as you need it to." he nodded, descending into an endearing ramble. "however long you may need it. i . . ." he took a breath, trying to steady his heartbeat. "i only wanted the utmost best. for you." you couldn't help it. you were reduced to tears, his thoughtfulness; his care; his love beyond comprehension. you turned to him, sniffling, pulling him to you by the lapel of his suit.

"all i was able to muster was a measly tie," you said. you wiped your fallen tears, looking at the navy blue tie you gifted him for your anniversary, adorning the handsome ensemble he had on. "and i'll wear it on its last thread." jiyong said without hesitation. his eyes felt misty, looking at his darling, beautiful woman before him. only for you to break the tension the best way you knew how: humor. "help me," you wiped underneath your eyes, jiyong's knuckle catching a stray tear near your soft jawline. "i'm in love with someone utterly insane." jiyong couldn't stifle his laughter, lips tenderly doting on your temple and forehead, welcoming you in his loving embrace. his desire to provide never ceased, even when he was a bit in over his head, like when he tried to carry both your typewriter in his arms whilst lugging your travel bag over his shoulder to the cadillac. he tried to front as un-phased upon ascending the small flight of stairs to your floor, carrying the ensemble all the same, resulting in you nonetheless spotting him with a grin on your face.

"you may retire for the night," you quipped as he set your typewriter down on the dining table. jiyong let out a chuckle, seeing your hand out, handing you your travel bag. "i'll put this in my room." he nodded with a hum, peering over his shoulder whilst you walked down the short hall, entering the first door on your right. once you were out of sight, he reached into his suit's inner pocket, taking out a white envelope. you sent him off with sweet goodnight kisses, watching over the railing, ensuring he drove out of the lot safely. you then got ready for bed, entering the kitchen sometime later, filling your usual glass of tap water. you walked past your dining table, catching in your periphery a white envelope you didn't recall seeing before. you set your glass down, taking a seat. curious, you opened the envelope, pulling out a card. you recognized your beloved jiyong's handwriting in a heartbeat: My dearest love, he wrote, I fear this letter must start with apologies. First for my poor penmanship, and second for not handing this to you directly. I hope my written words will manage to rectify this.

I imagine this past year has been a lot for you, too. I only hope you are as happy as I am, honey. Before my path fortunately crossed yours, I was so darn stupid. Really. Glamour is known to seduce movie stars, but my vice was mistaking my independence as character. I have spent a lot of my twenties stuck on that. Though with you, my love, I am awake inside a dream. Never have I been so overjoyed in my inability to think right, or being too tongue-tied. I lose myself in your eyes. I am enlightened by your hips. My ego finds bliss in the brush of your shoulder. I sink into the Earth at the behest of your divinity. Every minute with you is another I don't spend feeling sorry, because I am heavily occupied being with in love. I have fallen deeply, and I don't intend on getting up.

I know I will stumble on my words when I give you your gift. I know my courage will vanish if I look into your eyes when handing you this card. You're right when you say you've fallen for a fool, my baby, but I'll argue you cannot blame me. You too would act foolish if the one you loved taught you how it felt to be happy. Or if the abhorrent traffic on Sunset became an excuse to daydream about her. Or when she kisses you, she convinces you that this indeed is love. Or when she's fast asleep next to you and you pray to God Almighty a lifetime is enough to show her how much you love her. You have made a very sappy stupid something out of me. Its long overdue you make the world one, too.

jiyong hurried down the hall, past his bedroom, answering the ringing landline. "hello?—" "—you evil, evil man," you sniffled. "i can't spend a moment without you. not when—not when," you used the back of your hand—still holding his card—to wipe your cheek as best you could. "not when you write me this beautiful letter. how could you do this to me?" you cried. "first, i spend the weekend thinking i've done it all. my fortune's maxed out, because i get to share my life with you," you took a shaky breath, "then, you give me a typewriter. something i never thought i'd have, let alone from someone so thoughtful—dammit!" you cursed, voice quivering. though a grin tugged at jiyong's lips, his eyes began to water. "i was—" you continued, "i was having such a peaceful evening until you upended it. completely overthrowing everything i thought i knew about love, let alone how i love you. oh, i love you so much that it pulls me into the earth with you, jiyong." that broke his dam; hot tears fell from his waterline. he sniffled, clearing his throat, "you've made me the luckiest man on earth." he said. "i didn't—" he took a breath. "i didn't think a heart could beat in the way mine does since we met."

"you have to be here, jiyong." you told him. "you have to be in my arms." "i will," he promised. "just wait for me. i won't be long." "i would wait a goddamn eternity." jiyong slept in your arms most nights thereafter, unless he beat you to bed first. or if you grew sick of his antics, deep in your rem cycle. jiyong would sometimes drift to his side of the bed in the early morning, in peaceful slumber whereas his snores entered devilish territory. though muffled by his pillow, you weren't having any of it, especially not after you were woken at six on a saturday morning. you reached to your right, senses riddled with exhaustion, your palm whacking his temple like a trained target. it was never enough to elicit hurt, but always firm in waking his ass up: "what was that for?" he muttered, eyes barely open, seeing you turn on your other side. "i had to find the snooze button," you yawning, feeling the tugging lilt of sleep in the newfound quiet. "now hush."

you shave his facial hair every couple of days, give or take, and weekly if he isn't filming. its something he's perfectly capable of doing on his own, though when you offered: "i can't say no to you, baby. you know that, right?" so he sits in his stool, you stood between his knees, working the foamy cream in with a shaving brush, carefully gliding the razor wherever necessary, rinsing the excess periodically. sometimes you would speak, other times you wouldn't; entering a meditative state of co-existence flourishing with trust. he liked wearing your chiffon scarves on days he preferred keeping his hair in place, or if he woke up without an inkling of care to tend to it. he tied a knot below his chin as you often did, earning looks by passersby running errands or pulling into the lot prefacing a busy day on set, but he never cared. to him, it was common sense to take fashion notes from your graceful self. he encouraged you to play with menswear if you showed interest; exchanging accessories depending on the mood, or pointing you to his go-to tailor if a suit or sweater of his caught your eye.

closing in on your second and third year together, things were getting serious. you finished writing a few scripts; jiyong helped sell them to film studios under an alias of your choosing. his career remained steady, though he took a lengthy break between projects to gear up for his most demanding role yet: an international agent whom blends seamlessly into society by day, shifting it by night. he had never played an action hero before, but was keen on making his argument to you: "the writing took me by surprise," he said one night over dinner, mixing the salad. "its almost as good as yours." he went on morning runs and frequented the rowing machine at the local fitness center to buff his physique. his efforts earned your wandering eyes as he came down the stairs to join you for breakfast, an unabashed stare over the book you read whilst he did his usual laps around the pool, your thighs rubbing together whilst sat in his cadillac; watching him carry boxes of your belongings out of your apartment and into his home following your four year anniversary, your lingering fingers on his shoulders after brushing lint off of his newly tailored suit that fit him just right, how you melted when those arms of his made residence around your waist; sealing the deal with a purposeful kiss, one hand in his hair whilst the other squeezed his fruitful muscles; his arms securing your waist as he lapped your clit, his firm grip on your hips taking you from behind either making your nails dig into the wall, or stuff your face into your pillow.

though his preparation kept him close by, it dually acted as a countdown for when his daily routine would be turned on its head. it was nearly a year-long shoot—first half at home in los angeles, though mainly consisting of night shoots, and the last three months in europe. jiyong fought like hell for you to come with, but his director put his foot down, going as far as threatening legal action, citing "'preservation of privacy' my ass," jiyong tutted at dinner. he sipped his white wine, his sour expression reserved for something else entirely, "what an elite way of thinking." he muttered, finishing the last pieces of his pasta. "i'll keep the fort down," you assured without question. "you just focus on finishing your job." "but i want you there, honey." "i know, my love." you said. you took a moment, swallowing your sip of wine. "but do you need me there? there's a difference. it isn't easy, but we have to make due." your straightforwardness was a pillar of his devotion to you; able to ground and keep his perspective where it needs to be. jiyong only nodded, bringing your hand to his mouth, pressing kisses, quietly accepting the circumstance.

a couple months before his night shoots were to begin, you came home to a surprise. it was on an early afternoon. you were out to brunch with friends whilst jiyong was at home, tending to whatever his priorities were that day. the idea percolated at the back of his mind for a while now—all that was left was to take the plunge. and jiyong did: after fetching the mail, he knocked on his neighbor's door. you came home at half past one, jiyong calling you to the living room. he stood from his seat on the couch, a slightly nervous smile on his face. "you have to promise you won't be upset with me." he said. your eyebrows furrowed, amused. "if its something foolish, i can't promise you anything." then your expression dropped, realizing just what jiyong was holding close to his chest: a small puppy. "jiyong. . ." your voice trailed, though your tone wasn't disapproving, but rather taken aback. you approached jiyong, seeing the bundle of grey and floppy ears timidly look up at you, dependently cuddled into your man's chest. "who's the—" you cut yourself off, heartbeat stuttering at the puppy catching your scent, bumping their head into your hand. "who's the little one?"

"this is—this is fontaine." jiyong cleared his throat, trying to ease his nerves. "you know how our neighbor has his beloved iggys?" he referred to the nickname commonly used for italian greyhounds. you nodded, "yes." "they had a litter not too long ago," said jiyong. "he just turned two months old yesterday." you gently scratched fontaine's head, taking note of how he especially liked it behind his ears. "hello tiny," you grinned, tone doting. "my biggest fear is leaving you feeling stranded," said jiyong. you met his gaze. he continued, "i want . . . i just want him to keep you company. when i can't be around as much as i'd like to. and he already seems keen on it." jiyong chuckled, trying to keep steady hold of a now excited fontaine. he carefully handed him over to your welcoming arms. jiyong couldn't help his stupidly big smile, bearing witness to the start of a long life journey. your puppy doted on your chin and cheek, blessing jiyong's ears with a sweet symphony composed by your giggles. "how'd he get his name?" you asked.

"he already had it. it means fountain in french, or something." explained jiyong. "he, apparently, likes water. did you want to change it?" "oh," you shook your head. "i was only curious. his name's suitable, funnily enough." you kissed his head, only for him to put an arrow through your heart; nestling himself against your chest. you looked to jiyong, "he's a darling. thank you for bringing him home." you reached over, fingers tugging at the end of his tie, beckoning his lips to yours. "he'll keep me company when you're not here being bothersome." you quipped between kisses. jiyong played along, "is that so?" the murmurs of his chuckle vibrated against your lips. he kissed you sweetly, "its good to know i'm leaving you in good hands, then." "good paws." "yes," he let out a laugh, "good paws." when your lips parted from his, your hand reached up, fixing fallen strands of his hair. "i'm only worried about losing track of him in your kingdom of a home." you said. "our home, honey." jiyong corrected smoothly. "yes," you nodded. "has he met the cats yet?" "i was hoping you could help with that," his face warmed at the sound of your tut, upside down grin evident on his lips. "they listen to you more than they ever did me, anyway."

fontaine was a beloved addition to your household. it didn't take long for him to acclimate: his paws pittering and pattering atop the duvet the moment either you or jiyong woke in the morning, following the cats around all day (much to the chagrin of the eldest of your pack,) nipping the corners of couches only to defiantly bark and scamper away once his father told him to stop his nonsense, did well with training until he up and decided to leave his mother a surprise to step into on her way to transfer what was in the washer to the dryer, dressed in whatever sweater, shirt or collar jiyong got him, sped to call dibs on your lap the second you settled into a lounge chair, whined horribly if you didn't pay attention to him for longer than three minutes, undoubtedly snoozes peacefully on your man's chest if he's fallen asleep on the couch, comedically running after the hose whilst jiyong watered the garden, happily paddled in the pool with jiyong's support following his morning swim—the list is endless. fontaine was good at keeping himself busy; the cats seemed to have taken a liking in raising him.

when jiyong started filming, it was as if fontaine sensed the change. jiyong came home at the time you woke up; exchanging whispers of i missed you, good morning, i love you, and sleep well prefacing your sweet kiss to his lips, getting out of bed as the lilting tug of sleep hushed his senses. those first couple of days, fontaine nipped at his father's fingers for his attention, swiftly retracting at your "fonny, honey, come with me." if you thought he was attached before, he's turned into velcro now. sat in your lap during breakfast and your morning coffee, laying politely by your ankles whilst you do the dishes, stomping his paws impatiently if you plate the cats' food before his, making you clutch your stomach in laughter with his unexplainable antics, tugging at his leash so his time outside with his beloved mommy can last longer; curling into your chest once you arrive home. jiyong often woke at around mid-afternoon, meeting your gaze with his bedhead and amused grin. "he's fully your dog," he said, voice low from his slumber. he sat in the poolside lounge chair next to yours, toasted bread with generous servings of strawberry jam on his plate. he glanced at fontaine fast asleep in your lap, tuckered out from your walk earlier. "i can't even compete."

as jiyong's residence in europe came closer, the unease was mutual. "it'll be the longest we've been away from one another since we got together." you thought aloud in bed one early morning; a week and some change before he was due to fly out. jiyong hummed in acknowledgement, "i've thought about that, too," he was earnest. "i don't want to know a world where i don't see you everyday." you let out a breath through your nostrils, nudging his shoulder. "you actors are so dramatic," you quipped, hearing him chuckle preceding his yawn. "but i don't want to know a world like that, either." "writers are dramatic too, you know," said jiyong. "there's a reason why its you all who tell us what to say. its because we're complementary." "do you think we're a perfect match, then?" "absolutely," jiyong said without hesitation. "if the day ever comes where you bestow the charity of having written a role for me, i wouldn't do anything else, because that would be my best work." you felt your face warm, your heart beating a little faster than before. "you're sleep-deprived." you quipped. "sure," said jiyong. "but i'm saying what i've thought for a real long time, baby. and you'd direct it, too, by the way. i don't care what any fucker has to say about it."

the week jiyong was leaving, the world returned to being only you two. once the pets were tended to, you joined him in bed, accepting his sleepy form in your arms with kisses to his warm temple. you spent time together as much as you could: sharing meals, doing chores, riding around in the cadillac until his call time, taking a dip in the pool, getting fresh air at a nearby park as the sun went down, and making love. it was either desperate and fierce or gentle and sweaty—not much variance in-between. not that you and jiyong cared to classify it as anything but desire, turning any part of the house susceptible to it, even the bathtub. what started as typical for either of you—a cozy cuddle, a way to catch up after time apart—turned ravenous for a different kind of heat; landing your lips on his, his hand kneading your breast, you stroking his cock underneath the warm water. jiyong reached for the stopper with a shaky hand, draining most of the water, making way for you to straddle him without making a mess.

his teeth raked against his bottom lip, in direct eye-line with your luscious backside. the divots and crevices molded so beautifully into your thick thighs recoiled with your minute movements, ensuring your knees were in ample position before you began moving. jiyong couldn't help his palms caressing either of your globes, giving the right a smack, watching it bounce back with satisfaction. his fingers fluttered through the rolls adorning your waist, reaching in front of you, doting on the indented streaks he knows cascade your stomach. his hands made residence on your waist, seeing your hand gripping one side of the tub, the other putting his cock into position. you plopped onto him, stretching yourself out, making his mind fuzzy. "o—oh!" he cried out, voice echoing off the tiled walls. the sound of your skin slapping together was outrageously lewd; wet and hard. "yes, that's it," he praised with gritted teeth. he tried to firm his grip on your waist, but the effort proved worthless, expression wilting like a flower; feeling you clench around him. "oh g-good god!" he whimpered, encouraged by your string of moans.

your breathing intensified, wet nipples hardening in the chilled air of the washroom, fingernails whitening around the curved edges of the bathtub. "oh, j-jiyongie," your panted, punctuating your sentence with a frail whimper. "h-h-how've we—how've we never tried this b-before? hm?" "i-i don't know—hngh! f-fuck—!" his eyebrows furrowed so deeply they turned upward, mouth hanging in awed lust. "y-you're so cruel to do this two days before i leave," his voice quivered. "when—w-when you know i can't have you like this." that only made you fuck down onto him harder, ignoring the cries of your knees, "then savor it, h-honey." water sloshed onto jiyong's chest, his stomach caving inward, trying to last longer. "mmph!" you bit your bottom lip, rolling your hips selfishly, his cock brushing past a certain spot. "s-savor e-every feeling, baby—h-ha—a!" your abdomen headed warning. you halted your movements, catching your breath, both hands holding onto the curved edge of the tub in front of you.

it wasn't long before jiyong took initiative. "can i do some work?" he asked, breathing steady. "c-can your jiyongie do some work, baby?" "yes," the word slipped off your tongue. jiyong's mind melted at the sight of your thick thighs jiggling with every one of his thrusts. the sound bouncing off the tiled walls was sinful and raw; your back arching to make him feel juuuust right in your divinity. "yes! oh my f-fucking good god—" your voice broke, descending into a seamlessly incoherent mess of feeble moans, feeling so good you were saying nonsense. "j-j-jiyongie! a—ah! oh my—oh my f-fuck!" you cried out, stretching your syllables. "that feels so fucking good—good god! g-good f-fucking—good fucking—ngh!" he wasn't any better: "oh, baby . . . oh b-baby!" his syllables were mush, like melted string cheese. "i l-love being good f'you," he panted. the expression on his face was meant to be immortalized in marble, "i love knowing m'being good for you, y'know that? y-yeah?" his gaze was glued to your recoiling backside, seeing his whole cock disappear and reappear inside you. "t-take all of me," his voice quivered, grunting every few thrusts to keep his momentum going, "take all of y-your jiyongie—ha—a!" his cock pulsated, your divinity sparing him no mercy. he returned to fucking you good like the devoted man he is, "you make me so riled up b-baby," he whined. "a-are—are you close? you're making me so close to finishing, honey—" "—yes! just—just k-keep going! yes! o—oh! oh my g-god—"

you gave him a spare bottle of perfume to take with him to europe, along with a letter to read if the homesickness became unbearable. "i know we intend to write to each other," you said, sat by the poolside the night before he left, "but i just needed to get this out." jiyong opened the sealed white envelope after settling into his apartment in sicily. he never thought his eyes were capable of watering so quickly, reading sentences like Its not easy being away from you when I am out with the girls, or you're running an errand, or we are simply sitting in different rooms at home; I am so in love with you that it is selfish. I wonder what in the living hell I was up to before; At the time I'm writing this, you're not even gone, but I already miss you. Five years in, and you still have me experiencing new things, my love; I will wait all night for you. I will wait an eternity for you. An ocean means nothing when devotion keeps the heart at bay.

he wrote back immediately, running to the post office before it closed for the day. he cherished the time he spent sitting down, etching his thoughts onto the page with his fountain pen, writing as if you were directly speaking to one another; international calls were notoriously difficult to make. you stopped everything you were doing when his name showed up in the mail, momentarily ignoring fontaine's playful nips at your ankles or forgetting you were in the middle of writing in your shared study. My love, I am now in Paris, your thumb traced the dried blank ink, his handwriting having taken an elegant turn since starting your thirties. We drove to the countryside to film an interrogation sequence. I'll be there for the rest of the week driving back and forth. They have the most beautiful lavender fields. I wish you were here so fiercely that the feeling suffocates me. he put out his cigarette when your letters came in: Jiyong, how in the world did you keep Fonny so contained in the pool? I tried holding him for a casual swim, as you do, yet he threw a fit for independence. Like someone's adolescent son. his laughter erupted from his stomach, the visual making his heart double over. If we start a family, do you think our children will take after him? I hope not. You alone test me horrendously with your antics, he smiled ear to ear, face warming. How I miss you, honey. I lose hours thinking of you. I could only imagine how beautiful it is where you are.

the last stop of his filming tour was london. a month and a half left until shooting wrapped, you both carefully counted down the days distance and an unforgiving timezone would no longer impede your lives. jiyong settled into his flat following a long day of multiple takes, listening through tumultuous disagreements amongst petty producers, and going back-and-forth with his hard-headed director. he finally got to open your letter after receiving it this morning, carefully tearing the envelope open after finishing his dinner. Only a month and some change left. Can you believe it, Jiyong? you wrote, To think, it felt akin to an eternity when we parted ways at the airport. Even so, it is as if three years have gone by instead of three months. Though I know you are still my sweetest Jiyong, I cannot help but wonder how you've changed. Hopefully you will survive the fact that I sleep on your side of the bed now. I like it enough to steal it from you when you return.

he chuckled to himself, eyes continuing down the page. How's that stupid director of yours? I hope he gets stuffed when the picture wraps, now a hearty laughed filled the living room of his flat. you ended your letter with a sweet note, I left something else in the envelope. Do keep it close to you. I love you dearly, he folded your letter back the way it arrived, trading it for the envelope on the coffee table. how did i not see this before? he thought to himself, pulling out what looked to be a photo. it was you and the pets: one cat laying her head on your thigh, the other curiously looking up at fontaine, whom was sat handsomely in your lap. jiyong recognized the wallpaper belonging to your living room, as well as the couch that was delivered shortly before his leave for europe. his heart swelled tenfold, your gorgeous smile meeting his gaze. he thought of your dearest friend—the reason why you met all those years ago at that summer barbecue—she must've taken this, his inner monologue marveled, thumb dotingly running over you in the photo, i remember her mentioning hosting dinner a few weeks ago. when readjusting his posture, the kitchen light revealed something on the back. curious, he flipped it over: Missing daddy dearest, "oh my," he muttered under his breath, thumb grazing over your handwriting in blue pen; 9/12/59. he didn't blink away his tears, putting the photo in his patch pocket without question.

you and jiyong lived a long life of fruitful, unconditional love. you married a year later, expecting a baby girl not long afterward. you welcomed two more before mutually capping it, raising your three daughters throughout your forties and fifties. your youngest did indeed take after fontaine, running amuck not only in the pool but the entire house through her boisterous childhood. "as if i already don't go through enough with your father," jiyong overheard you, molding the grin on his face one morning, you getting her dressed for school whilst he took your two eldest down for breakfast. "i give birth to his carbon copy." he took pride and utmost joy living with and caring for the women he loved most. it was always endearing seeing him falter to their adolescent whims: trying to settle an argument between your girls, failing horrendously when teamed up against during a conversation at dinner; "baby, i thought you were at least on my side in this?" "my love, the girls have ran this house since they took their first steps," dotingly tending to their scuffed knees; calming to their cries, or asking him the ever-so-popular "where's mom?" if things got too quiet, or they wanted to ask something he would undoubtedly say no to.

your family portraits are proud. always taken in the backyard, your daughters grew into themselves in their own respects; all intelligent, caring, and lovingly interwoven into the fabric of their parents. all three visited home regularly, and more-so once you and jiyong became grandparents. you and your darling husband became legends in your own right: his long-standing dream of you writing a role for him came true after the girls went off to college. the world was changing, and it felt you two were one of the driving forces behind it. you became a dependent director-actor duo; pictures and articles of you two working diligently on set together making bushy-tailed film students envious in their introductory lectures, producers losing their minds in stale, directionless pitch meetings, and inspiring a new generation of actors.

neither you nor jiyong could have guessed an unsuspecting afternoon at a summer barbecue would upend your lives. but as he held his grandson's hand whilst on a walk around the park, he looked over his shoulder. you were in playful conversation, your granddaughter perched on your hip. the same streaks of grey in your hair peppered his stubble. you shared smile lines and crows feet, evidence of a happy life lived. "baby?" he got your attention. "car's around that way." he gestured his head to the left, seeing you nod in acknowledgment. he put the key into the ignition of the cadillac, taking your hand in his, pressing a kiss into your soft skin. he glanced at the rearview mirror, both grandchildren safely seat-belted in, just like how their parents taught them. he drove the way home, your hand staying in his, wondering how in the world he got so lucky.

honey's taglist 🌼: @gongyoosgf @infinetlyforgotten @riddlerloveb0t @mesopotamism @pepsicolapussi @breakmeoff @thanosspills @moontabi @tabibabib @lexalith @lavenderobsessed @heartubeatusalon

[wintrbears]

Irreconcilable Differences | JJK & KNJ (1/2)

Summary: You broke up with Jungkook almost a year ago, but have to see him again for the first time at a mutual friend's wedding. He's sharing a hotel room with his best friend, and just when you happen to step inside it, the hotel goes on lockdown, leaving you no choice but to stay with the two of them for the next twenty-four hours.

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader x Namjoon

Genre: Exes to Lovers?, Threesome, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Crack (kinda?)

Word Count: 16.3k+

Warnings: crying, wedding, beach/ocean, drinking, thunderstorm, fighting, the subway, a breakup, mention of police, involuntary confinement, gas leak, hotel, ex-boyfriend, heartbreak. SMUT: threesome, kissing, penetrative sex, double penetration, anal sex, oral sex (both receiving), unprotected sex (references to bc), cream pie, cum eating, facial, titty sucking, hand job (m receiving), brief rim job, cum swallowing, face riding/fucking dick riding, spit roasting/eiffel tower, aftercare, neck kisses, choking, hair pulling, alrighty I think that's everything hehe.

Author's Note: say it with me now everyone: two bad bitches AT. THE. SAME. DAMN. TIME. guys I am so excited for this one omg! I hope y’all love this namkook filth as much as I do lol. it’s my first time writing a threesome and I wanted to do a good job for my two best boys!! this fic is like 60% smut and 40% plot 🥵 and also surprise! I decided to give them a part 2 bc I felt like I needed to tell more of this couple’s story, so that will be coming soon!! ilysm and enjoyyy :)

You claim it’s irreconcilable differences. Jungkook calls it you being unreasonable. You end things. Five beautiful years spent learning about one another, falling in love, and eventually finding an apartment to share, all for the castle to come crumbling down on one terrible, godforsaken, stormy evening. 

Jungkook runs after you into the rain upon your theatrical exit from the apartment, because of course he does, and following a ten minute screaming match practically louder than the thunderstorm itself, he manages to drag you back inside. Like the weak woman you are, you assist him in stripping the drenched clothes from your bodies before letting him make love to you one last time on the very couch you chose together years prior. 

By sunrise, you and your essentials are gone and a handwritten note is left on the coffee table stating you’ll come back for the rest of your belongings another time. 

Strangers look at you sympathetically because of your loud weeping on the subway ride to your best friend’s place. You suppose it’s better than them judging you, given that you must look insane with the multiple haphazardly packed bags strewn across your body and evident hickies dusting your neck and shoulders. 

Jungkook calls at least a hundred times, leaving voicemail after voicemail until your phone no longer allows him to leave any more. Before the clock strikes noon, you hear a jarring, repetitive banging on Yuna’s door followed by his agonized voice begging to see you. 

Per her instructions, you sequester yourself in her room and sob into her pillow while she pounds her fist right back and tells him to get lost before she calls the cops. 

That’s the last time you heard his voice.

Until now, that is, because while standing at the reception desk of a Taiwanese hotel which will be your accommodation for the next four days, you hear the familiar, gentle timbre coming from behind you.

“Joon, please tell me you have your passport,” he sighs.

“It was one time, Kook,” Namjoon groans in response.

The phrase is so mundane and yet it completely paralyzes your mind and stops you dead in your tracks. You wish you could lie to yourself and say it isn’t him, but the illustrious nickname prevents you from doing so.

Thankfully, the receptionist finishes checking you in and you’re able to scurry away with your bags before he notices you. You don’t dare to peek over your shoulder and confirm the sighting because seeing him would be far more debilitating than merely hearing him. 

The first anniversary of that horrific night is only a couple days away, but the passage of time isn’t as helpful as people say it is.

You should’ve expected him to be here since you know he’s friends with Hoseok, too. Why didn’t you consider the possibility before sending in your RSVP? Maybe you can still prevent a confrontation by leaving this very instant. You know Hoseok would understand given the circumstances. 

But no, that’s not fair to you or your friend and realistically, you'll only be in the same location during the rehearsal dinner and wedding, so avoiding him elsewhere shouldn’t be too difficult.

Those become your famous last words, because when you exit your room to grab ice a couple hours later, you see Namjoon keying into their room no more than ten doors away. Yelping as you unceremoniously swan dive into a hidden cove, you hold you breath while waiting for his footsteps to retreat before peeling yourself off the wall and sprinting back to your room. 

You naively thought you may never have to see him again, which was honestly your only hope because you know the second you do, you'll fold. It's undeniable that he's the one who got away and you know your self control is far too flimsy to resist him both physically and mentally.

There are no wedding festivities tonight, so you can take this time to prepare your head and heart for the inevitable battle which will take place once you come face to face with him. Although, any preparation you do will be useless because your head will simply command you to run as far away as humanly possible while your heart pleads with you to jump straight into his arms. There’s another area of your body which will beg for something else entirely, but you refuse to give it a dog in the fight.

Hoseok immediately foils those plans by posting on the wedding Facebook page about a welcome party down at the beach later tonight.

If you could look into the camera like you're a character on The Office, you would. Sighing in exasperation, you overdramatically flop on your bed and flail your limbs around like a petulant child. 

Once you're done throwing a temper tantrum, you get ready in the spacious hotel bathroom while repeating encouraging mantras to yourself in the mirror, but you already know mere words won’t save you.

Your dress is definitely too skimpy to be seen by your ex-boyfriend, but there's no choice when everything else in your suitcase is reserved for the following days. It’s a thigh length, deep purple, satin slip that would honestly be perfect for any other occasion, but purple is Jungkook’s favorite color, and the last thing you want is for him to think you dressed up for his sake. In fact, you were almost desperate enough to drop a couple hundred bucks at the gift shop downstairs to avoid wearing it altogether. 

As you descend the egregious amount of steps leading to the beach, you see Hoseok and his beautiful bride, Lia, standing at the bottom. Your friend smiles using his signature heart-shaped lips and enthusiastically waves with both hands while Lia does an adorable princess wave with her left hand.

“I’m so fucking happy you’re here!” He shouts before you even reach the final step.

Hoseok pulls you in for a crushing bear hug and you laugh while returning the embrace. 

“Thanks for having me,” you say once he releases you. 

Lia hugs you afterwards and you compliment her on how beautiful she looks in her white midi dress. 

The pair met in college just like you and Jungkook, which makes the whole affair just slightly soul crushing for you. It doesn't take away from the happiness you feel for them, but it's hard not to compare their relationship flourishing with yours which crashed and burned.

“I could never get married without you,” Hoseok says. 

“Or someone else, for that matter?”

Your friend frowns and a look of guilt sweeps over his features.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you.”

“It’s alright, Hobi,” you tell him. “It was a long time ago now.” Lie. Big fat fucking lie. It still feels like yesterday. “I’ll let you guys greet your other guests.”

The bar is your first stop while you mingle with old college friends also in attendance. Unlike most weddings, the guests pool isn’t entirely made up of couples which eases your mind just a smidge. Even better, Jungkook is here with Namjoon rather than a real date, unless he and his best friend finally turned their bromance into something more. 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, just as you’re tipping the bartender for your margarita, you turn to see two familiar silhouettes strolling down the steps side by side. 

As if the universe itself is trying to spite you, Jungkook looks even more handsome than you when you last saw him, which shouldn't be possible when he was already a 10/10. He’s wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattooed right arm in all its glory and black slacks that grip his thick thighs for dear life with every step he takes. His hair is shorter and pushed away from his forehead, but the few pieces framing his face delicately curl down over his eyebrow. Even though his physique is outstanding, it’s the big brown eyes you adore that leave you breathless, although there’s a somberness to them which wasn’t present before.

You don't know whether you want to cry into your sugary drink or throw yourself in the nearby sea and let the current carry you far away from here. 

To make matters worse, Namjoon looks equally amazing. He’s always been good looking, and you still remember being flabbergasted when you met him and realized both your boyfriend and his best friend are insanely attractive. His attire is similar to Jungkook’s, although he’s wearing a navy blazer over his blue dress shirt and matching slacks. He’s grown out his black hair to the point it falls into his eyes, but it only makes him look more allusive. 

Every woman on the beach, single or not, is downright gawking at the two of them as they greet Hoseok and Lia with warm hugs and stand beside the couple to chat. It takes everything in you to avert your gaze before Jungkook can see you doing the same.

You thought it might take a couple hours for Jungkook to finally find you, but it’s less than ten minutes after his arrival that you hear his voice again.

“Jagiya?”

There’s no reason to turn around since that moniker no longer applies to you. Instead, you languidly sip your drink with your elbows resting on one of the high-tops facing the vast ocean.

“Babe.”

Rolling your eyes until they nearly get stuck in your skull, you glare at him over your shoulder.

“I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”

“Who else would I be talking to?”

Seeing Jungkook up close is so much worse. There better be a defibrillator somewhere on this beach because you’re going to need one very soon. 

“Well, that’s not my name, so I wasn’t sure.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes with a half-hearted scoff.

“I’ve never called you by your name.”

“Because you were my boyfriend,” you argue. “Which you no longer are, so my name should do just fine, thank you very much.”

He makes a second agitated noise before joining you at the table and mirroring your stance so your elbows touch. As if the skin on skin contact burns, you automatically jolt away from him, bringing a frown to his face as his eyes glisten with rejection.

“Can’t we at least catch up?” 

“No.”

Your attempt to escape in the opposite direction is cut short when you barrel into Namjoon’s firm chest. He clutches your arm to keep you from falling and a brilliant smile appears as you lock eyes. 

“Hey, Y/N,” he cheerfully greets you.

“Hi, Joonie,” you sigh. “How have you been?”

“Good.” He looks at Jungkook before releasing your limb and slipping his hands into his pockets. “What about you?”

“Never better."

You make a break for it a millisecond later, running away as fast as the sand will allow to refill your drink and disappear from their sight, possibly even from earth. Fishing your phone from your purse, you find a secluded area and dial the number of your personal SOS.

The phone rings twice before Yuna’s voice comes through the receiver. 

“Everything alright?”

“No,” you whimper.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

“He’s here."

“Who?”

“Googie!”

“Jungkook?” You fall backwards into the sand with a thump as you pull your knees to your chest. “Oh, honey.”

“He fucking called me jagiya like it was nothing. I mean, who does that?”

“Do you need me to hop on a flight? Or send a hitman?”

Her tone reveals she’s fifty percent trying to cheer you up and fifty percent serious. 

“No. If anyone’s killing him, it’s gonna be me.” Staring up at the night sky, you imagine having similar encounters with him over the upcoming days. “I have to tell Hoseok I can’t stay. I won’t last four days here!”

“No, no,” Yuna chants. “He doesn’t get to win, okay? You’re there for your friend and you deserve to have a good time!”

“How am I supposed to have a good time like this?”

She sighs and clicks her tongue in defeat.

“I don’t know, but if I know that dumbass ex of yours, he’ll just come after you if you hop on a flight right now.”

“Fuck, I hate that you’re right,” you groan.

“Listen, this is what you’re going to do,” she starts. “After the welcome party, go to his room and lay everything on the table. Tell him you’re not here to play catch up or rekindle anything and to leave you the hell alone for the rest of the weekend and you’ll do the same.”

“I’m sorry, you want me to go to his room?” You ask incredulously. “A secluded location with a bed? Something he has a stupidly amazing track record of getting me into!”

“You’re not going to sleep with him, you’re stronger than that,” she states.

“I think you vastly overestimate me, Yunes.”

“Is he there alone?”

“No, he’s here with Namjoon.”

“Well, there you go!” She cheers. “He’s not going to fuck you in front of Namjoon.”

“I think you vastly underestimate Jungkook.”

She leaves you with a few more words of encouragement, but you decide to forgo thinking about him altogether so you can actually enjoy the party. 

The remainder of the evening is spent nursing margaritas and listening to Lia and her bridesmaids energetically discuss the wedding. By the time you leave the beach, Jungkook and Namjoon are long gone, but the notion only brings momentary relief. You know a conversation needs to happen, but you aren’t sure if you have the strength to confront Jungkook. Just being around him hurts like hell and you can only imagine how difficult being alone with him will be.

You mindlessly traverse the hotel while gathering courage and also partially sobering up. Speaking with Jungkook with alcohol still in your veins is maybe the worst idea of all. When you finally knock on their door, it takes less than a minute for Namjoon to greet you with evident surprise on his face. 

He’s clearly gotten comfortable since leaving the beach, standing before you with his shirt unbuttoned to reveal the white t-shirt beneath and his belt undone but still strung through the loops of his slacks.

“Hey,” he says as if it’s a question. 

“Is he here?”

“Who… Kook?” You nod instead of answering because your lip is caught between your teeth as you anxiously bite the skin raw. “Yeah, yeah, hold on.”

Namjoon calls for his friend before opening the door so you can see more of the hotel room. Jungkook comes stumbling out from the bathroom still zipping his pants up and when his eyes land on you, they joyfully light up.

“Baby?” His voice goes up an octave out of pure excitement. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t call me that,” you blankly state.

His expression falters with utter despair, but you can tell from his flush cheeks that he’s been drinking and is clearly overreacting due to the alcohol swimming in his veins. 

“What am I supposed to call you, then?”

“I told you, Jungkook. My name!” You groan and tip your head back to refrain from throttling him. “Can I come in, please?”

He nods until getting dizzy from the repetitive motion and stumbles back a couple inches. Namjoon gestures with his arm and you thank him before crossing the threshold as he closes the door behind you. He excuses himself to the bathroom while you walk towards the center of the suite and pretend to admire the architecture.

“Why are you here?” Jungkook immediately regrets his word choice and starts shaking his head like a wet dog. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I want you here, I just didn’t think you did, so I’m surprised.”

“I don’t want to be here,” you concur. “But we need to talk.”

“About what?”

“What do you think?” Your tone is too harsh, but you can’t help the emotions crawling up your throat and choking the kindness from your voice. “I’m here to support my friend, same as you, and I would appreciate it if we could steer clear of each other for the weekend.”

“Are you serious?” Jungkook sounds stone cold sober when he replies. “I don’t see you for a year and you come here to tell me to fuck off?”

“Yes, Jungkook, because that’s what exes do,” you explain.

“Nah, fuck that, babe,” he snaps. “I don’t give a damn what other exes do.” There’s a poignant step taken in your direction, but you match his gate to hold the distance between you. Jungkook frowns, his brow creasing in discontent. “You really don’t want to see or talk to me? At all?”

“No! Why would I?” You exasperatedly ask. “Seeing you is fucking hard, Jungkook. Is it not hard for you?”

“No,” Jungkook replies without missing a beat. “Seeing you is as easy as breathing. Being away from you is what’s hard. It’s goddamn torture, jagi.”

“Stop calling me that, Jungkook!”

“Stop calling me Jungkook. You never fucking call me that!”

“Because we were dating! What do you expect me to call you?”

“Anything but my fucking name, please,” he begs as his voice strains with emotion. “It doesn’t even sound right coming out of your mouth.”

“Does asshole sound better?”

Jungkook chuckles humorlessly while running his hand through the front of his hair. He opens his mouth to respond, but is stopped by a chime blaring overhead.

“Please excuse the disruption, loyal guests, but we have an urgent announcement to make. As of this moment, the entire hotel is on lockdown due to a gas leak on one of the lower floors. For the safety of all guests, your rooms will remain locked from the outside and key card access will be entirely revoked. Please stay where you are until we safely clear the gas and allow you to roam the hotel freely again. We estimate it will take no longer than twenty four hours. Thank you and please call the front desk with any questions or concerns.”

As soon as the message ends with another annoying chime, the room goes eerily silent and your blood runs cold. Namjoon exits the bathroom with wide, worrisome eyes, matching the expression on both your faces. 

“No. No, no, no,” you shout while running towards the exit. “No, this isn’t happening!” 

You violently yank on the doorknob even though it doesn’t budge an inch, grunting with effort as if that will somehow help. A tattooed hand gently removes your fingers from the handle to stop your incessant attempts.

“Stop, jagiya, it isn’t going to work,” Jungkook calmly says. 

It's unfair how much comfort his touch alone brings, but you ignore the feeling to helplessly pound your fist on the wood despite already knowing it’s useless. 

“It’ll be okay, I’m sure it won’t actually take them that long,” Namjoon comments. 

“Another second in here is one too long, Joonie.”

You hear Jungkook tsk in annoyance. 

“So, he gets Joonie and I’m still just Jungkook, huh?”

Your dread quickly becomes unadulterated anger as you turn on your heel to face him. 

“How many fucking times —”

“Hey, cut it out!” Namjoon interrupts by standing between you. “If we’re really stuck here you two need to stop acting like fucking children.”

“Me?”

“I’m not —”

“Yes, you fucking are,” Namjoon argues, his voice stern. “Y/N, there’s a pull out bed beneath the couch and I can give you some extra clothes to change into.”

“She’s not wearing your clothes, Joon.” 

Jungkook’s gaze is undeniably intense when he makes eye contact with his friend. 

“Well, I’m sure as hell not wearing yours,” you retort.

Namjoon sighs in defeat and runs his hands down his face. 

“This is what I mean!”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you avoid their eyes and sulk towards the couch on the opposite side of the room. If Namjoon thinks you’re behaving like a child, then you just won’t speak anymore. Simple. Great minds must think alike because Jungkook stomps over to the bed and sits with an overdramatic huff. Namjoon rolls his eyes, but ignores your shared antics by surveying the mini fridge. He’s clearly choosing the sensible route given that it’s your only source of food until the hotel reopens. 

The first hour of imprisonment happens in stark silence, besides the sound of Namjoon moseying about as he passes you both a water bottle before taking a seat in the armchair beside the bed. You all absentmindedly scroll on your phones and pretend you aren’t suffocating from the thick tension permeating the space. 

You immediately text Yuna about the situation, anxiously awaiting her reply with your thumbnail between your teeth as you parse through your many thoughts. When she does respond, her text contains an immeasurable amount of expletives and various emojis. She leaves you with a single instruction at the end of her message: “do not fucking sleep with him, Y/N!”

It’s easier said than done.

Namjoon is the first to slice through the awkward silence via an obviously fake cough. You and Jungkook both look at him expectantly and he responds with a dashing smile while leaning forward in his chair.

“Y/N, you said you came here to talk, so I think you guys should do just that,” he kindly suggests. “I can chill in the bathroom for a while, if you want.”

A sweet smile frames your face as you shake your head.

“That’s alright, Joonie. I don’t have anything to talk about with him,” you respond.

“You don’t? After a whole year you don’t have any questions or things you want to get off your chest?”

“Jungkook made it very clear when we broke up that he doesn’t want to marry me. That’s the only answer I need.”

Jungkook scoffs in response, cracking his neck as though it could release all his pent-up frustration. 

“That’s not true,” he states.

“No? Did I misunderstand something that night?”

“Yes. I never said I don’t want to marry you. I said I wasn’t ready, there’s a big difference."

Now it’s your turn to scoff with an accompanying eye roll.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s that much of a difference when after five fucking years together you still aren’t ready. Sounds like just a cowardly excuse to me,” you retort.

“Cowardly? Is that what you think I am?”

“Yes, actually —”

“Hold on, that's not what I meant by talk,” Namjoon interrupts.

“What do you expect, Joon?” Jungkook asks angrily. “She’s unreasonable!”

“Don’t you dare call me that again,” you sneer, the night in question appearing like a vision in your mind. 

Jungkook’s eyes completely soften when he realizes his mistake, not ever wanting to hurt you despite the predicament you find yourselves in. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but you end any and all conversation by strutting across the carpet and barricading yourself in the bathroom. Once you’re alone, you quietly whimper and slide down the frosted glass until your butt meets the cold tile. 

This will just be your solution for the remaining hours; to stay locked away from the piercing gaze of your ex and the well intentioned efforts of his best friend. You simply lack the wherewithal to look at his handsome face or listen to his calming voice any longer. The cold persona you’ve been maintaining all night is cracking with every word and you refuse to let him see how utterly broken you are underneath. 

Although, it's no use once you start sobbing into your hands because of all the overwhelming emotions. You’re certain he hears your brutal cries even as you muffle the sound in your palms, eventually crying yourself to sleep on the bathroom floor. 

A loud banging on the glass door startles you awake. 

“Y/N,” Namjoon calls for you.

“Use the sink,” you groan while sitting up.

“I’m not knocking for that.” There’s a heavy sigh from outside. “Can I come in?”

A weighted moment passes as your mind deciphers possible reasons not to let him inside, but when there aren’t any obvious choices, you twist the doorknob while scooting away so he can enter. 

When he does, he effortlessly slips in and turns the lock before sitting across from you and pulling his knees to his chest. 

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you murmur.

“I’m not trying to play matchmaker, I hope you know that. It’s just that we’re stuck here for possibly twenty more hours, and I don’t think you’re very comfortable lying on the bathroom floor in a cocktail dress,” he explains.

You nod in agreement as a small grin forms on your lips.

“Yeah, my ass is killing me.”

Namjoon laughs, deep dimples appearing on his cheeks as the lighthearted sound fills the air.

“He fell asleep, too, but maybe you can go bug him and actually sort some shit out?” There's hope present in his brown eyes. “Just because getting back together isn’t on the table, doesn’t mean you can’t at least be on good terms. You two have a lot of mutual friends so this definitely isn’t going to be the last time you see each other.”

“He makes it pretty hard, Joonie,” you argue.

“I know he does. It’s only because he…” Namjoon sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s only because he’s still so in love with you.”

You appreciate him saying it out loud even though it's painfully obvious that's the case.

“I know,” you quietly admit. “I don’t know if it’s even possible for either of us to ever stop loving the other one.”

Namjoon reaches out to rest his hand on your knee, empathetically running his thumb across the fabric of your dress. He doesn't seem surprised by your inferred confession, which you suppose makes sense given how observant he is.

“If there is that much love still between you, that’s all the more reason to mend things as best you can.”

He leaves you alone again so you can decide for yourself what your next move will be.  

It takes you a couple hours to come to the proper conclusion and return to the suite so you can speak with your ex-boyfriend. When you do, you find him and Namjoon haphazardly sprawled across the mattress still half-dressed in their evening wear.

Jungkook's facial features are serene as quiet snores pass through his lips. This must be the millionth time you’ve witnessed him in this state, but your heart still flutters all the same. You resist the urge to wake him as you once did, by combing his hair back and pressing featherlight kisses to his face. Instead, you nudge his leg where it’s hanging off the mattress and wait for his eyes to blink open.

“Jagiya?” He groggily asks. “Is everything alright, my love?”

Oh, he must still be half asleep. It’s one thing to throw a pet name around, but the infamous epithet exclusively used for you is a step too far.

“Wake up, Jungkook,” you order him.

“I am.”

You ignore the possibility of him purposefully calling you that so you can focus on your mission. 

“We need to talk.”

Jungkook sits up and methodically runs his hands through his hair a couple times before patting the space beside him.

Following his wordless request, you occupy the spot to his right, albeit a bit farther away from where his hand hit the mattress. When he notices the sizeable distance, his disappointment sets a crease in his brow. 

“You wanna talk like we did earlier or the way we used to?”

His question makes you replay your various conversations from today in your head.

“I’m sorry for being such a bitch tonight. I’m just trying to… protect myself,” you explain. 

Jungkook shakes his head. 

“You’re not being a bitch,” he assures you. “I’m sorry, too. I promise I’m not trying to make this any harder on you, I just missed you so fucking much, jagi.”

It's too dangerous to repeat the phrase back to him, despite it being true, so you ignore the comment altogether.

“I know that we need to have a conversation, but I’m not sure where to even start. It feels like we’re beating a dead horse at this point,” you admit.

“I’m not exactly sure, either, but I’ll answer any questions you have or re-explain whatever you need me to.”

There's been one single question occupying your mind for the last year, but you never expected being able to ask it.

“Why wasn’t I enough for you, Jungkook?”

His doe eyes widen and his hands naturally move to caress your face so he can comfort you, assure you of how wrong you are, but he seemingly changes his mind and lets them fall. 

“Not enough for me?” He shakes his head in complete disbelief at the idea. “Oh, baby, me not proposing has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. We spent half a decade together, if you’re not ready for marriage after that then it’s obviously me,” you argue. 

“No, it isn’t,” he states. “Growing up, I watched my parents go from lovesick to arch enemies in a matter of years. So, in my mind, marriage can make even the most perfect couple hate each other. Which means it could do that to us, too.”

“We’re not your parents, Jungkook.”

His parent’s broken relationship has always deeply affected him and it’s something you tried helping him heal from during your time together.

“I know, but from my perspective getting married could easily turn us into them. I thought staying boyfriend and girlfriend would make losing you impossible, but it did the exact opposite.”

“I told you that,” you groan. “The night we broke up, I said you only have one option to keep me with you, and sure, there’s always a risk of things going south, but if you didn’t propose it would happen a helluva lot sooner than if marriage tears us apart.” Without thinking of the consequences, your hands encompass his. “Jungkook, it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

His hands squeeze yours as if he’s double checking that you’re real. 

“I know that now,” he whispers.

“What… what do you mean?”

“I was wrong, jagiya. That night, letting my parents' relationship dictate our own, I made the biggest mistake of my life,” he tells you. “If I could turn back time, I would get down on one knee right there in our living room.”

You feel a familiar pressure from tears collecting in your waterline. It would be wonderful to reverse the hands of time and prevent your breakup from ever happening, but it’s impossible, and no amount of time travel can fix your broken heart.

Jungkook tries brushing the stray tears away once they finally fall, but you turn your head when his fingertips graze your cheekbone.

“Please tell me how to fix this, baby,” he begs.

“You can’t –”

“I don’t mean us. Well, I do, but I know you don’t want that.” He couldn’t be more wrong. “So how do we leave here as friends, at least.” 

Being friends is a terrible decision given how much your heart still absolutely belongs to him, but you also can’t resist having him in your life. So, you extend your hand across the space between you. 

“Friends?”

Jungkook smiles affectionately and shakes your outstretched hand. 

“That was easy,” he comments.

The tension in the room gradually dissipates as you chuckle and drop his hand.

Although, your truce allows for a different, more potent aura to surround you instead. It seems pretending to despise each other was your only protection from the inherent desire you feel, because in the otherwise silent room, the crackling heat between you is palpable. 

The first time you ever laid eyes on each other, Jungkook promptly shoved you into a dive bar bathroom and fucked you against the sink. In fact, you’re positive the two of you have never been near a fuckable surface without partaking in the act. If Namjoon wasn’t lying smack dab in the middle of the bed, you’d probably already be rolling around in the sheets together. 

Namjoon wakes up with a confused grunt before either of you can make such a mistake. He examines the unfamiliar surroundings while cracking his neck and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Hey, lovebirds,” he mumbles.

“Hey, Joon.”

“Ew.”

Jungkook chuckles at your expense and you retaliate by playfully shoving his shoulder. Per his usual antics, he grunts while falling backwards, his upper body hitting the mattress with a soft thump. The melodramatic action makes you giggle without realizing, and you can see Jungkook smiling from his position on the bed. 

Namjoon notices the positive shift in atmospheric pressure and smiles to himself as he stands to stretch his long limbs. 

“So, what are we using this ample amount of time together to do?” He asks while grabbing a snack from the kitchen. 

It’s a logical question given the circumstances, since there isn't much in the room to keep you entertained besides the TV, and who knows what selection of shows and movies the hotel offers. 

While you contemplate an answer, Jungkook sits up and gestures for Namjoon to toss him a treat, which he catches with ease once his best friend complies. Rather than opening the package, he hands it to you before repeating the motion for himself. You avert your eyes so he doesn’t see the pink blush forming on your cheeks. 

“Well, what’s your year been like, Joonie?”

Namjoon smiles at your question even as he’s chewing the granola bar he just took a bite of. He answers after swallowing his food.

“It’s been good, I got promoted to head curator at the museum,” he announces.

“No way, that’s amazing!” You cheer. “I’ll have to swing by sometime.”

“You should, we’ve got some amazing new pieces from this French historian I found,” he explains. 

“Any women in your life?”

You pop some trail mix into your mouth.

“Nah, I’m shit outta luck in that department.” He briefly glances at Jungkook before continuing. “How about you?”

“Nope. No luck with the ladies for me, either.”

Jungkook giggles beside you. 

“Seriously, though, how have you been?” Namjoon asks.

You wish you could answer truthfully, but despite the recent agreement between you and Jungkook, you still want to hold your real feelings close to your chest. For instance, you don’t want him to know the feeling of someone else’s lips makes your stomach twist in disgust. Something you’re only aware of because you attempted to kiss a stranger at the bar some months ago. The encounter only lasted approximately three seconds before you stopped the man’s advances and spent the remainder of the night sobbing in the bathroom.

“I’ve been good, too,” you say, keeping it simple. “What about you?”

Jungkook’s eyes widen when you point your attention to him. 

“Oh, fine, I guess,” he answers solemnly. “No promotions or… you know.”

You hum in acknowledgement and finish the rest of your trail mix to avoid answering any further questions.

“So, that took up approximately five minutes of the next nineteen hours,” Namjoon states matter-of-factly.

“Hm, let’s play kid games like never have I ever or some shit,” Jungkook excitedly suggests.

“Kook,” Namjoon laughs. “Be for real.”

“Hyung, we have hours to kill here.” Jungkook points to you. “Tiebreaker vote.”

“Uh.” Your head tilts as your mind contemplates the possible consequences. “I mean, why the hell not? It’s not like I don’t know everything about you anyway, Jungkook.”

“You don't know what I got up to in the last year,” he retorts. 

“Fine, but we need drinks,” Namjoon says as he hands out beers before taking a seat on the nearby couch. “I’ll go first?” You and Jungkook both nod and the older man giggles when he decides on his first prompt. “Never have I ever slept with someone in this room.”

Twin indignant glares are sent his way as you and Jungkook sip your drinks.

“That’s fucked up,” Jungkook comments. 

“Your turn, Y/N.”

Similar to Namjoon, you look between the two boys and chuckle to yourself.

“Never have I ever had a penis.” Jungkook stares you down while Namjoon merely shakes his head and sips his beer. “Your turn.” You tap Jungkook’s chest with the bottle.

“Hmm, never have I ever not been named Jungkook.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You’re a bozo.”

You and Namjoon drink simultaneously. 

“Alright, no more fucking around, we die like men,” Namjoon states while placing his elbows on his knees. “Never have I ever had sex in a public place.” There’s an incredibly awkward silence before you and Jungkook slowly bring the bottles to your lips. “No shit? I didn’t think I’d actually get you guys with that one.”

“Multiple times, in fact,” Jungkook says after drinking. 

“In very public places,” you add.

“Freaks,” Namjoon jokes. 

“Okay, never have I ever gone skinny dipping,” you say.

Only Namjoon drinks and it scratches an itch in your brain knowing Jungkook hasn't completed one of your bucket list items without you. 

“There’s an ocean right outside, ya know,” Jungkook comments with a smirk. You respond by elbowing his ribs. “Ow, understood.” He thinks for a minute before a more sinister smile appears. “Never have I ever had a threesome.”

No one drinks, which only causes Jungkook’s expression to morph into one of satisfaction.

“I’m sorry, did you only ask because you want to know if I’ve had one since we broke up?”

“Yes,” Jungkook shamelessly admits. “You’ve always wanted one and it’s the only opportunity I’ll have to ask.” 

“You wanna try a threesome, Y/N?” Namjoon asks with an eyebrow quirked. 

“Mmhm, but my boyfriend was always too jealous to indulge me,” you state while side-eyeing Jungkook. 

Your ex scoffs with a shake of his head. 

“Why don’t you tell Namjoon why I said no, babe.” You suddenly look like a deer in headlights. “That’s what I thought.”

“Wait, wait." Namjoon scoots to the edge of his chair. “Spill.”

“Oh, no,” you reply.

“C’mon, jagi, tell him,” Jungkook goads. A threatening glance is sent his way, but he ignores your agitation and menacingly tilts his head as if to taunt you. All hope is lost when he turns to face his best friend. “She wanted us to have a threesome with you.”

Namjoon chokes on air.

“Huh?”

“Oh yeah, she begged me on multiple occasions.”

“Jungkook!” 

His poor friend’s face is glowing with a bright red blush as he processes the confession.

“What… why me?”

“I mean, it’s not everyday your handsome and buff boyfriend has an equally handsome and buff best friend,” you explain. “What’s a girl to do?”

“It’s not everyday you’re stuck in a hotel room with them, either,” Jungkook notes while calmly drinking his beer. 

You and Namjoon whip your heads in his direction with equally large eyes. Jungkook merely chuckles at the joint reaction and leans back on his hands like he didn’t just plant a ticking time bomb in the center of the room. 

“Sorry, are you —”

“Suggesting we all sleep together?” He turns to you with a gleam in his eye. “Yes, jagiya, I am.”

“But why now when you always said no before?”

“Because as you made it very clear earlier this evening, I’m no longer your boyfriend. I have no problem sharing what isn’t mine to begin with,” he explains. 

Something about his statement shatters your heart in a way you refuse to admit.

Namjoon clears his throat to garner everyone’s attention.

“Uh, is this something we’re genuinely considering? Because I’m totally down.”

“Babe?”

Jungkook has nothing but hope brimming in his eyes while you maim your lower lip with your teeth. There are multiple contrasting emotions battling in your head, but the overall winner is excitement as the feeling flows through your veins and becomes your answer. 

“As long as you stop calling me that.” There’s a brief pause before you remember to cover all your bases. “In either language, Jungkook.” 

The man in question’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead as a charming smile grows. 

“Deal.”

Your heart skips a couple beats when he shuts his eyes and leans in with pursed lips. As if it’s second nature, Jungkook’s hand rises to hold the back of your head, but you keep him in place with a gentle touch to his chest. 

“Give me a minute.”

The mattress bounces when you stand to run away into the safety of the bathroom again. Oxygen fills your lungs for the first time in minutes upon entering the secluded space. Moving towards the counter, your hands grip the marble as you turn the faucet and splash cold water on your face. 

Your best friend appears like an apparition in your mind, reminding you of your sworn duty not to sleep with your ex-boyfriend. Technically, you're only half sleeping with him, since someone else will be there. Yeah, you’re certain Yuna will accept that bullshit explanation without biting your head off. 

She’ll just have to forgive you, because you’ve imagined this threesome countless times over the years and nothing is going to prevent it from becoming a reality now. Sure, you never pictured it happening because you got trapped in hotel with your gorgeous ex and his equally attractive best friend, but here you are.

After spending some time calming your racing heartbeat, you stare yourself down in the mirror and share an affirming glance with your reflection before exiting. 

When you do, Jungkook is standing just beyond the door with desire in his dark irises. Namjoon isn’t far away, sitting on the corner of the bed with his legs spread while he intently watches the two of you.

“You ready?” Jungkook asks in a low tone.

Heaven help you.

“Do your worst.”

Jungkook doesn’t waste a single second and slams his lips on yours while his large hands encapsulate your head. The sudden movement causes an involuntary moan, his warm lips already turning your mind to mush as you clutch his shirt to keep your knees from giving out.

Heaven can’t help you now, because the feeling of Jungkook kissing you again is far above its paygrade. 

His mouth coaxes yours open and you grant him unlimited access without another thought, allowing him to slip his tongue inside so it can tangle with your own. The familiar motions transport you to a world where your breakup never occured and Namjoon isn’t a couple feet away. It honestly feels as though you’re the only two people in existence when he molds his mouth to yours and grips your hair between his fingers like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

“Fuck,” Jungkook whispers against your lips. 

He gives you a final peck before kissing across the lower half of your face and down your neck. You indiscriminately moan as his soft, wet lips repeatedly meet the most sensitive areas of your skin. Your hand rakes through his styled hair when he licks across your jugular and takes a delicate bite. He gives your collarbone, sternum, stomach, and abdomen chaste kisses while rapidly descending to his knees. The sight of his lustful eyes peering up at you from the vulnerable position makes your core clench. 

Your eyes are silently pleading him to touch you and it brings a devilish smirk to Jungkook’s face. His hands sneak beneath the hem of your dress to touch your bare skin while kissing the fabric resting on your thighs. When you whine for more, he pacifies you by bunching the dress up to reveal the lace underwear covering your cunt. He groans in satisfaction and starts kissing your mound through the material, causing you to hold onto his black strands for dear life. 

“Jungkook, please,” you breathlessly beg. 

“Use your words,” he orders while making out with your panties. 

Jungkook’s always demanded you spell your wants and needs out for him in bed, so you should’ve expected his response. 

“Need your mouth on me,” you pant.

He hums affirmatively and tugs your underwear to the floor before languidly licking your pussy from bottom to top. A combination between a broken gasp and pleasurable cry comes from you in response. The sensation of his tongue moving through your folds is earth shattering even if you’ve experienced it a million times and the feeling must be mutual because Jungkook is enthusiastically moaning into your cunt while lapping up the leaking essence from your hole with precise flicks of his tongue. 

“Goddamn, you taste so fucking good,” he grunts before diving back in. 

His fingers hold you in place by the meat of your thighs as he eats you out like you’re his final meal on earth. Jungkook’s always been an expert at eating pussy, and his innate skill is only highlighted by the fact that you haven’t been touched by another human in a year. Between his hands gripping your flesh and his mouth slurping your juices, your mental fortitude doesn’t stand a chance.

Jungkook continues kissing and licking your pussy for a torturous amount of time before finally granting you solace and moving upwards to pleasure your clit. When you jump from the sensation of him kitten licking you, he growls and his fingertips bite into your supple thighs.

“Don’t fucking move.” He flattens his tongue on your pearl and moves his face side to side to create friction. Your head falls against the glass as you helplessly moan. “You have no fucking idea how much I missed this pussy.”

The deep timbre of his voice sends vibrations through you as he maintains the mind blowing tempo. He halts the efforts of his tongue to suck your swollen clit into his mouth, causing your eyes to roll deep into your skull. In the same breath, he purposely allows drool to drip from his lips onto your pussy, as if you aren’t gushing cum already. The extra wetness creates a seamless glide of his mouth on your skin and you can barely keep your body upright from how amazing it feels.

“Goo — Jungkook,” you whine. 

He ignores your call of his name, although you think he caught the near slip up because his low chuckle tickles your wet skin and sends shivers down your spine. 

“Fuck, Joon, you gotta taste her.” He moves away from your cunt and you automatically whimper, your hand clutching his hair to keep him close. “Best pussy in the entire fucking world.”

When you glance at the man in question after taking multiple deep breaths, you notice him sporting a cheshire grin while his dragon eyes dangerously call to you.

“Is that so?” Namjoon tilts his head as he holds the seductive eye contact. “May I?”

The only action you can muster is a weak nod, your head barely holding itself up from how high up in the clouds you are. 

Jungkook catches your attention by placing a final kiss to your clit before rising and tucking a piece of stray hair behind your ear.

“Be good,” he instructs. 

There’s an urge within you to fight back and tell him it’s no longer his place to command anything from you, but the lustful haze veiling your consciousness prevents you from speaking altogether.

Before you realize, you’re nose to nose with Namjoon and the miniscule distance between you makes your heart stop.

“We’re gonna have so much fun with you, Y/N,” he taunts.

He drops to his knees the very next moment, firmly gripping one of your thighs as he maneuvers it to rest on his shoulder. 

It’s been more than six years since anyone beside Jungkook touched you, and although you want this, the feeling of someone else holding you inadvertently causes a negative reaction. Your hands begin to shake and your eyes snap shut as unease washes over you and settles in your stomach. 

Jungkook must notice the energy shift, because you feel his lips caressing your shoulder as he gently kisses your skin. 

“It’s alright,” he whispers between smooches. “Just enjoy it, beautiful.”

Namjoon’s plush lips are kissing and sucking on your inner thighs as his face ascends towards your center. It’s easier said than done, but you eventually acclimate to the foreign touch and manage to calm your body and mind. 

When his mouth reaches your cunt, he tastes you for the first time with a tentative, featherlight lick, but after slowly swiping his wet muscle through your folds a couple times, he amorously hums while gripping your thighs tighter. He forces your pussy down onto his face and you yelp, a desperate hand grasping his spare shoulder for support. 

“Fuck, Joonie” you whine.

The younger man is still painting your neck with sloppy kisses as Namjoon does the same to your cunt. 

His mouth feels completely different in comparison to Jungkook, but still just as pleasurable. While your ex eats you out as if he simply can’t get enough, Namjoon seems to be savoring every single bite. 

Despite the delicate pressure of his tongue gliding along your slit, you feel pure greed behind his actions. He’s holding you firmly in place while bobbing his head to lick every inch of your cunt and his wanton noises sound like he just wants more, more, and more. Then his tongue pushes into your hole and licks long your inner walls as his buttery lips absolutely devour you and the feeling is jaw dropping. 

“Jesus, you weren’t kidding,” he comments under his breath. Namjoon looks up to ensure you’re watching his tongue take a single, long lick of your pussy before curling your juices into his mouth. “You’re fucking delicious, baby.”

You pathetically moan over his praises.

“Make her come, Joon,” Jungkook says. “She looks so pretty when she finishes.”

Namjoon hears your ex loud and clear, keeping his eyes on you when he switches gears and starts mouthing at your clit. 

Gone is the gentle giant as he religiously flicks his tongue over your nerve endings before teasing you by moving the muscle in slow circles instead. He seems to enjoy your response to his actions, an airy chuckle meeting your core where his lips have begun sucking on your nub. Of course your eyes are rolling as you pant and sink your fingertips into his shoulder muscles, he’s pleasuring your most sensitive spot as if he’s done it countless times. 

He reclaims your pussy to drink the weeping essence collecting there, but his nose nuzzles your clit so you’re still being stimulated in both areas. The perfect combination makes your mind blank and your senses malfunction until all they recognize are him. 

You don’t just fall over the edge, you’re forcefully pushed off the precipice by his extraordinary movements.

“Oh, holy shit,” you cry.

The gorgeous man on his knees for you groans in delight as you come on his face, swallowing every ounce of cum you give him. If he wasn’t still balancing your leg on his shoulder, the convulsing your body does in reaction to the climax would send you toppling. 

Jungkook ardently watches you as the high simmers, observing your every twitch and noise with heat in his eyes. Meanwhile, Namjoon is still slurping away beneath you like he could continue for hours without complaint.

You shove at his shoulder when the oversensitivity becomes too great, needing to focus on your trembling breaths so your body can return to baseline. 

“How was that?” Namjoon asks as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

A dry chuckle leaves your lips.

“What a stupid fucking question.”

Both men laugh as Namjoon stands and Jungkook sits on the bed. 

“So, who are you sucking off first, beautiful?” 

Jungkook’s lopsided smirk is too attractive for his own good, and you know it’s only present because he found a clever loophole to your sole condition for this entanglement. 

“Well, since you let Namjoon do your dirty work, I think you should finish what you started while I thank him for doing such a wonderful job,” you explain. “Whaddaya think?”

He doesn’t respond other than by pulling you into his lap by your thighs while simultaneously lying back so you’re straddling him. 

“Hop on your favorite seat, then.”

Your eyebrows lift for a silent confirmation of his request and he winks as an answer. The anticipation of having him again creates childlike giddiness within you as you maneuver yourself above his head. At the same time, Namjoon strolls to the opposite side and pulls his belt through the loops to remove it. Once his slacks are kicked into a pile on the carpet, he stands directly in front of you where you’re kneeling over Jungkook’s face. 

“You know, Kook’s bragged about your mouth on multiple occasions, so your reputation precedes you,” Namjoon states.

“Oh, I assure you, I’ll exceed your expectations, Joonie,” you confidently reply.

Before you can continue the conversation, Jungkook is tugging your thighs down until your bare pussy is smothering his mouth. You moan as your head falls back upon feeling his searing hot tongue on you again. He parrots the noise into your folds, accompanied by the erotic sound of him repeatedly bringing your cum into his mouth.

When your attention returns to Namjoon as Jungkook continues his diligence on your cunt, you see his eyes reverently staring at the scene while he palms his covered cock. You reach for him, dipping your fingers beneath the fabric resting on his hips to pull him closer. He stumbles forward with a deep laugh and aides you in pushing the garment down his thick thighs to reveal his cock. 

To state it plainly, the man is well fucking endowed. He’s slightly longer than Jungkook, although if memory serves correctly, not as thick as him. Comparisons aside, his dick is genuinely mouth watering and all of your emotions are instantly superseded by the innate desire to taste him. 

“Like what you see?”

“Mmhm,” you say with a slow nod.

His cock is achingly hard and twitches in his hand as he strokes himself without breaking eye contact with you. Your tongue slowly traces your lips as you imagine how he’ll taste, the bead of precum forming on his head practically calling your name. Seeing him in all his glory is the perfect reminder of why you begged Jungkook for this so many times. There’s no doubt you’re about to have the time of your life being sandwiched between them all night.

Your warm hand replaces his own as you begin languidly stroking him and running your thumb across his slit to gather the precum and work it down his shaft. He groans as his head lulls, giving you the sexiest view of his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“You’re so big,” you tell him aimlessly. 

He doesn’t respond, clearly too preoccupied with relishing the feeling of your small hand wrapping around his thick cock. 

Meanwhile, Jungkook is still fervently licking your pussy like rent is due tomorrow. His hands remain on your hips after creeping upwards from your thighs and he uses the leverage to move your cunt back and forth across his face, causing his big nose to catch on your clit and effectively nullify your senses. 

Despite the debilitating pleasure you're receiving, you focus on the man before you and bend over to lick his cockhead, making Namjoon instinctively clutch your hair. You dutifully swipe your tongue across his velvet skin to get acquired with his masculine taste. When you tease him by circling the sensitive ridge of his head with just the tip of your tongue before flattening the muscle once you reach his tip, Namjoon forcefully groans. 

“Fuck, baby,” he curses under his breath. 

His reaction encourages you to finally take him between your wet lips, suckling on his head as your hand continues working him in smooth strokes. 

“You’re so sexy, Joonie,” you mewl after leaving the pretty tip of his cock covered in drool. 

“Keep putting your mouth on me then,” he chuckles. 

Namjoon’s always been peaceful and practical, but you can hear the sharp edge in his tone born from your teasing. 

Following his orders, you fully wrap your lips around him and bob your head with your tongue out to soak the remaining length of his cock. Your hand falls away and joins your other on the mattress to keep yourself steady. You swallow his dick inch by inch as you bring him deeper into your mouth with each glide. Your actions turn him noisy above you, endlessly whining and groaning as his fingers tug on the hair caught between them.

Jungkook’s just as loud as he lazily drinks your essence and moans into your cunt. He’s going slower than normal so he can prolong your pleasure while you take care of his friend, but the andante rhythm of his mouth doesn’t make his movements any less punishing. His tongue is constantly alternating between long sweeps of your pussy from bottom to top and tauntingly circling your clit. 

“Holy fuck,” Namjoon breathes. “So fucking good, baby.”

His nonsensical praises are totally understandable, since you’re using all the tricks in the book to energetically suck him off. Your tongue makes loops around his cock every time you move your head closer to his pubic bone. When you pull back, you press the muscle firmly along the underside of his shaft and flick it against his tip before doing it all over again. It takes a decent amount of time to fully sheath him in your throat due to his size, but once your nose is buried in his pubic hair, you hold the position so he can savor the feeling. He certainly seems appreciative, given that he practically growls like a wild animal and yanks on your hair. 

The next time you descend and his tip sinks deep into your throat, you swallow so he can feel the way your muscles constrict around his dick. That nearly makes him lose his marbles, his nails harshly scratching at your scalp as you blow his mind along with his cock. 

“Mother of God, Y/N.”

A giggle escapes as you take a momentary reprieve and flatten your tongue on his head, lapping up the precum pooling over his slit. 

“Told you,” Jungkook proudly states from beneath you. “She got you close yet, Joon?”

His voice is partially muffled by your thighs around his head, but his friend still hears the question. 

“Fuck yes, about to blow any second,” Namjoon breathlessly replies. 

It’s quite obvious he’s telling the truth by the way his cock deliciously throbs inside your mouth. Upon hearing his answer, you suction your lips around him and vigorously bob your head to finish him off. Your fingers even join the fray to fondle his heavy sack that’s full of all the cum you’re about to swallow. 

Jungkook kicks his own motions into high gear so you two come simultaneously, forcing your cunt down on his mouth and spitting into your folds so he can wreak havoc on your hole. 

His unexpected ministrations make you yelp and Namjoon gasps in response to the vibrations around his cock. You continuously moan as you work upon realizing the effect on him, and within seconds his balls tighten in your hand and you sink down completely so his cum shoots straight down your throat. 

“Oh shit,” he grunts.

Tasting his warm seed before it pants your esophagus white is downright sinful, but feels oh so good. It’s been far too long since you’ve had the pleasure of breaking a man off and letting him empty his balls in your mouth. 

The movements of your mouth never cease while swallowing every drop he provides, allowing your tongue to collect the essence that spreads along his shaft. Although you’re focusing on Namjoon, Jungkook is dangerously close to bringing you an orgasm by rapidly fucking his tongue into your pussy. 

When you do come, your sharp cries force Namjoon’s cock from your mouth as your body shakes with the unbelievable strength of your second orgasm. 

“Ah, Jungkook!”

Namjoon’s hand is still in your hair and he attentively combs through the strands as pleasurable tears prick your eyes. Jungkook is groaning underneath you as he eats the cum spilling from your pussy and soaking his face. He doesn’t stop tormenting your sensitive folds until you finally roll off him and collapse on the bed. 

All three of you are erratically panting from the intense pleasure and effort. 

You clock the massive tent in Jungkook’s slacks and immediately feel the urge to satiate him before you’ve even caught your breath. 

“Jungkook, strip.” He subconsciously nods and starts unbuttoning his shirt to remove it from his torso. His slacks and boxers come off in one go, revealing the familiar sight of his gorgeous cock to you. It takes every ounce of your strength to resist moaning out loud. “Namjoon, have you ever been to Paris?” 

Your other companion is still delirious from his overwhelming climax and your doe-eyed, curious expression doesn’t aid him in the slightest, but he shakes his head as an answer nonetheless. 

Upon seeing his response, you maneuver to all fours with your ass facing him and your head towards Jungkook. Your ex is standing beside the bed and watching you like a hawk as you get into position. 

“You sure about this, doesn’t your jaw hurt?” Jungkook questions. 

“C’mon, Jungkook, you know how much I love the pain,” you respond. 

His only reaction is an irritatingly sexy, smug grin as he comes to stand right in front of you, his hard cock standing at attention only an inch away from your awaiting lips. 

“I get to fuck you?” Namjoon asks from behind you. 

His hands are traversing your waist, hips, and thighs and when he flips your dress up to reveal your bare ass and soaking pussy, he hums delightfully. 

“Of course you do,” you respond, seductively looking over your shoulder at him. “You better do it right, Joonie, or we’re gonna have a problem.”

He clicks his tongue. 

“You don’t need to worry about that, baby.”

Returning your attention to Jungkook, your eyes travel from his v-line up his sculpted torso, but before they reach his face, an unfamiliar artwork catches your attention. 

“Did you… did you get a new tattoo?” 

Jungkook glances towards his right shoulder where the new, colorful ink is etched into his skin. The shoulder piece partially covers his old tattoo and stretches across his collarbone. You can’t help but gawk at the pretty art on his honey skin, honestly shocked that he finally added to his sleeve.

“You like it?” 

He looks far too cocky about your reaction for your taste, but you do in fact like it. You’ve told him many times just how hot a tattoo in that location would look, and it seems he took your advice long after you were gone.

“Ye — yeah,” you answer. 

The confident expression only grows when you unfortunately fail at responding like a normal human, far too distracted by the ink to think properly. 

Rather than teasing you as usual, Jungkook gently pets your hair before resting his hand on your jaw. He uses the controlling grip to pull your face closer to his cock and you automatically push your tongue out to lick the precum off the tip. Jungkook smiles at your instinctual reaction, as if pleasuring him is something written in your DNA.

“Why don’t you show me just how much you like it?” 

His tone is dripping with desire to the point his voice shakes, his eagerness to have your lips around him evident in his phrasing. 

You obediently press your tongue to his skin again, this time leisurely dragging the muscle along his head. The hand on your jaw rescinds to your hair and pulls the strands away from your face so he can see you kitten licking his cock.

“Good girl,” he praises, his eyes never once leaving your face.

Meanwhile, Namjoon begins running his dick through your folds, lubricating himself with your cum so he can slide into your pussy with ease. 

“Go on, Joon,” Jungkook instructs. “Let’s fuck her dumb on both ends, shall we?”

When Namjoon pushes in without another word, the feeling of his tip pressing into your hole makes you keen and desperately grip the sheets beneath your fingers. 

“Would you like that, baby?” Namjoon asks to patronize you. “Do you want us to stretch your holes with our big cocks?’

When you only nod in response, Jungkook tugs on your hair in retaliation. 

“Yes,” you whimper. “Please, ruin me.”

Namjoon enters you one inch at a time so you feel every ridge and curve as he descends into your pussy. You’re still licking Jungkook’s head and shaft, sufficiently coating his cock in saliva before taking him between your lips, but it’s nearly impossible to focus on the man in front when the one behind you is using his dick to spear you. An enthusiastic moan breaches the air once he’s fully inside you, and the men share a demeaning laugh at your current predicament. 

It’s honestly nasty how much you crave the feeling of them stuffing you. 

As soon as Namjoon pulls back for the first time, you suck Jungkook’s cock into your mouth. They both pornagraphically moan because of the pleasure your cunt and mouth simultaneously provide them. 

“Shit, you’re so fucking tight,” Namjoon grits through his teeth. 

“Oh, fuck,” Jungkook whines.

Namjoon takes control via a fierce grasp on your hips, giving him the ideal leverage to thrust into you. Similarly, Jungkook clutches your hair like reins between his fingers in preparation for you deepthroating his cock.

The initial stroke into your pussy sends you forward until you’re swallowing about half of Jungkook’s cock, forcing an erotic gasp from him. Namjoon’s movements create the perfect bobbing motion for your head, making this eiffel tower position somewhat easier than merely sucking dick. The strength of his thrusts allows you to take more of Jungkook into your mouth with each one, so your only job becomes keeping your tongue out and tightening your lips around him, occasionally moaning, gagging, or swallowing when he tickles your throat.

“She’s a fucking dream, isn’t she?” Jungkook says with strained vocal chords.

“That’s a fucking understatement,” Namjoon instantly replies.

The feeling of Namjoon fucking you is obviously foreign, but earth shattering nonetheless. He magically knows the perfect angle for his cock to consistently hit your g-spot, driving himself deep inside you while maintaining a steady pace to prevent from hindering your work. The push and pull of his hips creates mind blowing friction and stimulation as the thick veins running along his shaft rub against your inner walls.

He’s certainly fulfilling his promise as he effortlessly rearranges your guts, his dick reaching parts of you long forgotten prior to this.

You’re clearly excelling, too, because Jungkook is incoherently cursing and panting like a dog above you. Namjoon’s diligence from behind means your sole focus can remain on the actions of your mouth, lips, and tongue. Despite your familiarity with sucking Jungkook’s cock, there’s still an adjustment period due to his size, but once his tip meets your esophagus, you purposely gag around him, allowing your drool to coat his skin. 

Jungkook’s got quite the ego, which you’ve always found unbelievably sexy, and seeing your lips stretched to the limit while you willingly choke on his cock is hands down his favorite sight in the world. 

“Fuck, no one sucks my cock like you do,” he claims. “God fucking damn.”

Although he’s complimenting you, his statement makes your eyebrows pinch together. You’re unsure if he means it rhetorically or if he’s actually comparing your skills to someone else, namely someone he may have been with in the last year. The thought makes your heart sink into your stomach, but you shove the anguish away so you can continue focusing on this moment.

“God, your pussy is fucking insane, baby,” Namjoon states.

You’d thank him if it wasn’t for the large cock in your mouth.

Alas, you’re slightly preoccupied with being penetrated on both ends like a pig on a spit, not that you mind, since the incredible sensation is driving you hog wild, anyway. 

Namjoon’s length fills you up entirely and your pussy reacts by tightening around him everytime he pistons into you. Meanwhile, Jungkook is positively abusing your throat, the saliva pooling in the corners of your mouth dripping down his balls and turning them shiny. If you could lift a hand without falling over, you’d massage them so he’ll spill his seed faster. 

Although, that ends up being unnecessary, because Jungkook nearly chokes when you suction your lips around him while he’s stuffed in your mouth.

“Can I paint your face, beautiful?” He desperately asks.

Nodding as you peer up with siren eyes, you maneuver your tongue in circles around his shaft to send him reeling. 

Jungkook removes himself from your warmth and fists his cock until spurts of hot cum begin shooting from his tip. You open your mouth wide and close your eyes, giving him full control over the picture of sin he’s going to draw on your face with his semen. His cum mostly lands in your mouth, which you joyfully swallow, while the rest covers your cheeks and chin in a creamy, white liquid. 

“Ah fuck, that’s right. Take it all, gorgeous,” Jungkook gasps.

After he firmly squeezes the head of his cock to ensure he’s given you every last drop, he bends over to kiss you, holding your face with both hands as his cum smears across his own face. 

Namjoon doesn’t stop his deep strokes into your cunt, causing you and Jungkook to moan into one another’s mouths as his actions force your faces closer to the beat of his dick entering you. 

“Jungkook,” you whisper once he pulls away. 

“So good… always so good for me.”

He licks a glob of warm seed from your cheek, giving you multiple chaste kisses afterwards as his friend begins to slow his assault on your pussy. You whine when Namjoon’s cock leaves you empty, but he placates you by spanking your ass and then massaging over the reddened skin. 

“You could’ve come in me, Joonie,” you tell him.

Jungkook continues kissing and licking your skin to wash away the remnants of his pleasure. 

“Shit, no I couldn’t. I wanted to, believe me, but I’m still empty from you sucking my fucking soul outta me earlier.” You chuckle proudly at the same time Jungkook stands to his full height. “Kook, why don’t you fuck her while I watch? Let me ramp back up.”

“That alright with you or do you need a break?” Jungkook asks as he tucks your sweaty hair behind your ear.

“Have I ever needed a break, Jungkook?”

Your reply makes him smirk in satisfaction.

“C’mere, then,” he whispers while leaning down to kiss you again, sending you both tumbling backwards as he hovers above you.

His hands rake across your thighs until they catch your dress so he can pull it over your head, forcing your lips apart for a mere second before they collide again. With you now naked beneath him, Jungkook touches you everywhere he possibly can, letting his fingers map your outline as if he doesn’t already have you memorized ten times over.

“No bra?”

He eagerly kisses across your jaw and down your neck, one hand stopping the excursion to hold your head still so he can suck on your sensitive skin before licking over the mark he leaves. 

“You know me,” you breathe.

“Yeah, I do,” he whispers into your skin and then takes a possessive bite with his canines. 

In one smooth motion, you wrap your thighs around his hips and flip him so you can rest your bare cunt over his length. He makes a surprised noise at the momentary act of dominance, an adorable laugh coming from his lungs as he affectionately holds your hips. Scraping his toned pecs with your nails, you admire the vision of him beneath you and absentmindedly trace his new tattoo with your pointer finger. 

“You wanna ride me, beautiful?” He asks with a squeeze of his digits into your sides. When you nod, he smiles graciously and leans up to kiss your collarbones. “Say it.”

“I wanna ride you, Jungkook.” Your nails create thin, red marks in his skin so you can hear him moan. “I need to feel your big cock filling me up.”

“Fucking hell,” he groans.

Jungkook brings you to your knees while your hand slithers between your bodies to stroke him until he’s fully erect and twitching in your palm. When you sit on his thighs and he penetrates you again after what feels like an eternity, your head falls back in irrevocable ecstasy. He takes on a similar pose, his head pressing into the pillows surrounding him as his fingers leave brutal indents on your hips.

“Oh, God,” you whimper.

The recognizable sensation is otherworldly and every nerve ending in your body seems to come alive at the feeling of Jungkook coming home. His dick is white-hot and pulsing within you and it’s impossible for your senses to comprehend anything but him and his cock. You’re not certain you even want to move from this position, perhaps you’ll just remain still and cockwarm him while appreciating everything you lost. 

Jungkook clearly has other ideas, because he uses his leverage to start bouncing you up and down, letting everything but his tip leave your walls before forcing his entire cock into you again at the perfect pace.

“Shit, you feel s’fucking good,” he tells you. 

You only manage a broken whine in response because his engorged head is consistently kissing your g-spot while your clit grinds against his pelvis. 

Namjoon is staring at the erotic scene from the chair beside the bed, obviously mesmerized by your tits bouncing in time with your hips. You momentarily catch his eye, winking at him as he licks his lips and slowly strokes himself, but your attention is stolen when Jungkook pulls you down for a breathtaking kiss.

Twin moans tangle in the air around your faces as Jungkook seamlessly slips his tongue into your mouth and you grab his face so you can continue messily devouring each other without restraint. 

“I imagined this so many fucking times,” Jungkook confesses.

In an act of complete betrayal to your consciousness, you reply without missing a beat.

“Me, too.”

He forces your lips apart to fill your mouth with his tongue, allowing the muscle to sloppily explore and dance with your own. His teeth sink into your swollen lower lip and you whimper, causing Jungkook to possessively swallow the noise as he returns to kissing you. 

Meanwhile, you steal control and force Jungkook into the backseat, fucking yourself on his big cock and riding him like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. Jungkook growls in response and his hands crawl up your spine until he’s able to grasp your hair between his fingers. As you speed up and force your thighs down harder, his dick expands your hole and creates harsh friction along your gummy walls. Each time your pubic bones meet, the fullness he provides steals your breath away. Although you’re honestly too busy kissing him to bring oxygen into your lungs, anyway. 

When you finally do inhale, purely for your own survival, Jungkook seizes the opportunity to greedily kiss across your tits, coating your flesh in his shiny saliva. 

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he mumbles into your skin before taking a nipple into his mouth.

His teeth scratch the pebbled skin to make you whimper before flicking his tongue a couple times, giving the same treatment to your other boob, only with his fingers. He suckles the nub with a satisfied groan while you attempt to maintain your rhythm, which isn’t easy when your brain is short circuiting. 

“Jun – Jungkook, holy shit, you’re so fucking big.” you nonsensically praise him.  

You feel the vibrations from his happy chuckle against your other breast now that he’s switched sides to smear more spit on you.  

The energetic cadence is making your legs go numb, but you can’t imagine stopping even with the ache in your thighs. This moment is far too heavenly, and you’ll willingly lose all feeling in your limbs before letting it go. Thankfully, Jungkook can tell by your faltering hips that you need assistance, so he plants his feet and fucks up into your cunt like a madman.

“Oh, my God!” You screech.

Holding onto his chest in desperation, you involuntarily give him full control because there’s no way you can match his monstrous pace. He’s sending his cock so deep inside you that you worry about the survival of your guts. He fills you up and fucks you so good it feels like you’re choking on him despite his length being far from your throat. 

“Come for me, gorgeous,” he begs. “Please, I’ve been dreaming about feeling you squeeze my cock again.”

“I’m so close.”

Jungkook uses your confirmation as fuel to shift into overdrive on your already battered pussy, utilizing all his energy to bring you the most euphoric high. Your third orgasm of the night takes the fucking cake, a shrill scream coming from you as you soak his dick with cum. He animalistically growls at the feeling of your cunt tightening around him like a vice, the pulsing of your walls sending his eyes into his skull.

You collapse on his chest, panting and whining as the aftershocks course through you. He slows the thrusting of his hips, but doesn’t stop completely so he can still gently fuck you through the high. 

“Feel good?”

All you can do is nod against his sweaty skin, far too deep into subspace to verbally reply. 

“Want you to come, too,” you whisper while looking up at him.

He smiles down at you and plays with your hair where it rests on his collarbone.

“I will, beautiful, just not yet,” he softly replies.

The two of you separate your sticky bodies and turn to Namjoon, who looks supremely satisfied with your passionate display. 

Once your eyes are on him, he removes his shirt to join his pants on the floor, revealing his chiseled torso. It’s borderline unfair that these two absolute specimens wound up as best friends. Although, you suppose that’s true for everyone other than you, since you’re currently reaping the benefits of their friendship.  

“What’s next?” He questions while standing and moving towards the bed.

“I believe that’s up to the lady.”

“Well, I have two holes for a reason,” you respond automatically.

The sensual gleam in their eyes when they smirk at each other lights a fire in your belly. 

“Who do you want where?” Jungkook asks.

You stand to examine the large mattress while pondering his question, looking between the two men as you imagine the different possibilities. Without another word, you grab Namjoon by the arm and guide him to lay on his back in the center of the bed. Jungkook stands without being told, curiously watching you complete the mental puzzle. You catch his gaze over your shoulder with a smirk of your own when you come to your final conclusion.

“I’ll ride Joonie while you fuck my ass,” you nonchalantly answer like it isn’t the filthiest thing to ever leave your mouth. 

You and Jungkook have had anal sex a couple dozen times over the years, so it seems reasonable for him to take that position rather than introduce someone new to your tight hole.

Namjoon laughs cheerfully from his place on the bed, tucking his hands behind his head with a content smile.

“That sounds fucking perfect to me.” He nods towards Jungkook. “You good with that?”

Jungkook clicks his tongue while tilting his head.

“What was it you said earlier?” He points to you. “What a stupid fucking question?” 

Namjoon rolls his eyes at the sarcastic response, but they share a laugh, anyway.

The air is still with heavy anticipation before the three of you begin maneuvering into the right positions. Jungkook steadies you by holding your waist as you straddle Namjoon’s hips, following closely behind and planting his knees on either side of his friend’s thighs. His hand massages your shoulders and spine as you spit on Namjoon’s cock and stroke him into the perfect seat for you. The older man groans when he feels your hand working him again, but the sound becomes a gasp as you slowly sink down and bring his thick length into your pussy.

“Ah, shit,” he curses. 

His hands find your hips as his eyes focus on the spot where your bodies connect. 

“That feel good, Joonie?” 

You bat your eyelashes at him in total faux innocence.

“Oh, baby, you’ve got no fucking clue. You’re so fucking wet and tight that you could drive a man crazy with this cunt,” he answers. 

“She has,” Jungkook notes.

A deep blush paints across your chest, neck, and cheeks at their compliments. 

When your hips instinctively rise, Jungkook squeezes your shoulder in protest.

“Don’t move yet,” he instructs behind you. 

He bends your upper body towards Namjoon with a hand between your shoulder blades, giving him access to your asshole. You hear him spit before his wet thumb meets your rim as he works your puckered hole open. The feeling of him playing with you while Namjoon’s cock throbs inside your pussy is catastrophic, and Jungkook only furthers your torment by opening his palm in front of your mouth.

“Spit.”

When you immediately comply, his chest rumbles with laughter against your back before you hear the sound of him lubricating his cock with your saliva. After he fucks his fist a couple times, his soaked tip replaces his digit and gently nudges your hole.

“I’m alright,” you assure him when he doesn’t push in. 

There’s a tender kiss placed on your shoulder as Jungkook moves his hips forward and you feel the unmistakable stretch of him entering your ass. The penetration feels significantly tighter than times prior, partially because it’s been a while, but mostly because your pussy is already full from Namjoon. Their dicks are buried inside your holes with only a thin wall of muscles between them, creating an immense pressure in your core that is inexplicably greater than any sensation you’ve felt in the past. 

You feel outrageously stuffed by the two large cocks and there’s been no movement yet, so you can only imagine how tantalizing it will feel when they tandemly fuck you open. 

“Goddamn.” Jungkook’s forehead meets your shoulder as he takes deep breaths. If the feeling is this tight for you, it must be unbelievable for them. “This is fucking incredible.”

“You’re telling me,” Namjoon replies from beneath you. 

Jungkook’s sweaty chest is pressing on your back while you’re leaning over Namjoon and vehemently gripping his pecs. In fact, you’re in the perfect position for him to have ideal access to your breasts as they swing just above his chin. 

“Everyone ready?” Namjoon nods assuredly as you maintain eye contact with him. You check with Jungkook over your shoulder and he gives you the same response. “Well, please don’t break me, I guess.”

The mischievous laughter surrounding you leads you to believe they will not be heeding said warning. 

“On three?” Jungkook asks.

“One… two… three,” Namjoon counts as your nervous system drowns in anticipation. 

They move seamlessly and simultaneously; Namjoon lifts your hips while Jungkook rears away from your ass, leaving only the head of their cocks inside you before they push in together. You scream so loud you worry the entire floor will hear, and Jungkook must agree because his hand clasps over your mouth to muffle the bloodcurdling noise. 

Hot tears of pleasure are already rolling down your cheeks as they harmoniously leave you empty only to return again at a devilish pace. The two of them have impeccable teamwork, their cocks nearly working as one to fuck you stupid. It’s incomparable to anything you’ve ever experienced before, the double penetration sending your entire being into an abyss of ecstasy. 

Jungkook’s free hand wraps around your waist to hold you against him as he watches your asshole stretch around his length. Namjoon continues moving your hips for you to bring him deep inside your pussy with each bounce. It seems your sole responsibility is to merely take the sensual abuse of your holes while screaming and crying into Jungkook’s palm. 

“Jesus, this feels fucking phenominal,” Namjoon moans.

Jungkook doesn’t verbally concur, but you feel him nod in agreement behind you. His grunts of pleasure are happening right against your ear and the sound is pure, sinful music to your ears. 

You think your muted screams do a sufficient job at capturing the sensation of their cocks pistoning into you together, but if you attempt to use words, the only comparison would be drowning and burning at the same time. Jungkook’s presence in your ass lights your entire system ablaze, each pulse sending ripple upon ripple of fire through you. While Namjoon continuously hitting your cervix with his cock brings tsunami size waves crashing over you. Their bodies feel like two halves of a whole, the jaw dropping motions complimenting each other as though they were meant to be experienced as one. 

Namjoon begins kissing your breasts and even relinquishes his hold on your hips to play with the fatty flesh, bringing stimulation to every erogenous zone at once. 

“Joon, can you feel me the way I can feel you?”

“Mmhm.” 

His reply is quiet due to his face being stuffed between your tits. 

“Fuck, I’m losing my mind,” Jungkook notes.

You certainly understand the sentiment. It feels as though their cocks are right up against each other inside you, so you imagine the sensation is mutual even though they’re in separate spaces. Their minds seem to sync up as well, because they amp up their speed and force at the same moment, causing you to accidentally bite down on Jungkook’s hand due to the sheer intensity of the change. 

He hisses in response, his hand venturing down to wrap around your throat instead. His fingers apply light pressure to the sides of your neck and he eventually starts kissing the skin just above his hand. The gentle affection of his lips in comparison to his dick splitting you apart makes your head spin. You reach back to hold his head in place, lacing your fingers into his soft hair and pulling on the strands until he groans into your skin, meaning the hand still resting on Namjoon is the only thing keeping you upright.

Namjoon is kissing and sucking on your boobs while Jungkook continues caressing your neck with his mouth. Couple that with the large hand choking you and the two cocks inside you and you’re heading straight for the milky way.

“You two… oh… holy fuck…” 

It would be inconceivable to produce a full sentence at the moment, and the weak, stuttering curses you manage are practically incoherent. 

Jungkook laughs into your skin, leaving you with a final peck. 

“Yeah? It feels that good, beautiful?”

You have no clue how he can speak clearly when all his energy is being utilized by his hips ramming into your ass. 

“Yes,” you meekly answer.

His lips come to your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine as his tongue licks along your earlobe.

“This tight little hole is still mine, isn’t it? Your pussy, too. Bet no one’s touched you like I have,” he whispers. A mindless nod is all you grant him, but his grip around your throat tightens when you don’t answer him. “I want you to tell me yourself.”

“No one,” you gasp. The hand in his hair returns to Namjoon’s chest so you can steady yourself. “I haven’t let anyone touch me since you, Jungkook.”

A satisfied growl vibrates against your ear.

“More.”

“My pussy, my ass, my whole body is yours,” you state, despite your best interest. “It has always been.”

“And always will be?”

At the same time he speaks, he demonically thrusts into your ass and you cry out as your head falls to his shoulder. 

“Yes, yes, yes, always!”

“There’s my girl,” he affirms with a sharp bite to your cartilage. 

Namjoon is still tweaking your nipples either with his hands or mouth, alternating every couple minutes to give them equal attention. He laps at them with his moist tongue before going in slow circles and scraping his teeth over the skin, effectively making your nipples oversensitive, which only heightens the pleasure you feel as he plays with them. His mouth is comfortingly warm and you adore the feeling of him licking across your tits as he fucks you. 

The twitching cocks you feel in both your pussy and ass is evidence enough that the two men are close to finishing, their heavy balls slapping against your skin in time with their thrusts providing further proof. Your own climax is peering just around the corner and you start fucking yourself on their shafts at the same cadance as them to bring your end closer.

All three of your voices fill the space with nonsensical moans as your orgasms race towards the finish line together. 

“Can I come inside you, baby?” Namjoon asks. 

His dick feels so perfect within your cunt that you can’t imagine telling him no and not allowing him to paint your insides white.

“Please,” you answer.

You want Jungkook to blow his load inside you, too, hoping he’ll fill your ass up so much it drips out and soaks your thighs in his seed. 

“Shit, you ready to make a fucking mess of her, Joon?” Jungkook asks across staccato grunts.

“Never been more ready in my goddamn life.”

Jungkook reaches around to play with your clit after Namjoon’s confirmation so you all come at once and it only takes another minute of your bodies working in tandem for the three of you to reach an unexplainable high together. 

“Jesus, fuck –” Namjoon chokes.

“Holy fucking shit,” Jungkook gasps. 

It’s astonishing to think you could feel any more full, but once the seed spills from their cocks into your respective holes, you truly believe they’ll rip you apart right down the middle. 

Namjoon is fucking his cum into your pussy with deep, deliberate strokes and sending his semen so far into your womb you feel thankful for birth control. Similarly, Jungkook continues forcing his hot seed into your ass even once it begins leaking out and drenching his dick. 

“Oh, oh fuck,” you whine as your own orgasm makes your cunt pulse around them. 

It’s easily the messiest thing you’ve ever experienced, with the fusion of all three essences endlessly spilling out and pooling in your conjoined laps. 

“Damn,” Jungkook curses while falling limp against your back.

You’re all breathless by the time their movements cease. Your body is keeping their softening cocks warm during the come down and you wonder what being empty will feel like after being stretched so wide.

“Fucking insane,” Namjoon comments, making you and Jungkook chuckle weakly.

Jungkook is the first to move and even though he carefully pulls out, more of his cum drips from your ass and soils the sheets. Once he’s free from the dogpile, you gradually move to a kneeling position before flopping onto the mattress beside Namjoon while Jungkook occupies his opposite side. 

“I gotta thank whoever leaked gas in this fucking hotel,” Jungkook states. 

“I’ll be right there with you,” Namjoon adds. 

You're positive you would laugh at their comments if you weren't the most tired you've ever been in your life.

“C’mon, let’s get you into something comfortable,” Jungkook announces.

After four orgasms and both your holes being jackhammered open, you don’t know if anything but a nice, warm bath will bring you comfort. Although, Jungkook bringing a large shirt over your head and pulling your hair out from where it’s trapped beneath the hem is definitely close. 

“Thank you,” you murmur as your head falls forward until it meets his abdomen. 

His fingers gently comb through your hair and your eyes shut with a content hum, the familiar, soothing motions nearly putting you to sleep. You feel the bed dip when Namjoon stands and the sudden movement makes you pull back and survey your surroundings.

“Are you okay?” 

You meet his concerned gaze and nod.

“I’m fine, Jungkook, just still coming back to earth,” you explain. 

“Let me clean you up,” he says.

You don't reject his assistance even though you absolutely should. Instead, you lay back again and appreciate the feeling of Jungkook delicately cleaning up between your legs and down your thighs.

There's movement going on behind your eyelids, and you figure it's because Namjoon is setting up the pull out bed, which you hear him lay down on with a groan afterwards.

“As long as you’re okay with it, we can share the bed,” Jungkook offers.

You’re too tired to worry about the implications of sleeping in the same bed together. So, you nod and reach your arms up, letting him pull you up bridal style so he can tuck you in before joining you a fair amount away, which you appreciate given the circumstances.

Sleep welcomes you into her embrace before you even have the chance to overthink anything.

Their voices pull you from slumber some hours later and your eyes struggle to open as light shines in through the large windows.

If the original prediction of twenty four hours is still correct, you must have at least another twelve to go based on the sun’s position in the sky. 

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Namjoon says when he notices you’re awake. 

“Hi,” you croak. All your screaming and moaning from the night prior clearly took a toll on you. “How are you guys doing?”

“Us?” Jungkook laughs.

You involuntarily smile at the sound of his happiness. 

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk, to be honest,” you respond. 

To prove your point, you attempt to stand and the ache between your legs nearly sends you toppling backwards into the mattress. Both men giggle at your baby deer stance and you shoot them a menacing glare.

“Need help?” Jungkook asks with a sly grin. 

It would be far too embarrassing to accept, so you just take small, measured steps to the bathroom to freshen up. Jungkook lets you borrow a pair of sweatpants and the three of you eat from the mini fridge as a pseudo breakfast before chatting about current events and pop culture as the hours steadily tick by. 

As it turns out, the lockdown does end early, with the total time being about eighteen hours. It leaves you with plenty of time to get ready for the rehearsal dinner tonight, which Hoseok confirms is still happening via a Facebook post.

Jungkook offers to walk you back and even though your room is only ten doors down, you say yes without much deliberation. He also refuses to accept his clothes and orders you only return them once they've been washed, his obvious attempt at ensuring you see each other again after the wedding.

You thank Namjoon for his services and he reciprocates the gratitude before you and Jungkook leave side by side. The short walk happens in comfortable silence and when your hands accidentally brush, you don’t question Jungkook’s actions as he catches your hand and laces his fingers with yours. 

Once you reach the hotel room, you drop his hand and turn to say goodbye, but Jungkook beats you to the punch.

“Are you gonna save a dance for me tomorrow?” He asks with a saccharine grin.

The eye roll is instantaneous.

“I’ll think about it,” you respond. 

Before you’re able to key inside, Jungkook grabs your face and kisses you with enough force to push you into the wooden door. Your surprised screech turns into a soft moan as you allow his tongue to dance with yours in your mouth. Your hands subconsciously rise to hold his jaw as you shamelessly makeout in the hallway, neither of you caring about the possibility of other guests seeing you.

Jungkook is chasing your mouth like he could do it forever and you have zero complaints, feeling nothing but content as your lips move in lackadaisical circles together. His thumbs caress your cheekbones as you kiss and with your eyes closed, you can almost imagine you’re back home in your shared apartment. 

When your mind finally catches up to reality, you pull back and push at his shoulder to create some space between your heads.

“What was that?”

Your ex's looks the happiest you've seen him all weekend.

“Just wanted to give you something to think about,” he replies. 

Your eyes roll again, but this time there’s affection for the man before you written all over your face. You tap your keycard to open the door and slip inside without another word, but turn around at the last minute with a smile.

“See you later, Googie.”

“Bye,” Jungkook waves. 

It’s only once the lock clicks that Jungkook realizes what you called him, and as soon as he does, he pumps his fist in a silent victory cheer. He starts laughing to himself like a total maniac outside your door and he even does a heel-click jump out of pure excitement while walking back to his room.

You don’t witness any of his celebrations, but the sentiment is shared between you nonetheless. 

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @joonlover1207 @goldenko-97

Part 2, titled Harmonious Agreement, coming soon...

[synity]

Heyy!

I was wondering if you’d be up for writing a Scoups fic sometime! Honestly, I’m not picky about the plot I’m just really craving some good Seungcheol fluff and/or angst right now. Totally no pressure if you’re not feeling it, but I’d love to see what you come up with if you’re down. Thanks so much either way!! 💗

ESE DÍA DIFERENTE

(Choi Seungcheo! X Fem!Reader)

Chosen Family, Bittersweet, Slice of life, Contemporary Romance, Healing, Redemption, Emotional Drama

This story is inspired by real-life experiences and emotions that I have lived through and witnessed. While the characters and events are fictionalized, the feelings of heartbreak, healing, and hope are deeply personal and genuine.😭

Seungcheol's life used to be simple. Not in the sense of easy, but in the way that love felt safe and real. When Maria came into his world, it was as if all the scattered pieces of his life finally found their place.

She was stunning bright-eyed, full of laughter, and with a smile that seemed to light up every room she entered.

From the moment they met, there was a spark he couldn't ignore.

He remembered their first date vividly a small, cozy café tucked away in the city's quieter streets. Maria had laughed at his awkward jokes, her eyes sparkling with genuine joy. They talked for hours, about everything and nothing, until the sun dipped below the horizon and the city lights flickered on.

"That was... really nice," Maria had said softly as they stood outside, the cool night air wrapping around them.

Seungcheol grinned, feeling his heart pound.

"I'm glad you think so. I don't usually do this kind of thing, but with you... it felt different."

She smiled back, touching his hand lightly. "Me too."

From then on, their lives intertwined like the vines of a climbing rose. They shared meals, secrets, dreams. Seungcheol found himself planning a future he never dared imagine. Maria wasn't just his girlfriend; she was his partner, his best friend, the person he wanted beside him through every storm and calm.

One evening, a few months into their relationship, they sat on the rooftop of his apartment building. The city sprawled beneath them, glittering like a galaxy.

"I can't wait to marry you, Seungcheol," Maria whispered, her fingers laced through his.

He pulled her close, heart swelling. "Soon. Soon, we'll have that life.

They dreamed aloud about the wedding white flowers, soft music, dancing under the stars.

Maria talked about picking out a house, maybe near the beach where they could watch sunsets every day. Seungcheol listened, believing every

word.

But life rarely stays perfect for long.

Small cracks began to form, almost imperceptibly at first. Maria started staying out later than usual, her phone always locked tight, a new layer of distance settling between them.

When he asked, she smiled and reassured him.

"Nothing to worry about, babe. Just work stuff."

Seungcheol wanted to believe her. Wanted so badly to trust the woman he loved with all his heart.

One afternoon, he waited for her at the café where they often met after work. She arrived late, flustered, avoiding his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, slipping into the seat opposite him. "I've just been... busy."

"Is everything okay?" he asked gently, searching her face.

Maria forced a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Yeah, really. Just tired, that's all."

Seungcheol nodded, but the seed of doubt had been planted.

Weeks passed, and the distance grew.

One rainy night, unable to shake the gnawing feeling in his chest, Seungcheol decided to surprise Maria at her apartment. He arrived unannounced, his heart pounding with hope and fear.

The door was slightly ajar.

He stepped inside, the scent of unfamiliar perfume hitting him first.

Then he heard voices soft laughter, whispered words not meant for him.

Seungcheol's breath caught in his throat as he crept closer to the living room.

There, on the couch, was Maria wrapped in the arms of another man.

Time froze.

His world shattered.

Maria looked up, eyes wide with shock.

"Seungcheol! What are you doing here?"

He swallowed the lump in his throat, pain crackina his voice. "How lona?"

She didn't answer.

The man shifted uncomfortably.

"I thought we had something real," Seungcheol said, voice breaking. "I trusted you."

Maria's face crumpled, guilt flooding her features. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to-"

"Why?" he interrupted, pain cutting through him like a knife. "Why do this to me? To us?"

She looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

Seungcheol turned and left, the cold rain outside soaking him as he walked aimlessly, feeling like every step took him further from the man he used to be.

Days blurred into nights. He barely ate, barely slept. Friends called, but he couldn't answer. His phone was filled with messages from Maria, apologies and explanations, but he couldn't bring himself to respond.

One night, alone in his dark apartment, he stared at the ring he had bought for her. The ring he never got to give. It felt heavy in his hand, a symbol of a future erased.

"I was going to marry you," he whispered into the emptiness. "How did it all fall apart?"

Seungcheol's life crumbled, but somewhere deep inside, beneath the pain, a flicker remained. A faint, fragile hope that maybe, someday, he could find his way back from the darkness.

The days stretched on like endless shadows.

The colors of the city dimmed, and the laughter that once filled his ears turned into a distant echo, a haunting reminder of what was lost.

Seungcheol moved through his routine like a ghost going to work, answering emails, smiling at meetings but inside, he was unraveling.

His apartment, once a sanctuary filled with memories and hope, now felt like a cold cage.

The bed where two souls once dreamed of forever was empty, a silent testament to the promises broken. He often found himself staring at the ceiling late into the night, the weight of silence pressing down on his chest.

Friends tried to reach out.

"Cheol, we miss you," his closest friend, Joshua called one evening. "Let's grab dinner, talk it

out."

But Seungcheol shook his head, forcing a hollow smile. "Not tonight. I'm just tired."

The truth was, he was tired not just physically, but from the ache that refused to fade. From the betrayal that replayed in his mind like a cruel song.

He walked the city streets aimlessly, searching for something to fill the void. Sometimes he found himself in the park, watching couples holding hands, their happiness like salt on a wound. He envied their laughter, their ease, the simple beauty of love that now seemed so distant to him.

One rainy afternoon, he sat alone in a quiet café, fingers tracing the rim of his empty cup. The barista placed a fresh coffee in front of him with a gentle smile.

"Rough day?" He asked kindly.

Seungcheol nodded faintly, managing a small, grateful smile. "You could say that."

He wondered if he knew the weight he carried the loneliness, the heartbreak. But he didn't want to burden anyone with his pain. He had learned to keep it locked inside, behind a carefully crafted mask.

At work, he tried to focus, burying himself in projects and meetings. But the silence in his office was deafening. Every time his phone buzzed, his heart leapt, hoping for a message that never came.

His family noticed his change the quiet that replaced his usual warmth, the shadows under his eyes.

"Seungcheol, are you okay?" his mother asked one evening, concern etched in her voice.

He forced a smile, shaking his head.

"I'm fine. Just... tired."

But inside, he felt fractured. Like a beautiful vase smashed on the floor some pieces sharp and jagged, others missing entirely.

One night, as rain pattered against his window, he sat by the glass, tracing droplets with a trembling finger. He thought about the future he once dreamed of, now crumbled like ashes in his hands.

"I don't know how to move on," he whispered to the empty room. "How do I heal when everything I believed in was a lie?"

His phone lit up suddenly a notification from a florist's shop nearby, advertising fresh spring blooms. He scrolled through the pictures of vibrant flowers, their delicate beauty stirring something deep inside.

Maybe... maybe a small step. Maybe a way to feel something real again.

Unbeknownst to him, that moment, fragile as it was, would lead him somewhere new somewhere he hadn't dared to dream.

The days that followed were a blur of muted colors and hollow routines. Seungcheol woke each morning feeling like he was carrying the weight of the world or maybe just the weight of himself. The silence inside his apartment pressed in on him, thick and suffocating. Sometimes, he’d catch himself reaching for his phone, only to remember there was no one to call.

constant hum of meetings and deadlines distracted him, but it also reminded him how far away he’d drifted from the life he’d imagined. His colleagues noticed the change how his laughter no longer reached his eyes, how his smile felt forced, like a mask he wore to hide the cracks beneath.

One evening, after a long day, Seungcheol found himself standing in front of a small flower shop he hadn’t noticed before. The sign was simple, adorned with delicate script, and the warm glow from inside spilled onto the sidewalk. Drawn by something he couldn’t name, he stepped inside.

The air smelled of earth and petals, soft and comforting. Rows of colorful flowers stretched out before him roses, lilies, tulips each one vibrant, alive. For a moment, he forgot the ache in his chest. He ran his fingers gently over a cluster of soft pink peonies, their petals fragile but full of life.

The shopkeeper, a kind-faced woman with gentle eyes, smiled at him. “Looking for something special?”

Seungcheol hesitated. “I’m not sure… Maybe just something to brighten the day.”

She nodded knowingly. “Flowers have a way of doing that.”

He picked a small bouquet of white daisies simple, pure, hopeful. As he held them, a small flicker of something new stirred inside him not quite happiness, not quite peace, but a fragile thread of hope.

Days passed, and Seungcheol found himself returning to the flower shop more often, drawn by the quiet beauty and the unexpected comfort it offered. He started to care for the flowers he bought, learning how to nurture something delicate and alive. It was a small act, but it reminded him he was still capable of caring even if it was just for petals and leaves.

Slowly, very slowly, the sharp edges of his pain began to soften.

He still carried the scars of his heartbreak they were a part of him now but amid the wilted parts of his life, there were hints of growth. A fragile, quiet strength was taking root.

In the moments between work and sleep, he found himself thinking less about what he’d lost, and more about what might still be waiting.

Seungcheol didn’t know it yet, but this small change a bouquet of daisies, a few quiet moments in a flower shop was the first step toward a new beginning.

It was a quiet Sunday morning, the kind where the sky was pale and the air still. Seungcheol found himself walking the familiar route to the flower shop, hands tucked into the pockets of his beige coat. The streets were calm, and the gentle clink of wind chimes above the flower shop door greeted him as he stepped inside.

He had begun to find comfort in these visits not because he needed flowers for any particular reason, but because it was one of the few places where his chest didn’t feel so heavy.

“Back again,” the florist a warm, gentle woman with tired but kind eyes said with a soft smile.

Seungcheol nodded. “Yeah. I guess I’ve started to like it here.”

The woman chuckled. “People who come back to flowers again and again are usually the ones trying to heal.”

He looked down, quiet. “Yeah… I guess that’s true.”

Just then, the sound of soft footsteps came from behind the wooden curtain separating the back room from the front. A voice, lighter and younger, floated in.

“Mom, do you know where you put the shears? The sharp ones?”

Seungcheol looked up instinctively, and that’s when he saw her.

You.

You stepped out, dressed casually in a light sweater and jeans, a faint smudge of dirt on your wrist as if you’d been helping with potting or organizing. You weren’t in the least like the perfectly polished women Seungcheol used to be surrounded by. There was something grounded about you something real. A small frown rested on your face as you looked around for the missing shears.

“Oh,” you said, stopping short when you noticed someone else in the shop. You straightened up. “Sorry I didn’t know there was a customer.”

Your mother smiled. “This is Seungcheol. He’s been coming here a lot lately.”

You gave a polite nod. “I’m YN her daughter. Just visiting today.”

“Nice to meet you,” Seungcheol replied quietly, something uncertain flickering behind his eyes.

You reached behind the counter, finally spotting the shears and holding them up in triumph. “There they are. Thought I was losing my mind

Seungcheol chuckled softly, and the sound surprised even him. It had been a long time since he’d laughed like that not out of politeness, not to fill silence, but because something genuinely amused him.

Your mother raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of you.

“You said you were looking for something simple today?” she asked, redirecting Seungcheol gently.

“Yeah… something calm. Nothing too bright. Maybe white or soft blue.”

You turned your head, curiosity piqued. “That sounds like hydrangeas.”

“Hydrangeas?” he echoed, unfamiliar.

You stepped closer, motioning toward the back of the store. “We just got some fresh blue ones in this morning. I’ll show you.”

He followed, not entirely sure why only that your voice was soft, and your presence wasn’t overwhelming. As you gently lifted a hydrangea pot, the petals catching light like quiet silk, Seungcheol felt something stir in him.

“They symbolize gratitude and deep understanding,” you explained, setting the pot down in front of him. “But… also regret and apology. I always found that bittersweet.”

“Sounds like life,” he murmured.

You looked up, meeting his eyes for a moment. Something unspoken passed between you not recognition, not attraction, but something deeper: understanding.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Exactly.”

Your mother called from the front, and you gave him a small smile before turning away.

As he paid and stepped out of the shop with the potted hydrangea in hand, Seungcheol found himself glancing back once.

You were standing at the counter now, laughing at something your mother said, your eyes crinkling with warmth.

He didn’t know your name until five minutes ago. He didn’t know anything about you what you did, where you lived, what you dreamed of.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, he wanted to know.

And that… felt like something new was beginning.

From that day on, Seungcheol’s visits to the flower shop became more frequent and less about the flowers.

He never admitted it, not even to himself, but he always hoped you’d be there. Sometimes you were tying ribbons around bouquets, sweeping fallen petals, or leaning behind the counter as you talked with your mother. And sometimes you weren’t. On those days, he still bought something small. A sprig of eucalyptus. A single daisy. A lavender stem. Just to justify the visit.

“Still going with calm tones?” you teased one afternoon, walking beside him as he studied a row of soft lilacs.

“They’re peaceful,” he replied with a faint smile. “I need peace.”

You didn’t pry. That was something he noticed about you. You didn’t ask about the sadness in his eyes, or the slight hesitation in his laugh. You didn’t fill silences with questions. You just let them breathe.

“Lilacs symbolize rebirth, you know,” you offered gently. “Like… letting go.”

He glanced at you, something quiet and grateful in his expression. “Then maybe I should take two.”

You grinned.

A few days later, it was raining soft and steady. Seungcheol entered the shop, hair damp, coat speckled with droplets. You were wiping down the window glass, humming something low under your breath.

“You’ll catch a cold,” you said without looking, your voice warm. “There’s tea in the back if you want to sit for a bit.”

He hesitated.

“You sure?”

“Mm-hmm,” you said, finally turning toward him. “You’ve earned regular customer privileges by now.”

That was the first time he sat with you at the little wooden table behind the shop. The kettle steamed softly as you poured two cups of barley tea. The smell of damp earth and petals wrapped around both of you like a blanket.

“I used to drink this with my grandmother,” you said, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. “She always said it tastes like patience.”

Seungcheol sipped slowly. “Then it’s perfect for me.”

The rain continued to fall.

You didn’t speak about your past. He didn’t speak about his. But the silence wasn’t awkward. It felt… comforting. Shared. Like the two of you had been sitting across from each other for years in another life.

The next time he came, you weren’t there.

He tried not to be disappointed. Your mother told him you had classes that day and wouldn’t be back until the weekend. He picked out a soft pink carnation anyway, but as he walked home with it tucked into his coat pocket, it wasn’t the same.

He didn’t know why.

She was just someone he met in a flower shop.

Just someone who smiled at him when the rest of the world felt cold.

Just someone whose voice stayed in his head longer than it should have.

He saw you again a week later kneeling in the back garden behind the shop, replanting new seedlings.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

You looked up, smiling beneath your bangs. “Hey, yourself. Thought we lost you to a rival florist.”

He laughed, crouching beside you. “Never. You and your lilac wisdom got me hooked.”

You looked at him then, the dirt on your hands, the scent of fresh soil and morning light all around you.

“You’re smiling more lately,” you said.

That caught him off guard.

“I am?”

You nodded. “You were carrying a storm before. Now it’s more like… a quiet sky.”

His chest tightened at the honesty in your voice. You weren’t complimenting him. You were noticing him. Seeing him. Not who he used to be. Not who he pretended to be.

But who he was now broken, healing, and quietly blooming again.

It was late afternoon the kind where the golden light trickled through the flower shop windows and everything felt slow, like the world was taking a breath.

YN had just left to run an errand. The shop was quiet. Seungcheol lingered, pretending to browse, but really… he just didn’t feel like going home yet.

“Sit down, son,” her mother said suddenly, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ve been pacing around those lilies like they owe you rent.”

He blinked in surprise, then laughed softly, lowering himself into the wooden chair near the counter.

“You always call me that,” he said. “Son.”

She gave him a long look, gentle but serious. “That’s because I see you like one.”

A lump formed in Seungcheol’s throat. No one had said something like that to him in a long, long time.

She poured tea without asking she always did and slid the cup across to him.

“You remind me a lot of her,” she said quietly, nodding toward the door where you’d left moments ago. “Before everything fell apart.”

He looked up, eyes curious.

“I know that weight you carry. The silence. The smile that never quite reaches. You think you’re hiding it well, but I’ve seen it before.”

Her voice dipped, laced with memory. “She was like that too.”

Seungcheol’s lips parted. “YN?”

She nodded slowly.

“Three years ago. A betrayal from a friend she trusted more than family. It shattered her. Broke her spirit in ways I didn’t even know were possible.”

Her eyes misted, but she didn’t look away.

“She shut everyone out. Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t speak.

She stopped sketching, stopped writing, stopped building things all the things that made her her.” She shook her head gently.

“This girl could turn scraps into art. She was brilliant. Always making, always dreaming. But after that betrayal, she stopped breathing life into anything.”

Seungcheol swallowed, his voice low. “What brought her back?”

“A lot of time. A lot of silence. And a little bit of kindness.” She looked at him knowingly.

“Sometimes we forget that pain doesn’t need to be solved. It just needs to be witnessed.”

That struck him deeply. He looked down at his tea, then at her again. Her eyes didn’t judge. Didn’t pity. They understood.

“I was supposed to get married,” he said, the words falling from his mouth for the first time without shame. “To someone I thought… loved me. Maria.”

The name tasted bitter.

“She cheated,” he continued, voice tight. “With someone I trusted. It wasn’t just the betrayal it was the life we built. All those promises. All those mornings where I thought I was happy…”

He trailed off. His hands trembled lightly.

“She left me in pieces,” he whispered. “And I don’t even know who I am anymore without her.”

The older woman reached across the table, placing her hand over his.

“Oh, my son,” she said softly. “You don’t have to know right now.”

He looked at her.

“You know what’s the worst thing about pain?” she asked. “It makes us think we’ve lost who we were forever. But sometimes, we’re just… paused. Waiting to be found again. Not by someone else. But by ourselves.”

Tears brimmed in his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall.

She smiled. “YN was known around this neighborhood for her creativity. Her spark. Her quick mind. And when all of that disappeared, everyone thought she’d never return to herself.”

A small, proud smile touched her lips.

“But look at her now. Laughing again. Creating again. Breathing again.”

Seungcheol closed his eyes for a moment. It wasn’t healing not yet. But it was relief. Like someone had reached into his soul and turned on the lights, even if dimly.

The older woman stood and ruffled his hair gently like a real mother would.

“You don’t have to rush. But don’t let that girl fool you either. She understands pain better than anyone. That’s why she’s so gentle with yours.”

As she returned to the flowers, humming to herself, Seungcheol sat still for a long time tea growing cold in his hands, something unspoken blooming in his chest.

Not love.

Not yet.

But something warmer than grief.

And something softer than regret.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as lost as he thought.

YN wasn’t the kind of person to press.

She noticed things in quiet moments how Seungcheol always avoided love songs playing on the radio, how he never talked about the past, how sometimes he stared a little too long at a single flower like he was trying to remember something he lost.

She noticed how his laugh came with a pause. Like he had to check with himself if it was okay to feel joy again.

She noticed and she didn’t say a word.

Not at first.

But she stayed.

When he dropped by the flower shop, she started setting aside little things without asking a new chamomile bloom she thought he’d like, a folded napkin with a quote she scribbled, a cookie her mom made that she knew he wouldn’t buy but always finished.

She didn’t try to cheer him up.

She didn’t try to fix the invisible heaviness he carried.

She just… offered herself.

And one evening, after a sudden downpour soaked the streets and left the world smelling like wet soil and green things, she handed him a towel and said quietly:

“You don’t have to tell me what happened, Seungcheol.”

He looked at her.

Her eyes were calm. Steady. Not filled with pity, but with recognition.

“I just want you to know… whatever it is you don’t have to carry it alone every day.”

Seungcheol blinked, lips parting but no words came. No one had ever said that to him. No one had noticed without asking.

“Some days are harder than others,” she continued softly, “I know that. I’ve had days where I couldn’t even get out of bed, where I hated the idea of being seen.”

He froze. Those words he knew them.

“But someone told me once,” she smiled gently, “that pain doesn’t mean you’re broken forever. It just means you’re still healing.”

His throat tightened. It felt like she was peeling open a window in him he didn’t even know was locked shut.

“You remind me of myself back then,” she said.

He raised his head slowly, brows drawn.

“I know that look. That quiet ache. That… pause before speaking like you’re afraid your voice doesn’t matter anymore.”

Silence stretched between them not awkward, but real.

Then finally, he whispered, “It does. With you, it does.”

YN smiled, that small kind of smile that doesn’t scream joy but offers peace.

“Then I’ll keep listening,” she said.

Seungcheol felt something shift in him that night not big, not dramatic just a flicker of warmth, a sense of not being invisible.

Someone saw him.

Not the perfect him. Not the smiling version he used to be with Maria.

But this version the one with bruised hope and a slow heartbeat.

And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

The sun had just begun to set, its honey-colored light spilling over the quiet streets like a golden blanket. Seungcheol was walking back home from the gym, earbuds in, sweat cooling on his skin, when he saw her YN’s mother, standing outside the local grocery store, struggling with two heavy bags balanced awkwardly in each hand.

He blinked, instantly pulling his earbuds out. “Ma’am—! Let me help.”

She turned, a little startled, and then broke into a warm smile. “Ah, Seungcheol! My strong son!” she laughed, clearly relieved. “I got a little ambitious today.”

He jogged over and easily took the bags from her hands, surprised at the weight.

“What’s all this?” he asked with a grin.

“I’m making a chocolate cake,” she said proudly, “for YN and her siblings. They’ve been working so hard. Saturday’s our tradition they all come over to cook for me, so I wanted to surprise them first.”

Seungcheol nodded, amused and touched. “That sounds… really sweet. Literally.”

“You should come in too,” she added, unlocking her gate. “There’s always more than enough. And you deserve something sweet.”

He hesitated for only a second. But her tone that motherly certainty made it impossible to say no.

They entered her home through the small garden pathway where vines crept gently along the white fence, and tiny flowerpots lined the windowsills.

The door opened straight into a veranda covered in trellises and potted blooms, the scent of lavender and basil lingering in the warm air.

Inside, the house felt like a hug soft light, floral cushions, wooden beams that creaked with memory, and the faint scent of vanilla.

But just as they stepped into the living room, a wave of music and laughter burst through the space like sunshine.

Seungcheol stopped, blinking in surprise.

There they were YN and her siblings, Julián, Savanah, Alvaro, barefoot on the wooden floor, crowded around the TV with microphones in hand. A karaoke video blared on the screen, a spirited Spanish song with vibrant rhythms. They were singing well, more like shouting half the lyrics with big grins, correcting each other mid-line, then bursting into giggles when someone completely botched the chorus.

“No no no! That’s corazón, not camarón!” one of the brothers shouted.

“Oh shut up, boy!” YN yelled back, laughing so hard she had to hold onto the couch for balance.

It was chaos.

And it was beautiful.

Seungcheol stood frozen for a moment, bags still in hand, as the warmth of that moment wrapped around him pure, untamed joy.

“Don’t just stand there,” her mom said quietly, smiling beside him. “Come into the kitchen. Let’s let them sing their hearts out while we make some peace in the form of chocolate.”

He followed, still a little dazed.

Through the living room past the burst of music and dancing limbs into the kitchen that smelled like butter, sugar, and home.

“I used to sing like that once,” her mother said, putting on an apron and chuckling to herself. “But now my singing’s reserved for burnt rice and angry saucepans.”

Seungcheol laughed. He felt something loosen inside of him like his ribs had been tight for too long, and finally someone was letting him breathe.

He began unpacking the bags without being asked. Eggs, flour, dark chocolate, ripe bananas, cocoa powder.

“I haven’t felt this… alive in a while,” he admitted quietly, as the sounds of off-key Spanish harmonies drifted in from the next room.

Her mother glanced at him, knowingly. “That’s what happens when you walk into a place where people are allowed to be messy. Loud. Real.”

She handed him a whisk. “And now you’re part of the recipe.”

Seungcheol grinned, shaking his head.

A part of him still ached. Maria’s betrayal hadn’t vanished. But here in this flower-filled home, with the hum of love echoing through walls it didn’t own him.

He stirred the batter, laughter ringing from the living room, as if music could stitch together the broken corners of him he thought no one would ever touch again.

And for the first time in a long time… he didn’t feel like a guest in someone else’s joy.

He felt welcome in it.

The chocolate cake was a hit rich, slightly warm from the oven, with just the right amount of bitterness in the dark chocolate and love in every slice. Plates were scattered across the coffee table, mugs half-filled with café con leche and cinnamon tea.

By now, the sun had fully dipped below the horizon, leaving the little house bathed in amber and fairy lights strung up along the veranda. The earlier laughter had softened into that easy kind of silence that only families comfortable with each other share.

Seungcheol leaned against the archway between the kitchen and living room, sipping tea, soaking it all in.

That’s when Julián, YN’s older brother, pulled out his guitar and began to strum. Not wildly — gently. Like a whisper across water.

The room shifted. Quiet fell. Heads turned.

Then he started singing. His voice was low, soulful, raw.

And just like that, the room transformed. This wasn’t karaoke anymore.

This was… intimate.

YN’s voice slipped in next.

Soft at first. Feather-light. But growing with each line. Her tone was warm, honeyed, but carried a kind of ache that made Seungcheol freeze mid-sip.

She and Savanah harmonized like it was muscle memory the kind of blend you don’t learn, but grow into.

Their voices tangled like vines lifting, falling, blooming in every verse.

Alvaro stood and began to rap the bridge from “Alto Suspiro,”

effortlessly flowing into the rhythm with the kind of charisma that filled the entire room. He danced between lines, punctuating lyrics with laughter and footwork that had even their mom clapping to the beat.

It wasn’t rehearsed. It wasn’t performative.

It was who they were.

Songs written from years ago maybe never released but clearly carried like sacred things. Memories put to melody. Shared pain made art. Family bound not just by blood, but by sound.

Seungcheol sat down slowly on the couch, caught in the current.

He watched YN the whole time how her eyes sparkled when she hit the chorus, how her hands moved as if sculpting the air, how the sadness in her voice didn’t dim the light but made it realer.

She was laughing now, spinning with Savanah in the middle of the room while Julián kept playing and Alvaro clapped off-beat just to annoy them.

Seungcheol smiled.

A real one.

Not one he forced. Not one he practiced in mirrors.

A smile that ached in his cheeks because it had been so long since he’d worn one that fit.

And deep inside, somewhere quiet, he thought

So this is what it feels like to witness joy that isn’t pretending.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel like an outsider watching through a window.

He felt like he’d been invited in.

Like maybe just maybe he’d found a place where his silence was allowed… until he was ready to sing too.

The music had faded. The laughter had softened. Now only the hum of summer crickets and the scent of leftover cake remained.

Everyone had slipped into that mellow post-celebration mood scattered across couches and kitchen stools, some dozing off, others half-whispering stories with full bellies and warm hearts.

But Seungcheol?

He’d slipped outside.

The porch creaked as he settled into the old wooden bench near the jasmine vines, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. He stared out into the little garden, now dim and silvery under the moonlight.

He didn’t know what he was feeling, really.

Something between gratitude and grief.

Something quiet.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“You okay?” Her voice was soft. So soft, he nearly didn’t hear it.

He turned.

There she was YN, barefoot, holding two mugs in her hands, hair slightly tousled, cheeks pink from laughing too much. A little piece of cake crumb on her shirt.

He nodded gently, managing a smile. “Yeah. Just… needed some air.”

She handed him a mug and sat beside him, the bench sighing beneath them.

“Chamomile,” she said. “It’s all that’s left.”

“Perfect,” he murmured, taking it.

For a while, they just sat there shoulder to shoulder, watching the moonlight glaze the tops of the flowerbeds, the way light wind rustled through the leaves.

“You sing beautifully,” he said at last, his voice low. “All of you. But… especially you.”

She looked over, a bit surprised. “Thanks,” she said, then looked down at her mug. “We grew up that way. Music was how we got through things. It’s always been… therapy, I guess.”

He nodded, staring ahead again. “I don’t think I realized how long it’s been since I’ve been around something so… alive.”

She glanced at him, studying the side of his face in the pale light. “You’ve been through something,” she said softly. Not as a question just… a truth.

He didn’t speak at first.

Then: “Yeah.”

Another breath.

“It was a lot. I thought I had it all figured out. The life, the woman, the path.” His throat tightened a bit. “But it was all… a lie.”

YN stayed quiet, letting the silence hold him.

“I gave everything,” he added, voice barely above a whisper. “And I didn’t even see it coming.”

There was a long pause. Then she said, gently, “You know… my mom told me once that some betrayals don’t just break your heart they break your compass. You stop knowing where to walk. What to trust. Even in yourself.”

He looked at her, surprised.

She gave a half-smile, a little sad.

“I’ve been there.”

They didn’t have to say more.

The silence between them now wasn’t awkward. It was full.

He looked at her again the way her hair caught the breeze, the way her eyes held stars in them without even trying and he felt it:

This wasn’t just safety. This was presence.

And maybe, for the first time since everything fell apart, someone wasn’t just near him someone was actually with him.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“For… this. For not asking me to be 

okay. Just letting me be.”

YN smiled, turning her face toward the wind.

“I don’t expect people to be okay,” she said. “I just hope they don’t walk through the dark alone.”

And that night, Seungcheol didn’t.

Saturday became sacred.

It wasn’t planned. Seungcheol never asked to be there but every week, he was. Not because anyone told him to. Not even because YN’s mom expected it. But because he wanted to be.

At first, he came early just to help her carry groceries again.

Then it was: “Cheol, can you chop the onions?” “Cheol, help Julián fix that loose chair?” “Cheol, come taste this too salty or perfect?”

By the third week, he was showing up with extra flowers for the kitchen table, and a Tupperware of marinated chicken he’d made the night before “just in case.”

The siblings stopped treating him like a guest.

Alvaro playfully insulted him mid-cooking.

Savanah taught him how to fold dumplings without letting them burst.

Julián invited him to strum the guitar with him in the late afternoons, even if he didn’t play.

And YN?

She watched it all unfold quietly.

Seungcheol laughed more now. Not loud but genuinely. His posture had relaxed. He took more photos of flowers, asked about songs, offered to wash dishes, and even stayed late to help clean the backyard.

She’d catch him looking around, soft-eyed, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And maybe that’s when she realized it.

It didn’t hit like thunder. It didn’t bloom like roses. It was quieter.

She noticed it in the way he listened not just to respond, but to understand.

She noticed it when he helped her little cousin braid her doll’s hair for two hours straight just because she asked.

She noticed it when he looked at her like her silences made sense.

She fell. Slowly. Surely. Stupidly. Like water collecting in the same place until it became a river.

And she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Mom…”

Her mother turned from her recipe book, peeking over her reading glasses.

“Yes?”

YN bit her lip, twisting the string on her hoodie sleeve. “Can I… tell you something? But you can’t tell the others.”

Her mom raised a brow. “You’re not pregnant, right?”

“Mom!” she laughed, swatting her arm.

“Okay, okay. Go on.”

She sat down next to her, nervous. “I think… I think I’m falling for Seungcheol.”

Her mom didn’t speak.

Not because she was shocked. But because… she wasn’t.

“I just I didn’t plan to,” YN continued. “I just started noticing him… you know? The way he talks, the way he makes space for people. He’s gentle. He’s kind. Even when he’s hurting.”

She looked down.

“And it scares me. Because I was so broken before. You remember. And I swore I wouldn’t trust easily again. But with him… I don’t feel scared.”

Her mom reached over, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“My sweet girl,” she said softly, “I knew the moment you stopped humming sad songs in the kitchen.”

YN looked up, blinking. “What?”

Her mother smiled. “You hum again. You laugh with your belly. You come alive when he walks into the room, even if you don’t notice it.”

She paused.

“And if you trust him with that heart of yours… I think he’ll treat it gently. Like it’s something sacred.”

That night, YN stood alone by the porch steps, watching Seungcheol play cards inside with Alvaro and Julián laughing, groaning when he lost a round, swearing they were cheating.

And she realized her mom was right.

She didn’t want grand fireworks. She didn’t want sweeping romance. She just wanted him as he was, as she was.

Maybe next week, she’d tell him.

But for now?

She just wanted to watch the man she loved start to feel like he belonged again.

.

Instead, he went to the veranda sat on the bench again under the vines, mug of cold tea in his hand, heart thudding too loud to ignore.

He didn’t know what to do with the knowledge.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, someone had looked at his scars and didn’t flinch.

She… wanted him.

Not the perfect version of him. Not the “used-to-be” him. Not the could-have-been fiancé.

Him. Now. Still healing.

And as he looked out at the moonlight blanketing the flower beds, he whispered to himself:

“Maybe I can love again.”

The stars had fully bloomed in the sky by the time YN stepped outside.

She carried a half-empty glass of strawberry soda, not because she was thirsty but because her heart was restless. Her legs moved before her mind caught up. She had too much to think about, and somehow… she knew where to find him.

And there he was.

Sitting on the veranda bench like he always did when the noise of the world got too heavy one hand nursing a lukewarm mug of tea, the other absentmindedly running across the wooden armrest.

The jasmine vines above danced in the breeze.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked softly.

He looked up, startled for just a split second before something gentle flickered in his eyes.

“No,” he said. “Too much in my head.”

She nodded, walking over, sitting beside him but not too close. She didn’t want to disturb whatever stillness he had carved out for himself here.

They sat in silence.

The air buzzed with crickets and leftover laughter from inside.

After a few moments, Seungcheol finally spoke voice low, almost afraid to shatter the stillness.

“I didn’t mean to hear it.”

YN blinked. Her heart dropped.

“What?”

“In the kitchen,” he added. “Earlier. I was coming to see if your mom needed help. And then I heard you talking to her.”

Silence. Her breath caught in her throat.

“I should’ve left,” he continued, voice even. “But I froze. I wasn’t trying to… eavesdrop. I swear.”

She didn’t answer.

Not because she was mad.

But because her cheeks burned. Her fingers clenched around her glass.

He turned to her slowly, expression unreadable at first until she met his eyes.

And in them… there was no judgment.

Only something soft. And raw. And real.

“You said you weren’t scared when I looked at you.”

She nodded, barely able to breathe.

“That’s funny,” he whispered. “Because when I look at you… I don’t feel lost anymore.”

Her gaze snapped up to meet his.

He offered a small, almost shy smile like a man still learning how to love again with hands that had once held all the wrong things.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted. “Not yet. I’m still figuring things out. Still healing. But if there’s even a small part of you that wants me the way I already want you…”

He looked down, then back up eyes glistening but steady.

“I’ll try. For you, I’ll try.”

YN didn’t speak. She reached out, slowly, letting her fingers brush against his a quiet answer that said:

“You don’t have to know how. Just don’t run. I’m here. I’ll be here.”

They sat like that for a while hands barely touching, hearts whispering louder than words ever could.

Under jasmine vines, on a porch soaked in moonlight, two broken people found something neither of them thought they’d deserve again:

A second chance.

Two Years Later

The living room was filled with sunshine, warmth, and the scent of lavender from the open windows.

YN sat on the couch, eight months pregnant, her feet resting on a pouf while she scribbled baby name ideas into a notebook half of them crossed out already.

In the kitchen, Alvaro and Seungcheol stood at the counter, chopping vegetables and chatting between sips of mango juice.

“She kicked again?” Alvaro asked, glancing at YN from the doorway.

“Hard,” Seungcheol smiled, placing a hand over his heart. “I think she’s training for the national team already.”

Alvaro chuckled. “You ready to be a girl dad?”

“More than ready,” Seungcheol said with a dreamy sigh. “I’ve already bought four books on how to braid hair.”

“Bro,” Alvaro laughed, slapping his shoulder. “You’re gonna cry the first time she says ‘appa.’”

“I cried when she hiccupped during the ultrasound,” Seungcheol admitted, not even ashamed.

They both laughed.

Then a pause.

Alvaro leaned against the counter, a little more serious. “You know… I’ve never seen her this happy before. Not even close.”

Seungcheol looked up, eyes soft.

“Me neither.”

There was a long silence. Not awkward. Just… full.

“She saved me, man,” Seungcheol added quietly, voice breaking the stillness. “Without even trying. Just by being… her.”

“She would say you did the same.”

Seungcheol smiled as he looked over at her again YN, humming to the baby in her belly, head tilted toward the sun.

And in that moment, he didn’t feel like a man who had been broken.

He felt like a man who had been rebuilt with laughter, second chances, warm kitchens, porch conversations, and a kind of love that healed without asking permission.

[askthehedgehogs]

[Hello and welcome to askthehedgehogs Wedding 2.0! If you're not familiar with the ask blog, check it out for context, or just enjoy a contextless fic + art in which Sonic and Shadow get married (again). Pt 5/6! START | PREV | NEXT]

Wedding: 2.0 Chao Gardens 5th Mission: Escape your own wedding!

Neither Sonic nor Shadow particularly wanted to be on the dance floor any longer than they had to be, so they humoured their friends with a quick dance each (Sonic with Amy, then Tails, then Cream; Shadow with Rouge, then Cream, then Amy) before making their move to escape the dance floor.

They wove their way through the crowds slowly, trying not to draw attention to themselves, lest anyone catch on to the fact that they weren’t partying at their own party. Trying to be casual about it meant they kept having to stop and mingle with guests they hadn’t yet had a chance to catch up with.

They made pleasant small talk with Blaze and joined her for a moment, as she watched Silver and Espio attempt to dance together without either of them wanting to lead.

They found Big and his partner, and cooed over the tiny bowtie Froggy was wearing.

They almost trampled the Classics, mini Sonic letting out a startled squeak while Classic Shadow cursed out Regular Shadow for not looking where he was going. It turned into a full blown argument between the two Shadows, only ending when their respective Sonics dragged them away. Full-sized Sonic looked back over his shoulder in time to see his pint-sized counterpart goading his reluctant Shadow to dance with him.

Rouge and Knuckles were sloppily making out (gross), but made no move to stop the two hedgehogs on their mission to escape the overwhelming crowds.

They made a quick pit stop at the cake. Sure, Amy had assured them that the caterers already set aside a few tiers for the happy couple to keep for themselves, which would be hand delivered to Shadow’s apartment by Amy the next day, but Shadow wasn’t leaving without tasting that coffee frosting.

Oh, so worth it.

Sweet cravings satisfied (and with another glass of champagne in each of them), Sonic suddenly perked up. He had a dangerous glint in his eye, a look that Shadow could never get enough of.

Sonic stood, holding his hand out to Shadow, who raised an eyebrow as he took it. “What are you planning, hedgehog?”

“We’re getting out of here.” Sonic grinned. “Up for a race?”

Shadow smiled, standing as well. “Where to?”

“Home.”

“What about Darkness?”

“Cream’s already got everything she needs to take care of her while we’re on our honeymoon, right?” He shrugged. “I’m sure she won’t mind taking her a day early.”

The hedgehog hybrid looked hesitant.

“C’moooon, Shadow!” Sonic tugged at his arm. “Don’t leave me hanging!”

“... All right. Let’s go.”

Sonic grinned, bending his knees slightly. “Think you can keep up~?”

Shadow rolled his eyes, kicking his airshoes into gear. “I think you know the answer to that by now.”

And with that, they were gone in a brilliant flash of blue and red.

[fayes-fics]

Maid For Pleasure: The Agreement

Masterpost

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Prelude fic. Two gentlemen, one housemaid, and an unusual document mark the beginning of a new adventure...

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI. Reference to sexual situations, explicit acts, pregnancy and periods. Power imbalance (housemaid!reader), period-typical attitudes. No use of "y/n".

Word Count: 1.8k

Author’s Note: Here we go... This started as an idea for a free-use Kinktober drabble that went waaaay off the rails. It's now planned as a multi-part series; this is the prelude, which sets the scene. Fics will be posted in the order they are written, which will differ from the chronological order of the story. Endless thanks to my amazing, patient beta @colettebronte. Enjoy! <3

The paper feels expensive - a crisp, heavy, ivory parchment - as it is passed into your hands.

“I find a confidential agreement to be most prudent for any manner of arrangements,” Viscount Anthony Bridgerton intones. “Mr Patter here is the model of discretion and will witness all of our signatures today.”

He gestures to a genial-looking elderly gentleman sitting in a nearby chair, dressed formally, with a leather folio case resting in his lap; the avuncular air he exudes makes you feel at ease.

“I must say, Miss,” Mr Patter pipes up, addressing you, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, “I have never heard of any gentleman drawing up a document such as this, especially for a staff member. Most use their staff with little to no regard. One should consider oneself extremely fortunate to be in the employ of such a generous, considerate man.”

You nod modestly in response, already sensing how lucky you are.

You entered the employment of the Bridgerton family a mere three weeks ago. A friend of your mother's had been the cook at Aubrey Hall for the best part of thirty years, well-treated and well-paid before her retirement. When you turned twenty without a marriage proposal, she recommended you for the open position there as a housemaid, and you secured it easily with her glowing reference. 

It was only on your fourth day at the beautiful estate that you first set eyes on your employer, the Viscount, and his slightly younger brother, as they swept in, both so handsome that you quite lost your breath. You had assumed their portraits, hanging in the hallway, to be flattery by an obsequious artist, but now you think those likenesses may even be somewhat lacking.

Having had relations with local boys you grew up around, lost your innocence behind the wall of the churchyard, in fact, you knew well enough what the tingle between your legs signified—pure physical desire. And indeed, both of the men’s regard for you was instantly heated, laden. A tingle all over your skin with want: to have them both. To experience anything and everything these worldly men might teach you, no doubt well beyond what any of the local boys could ever offer. You suspect there are realms yet undiscovered that these gentlemen could guide you through.

Then, just yesterday, circumstances conspired so that you found yourself alone with the Viscount in the drawing room, his mother and most siblings having returned to Bridgerton House in London that morning, leaving only he and Benedict behind. It was as if he could scent your desire, for he crowded into you, taking a deep, lewd inhale before asking if you would be willing to provide services beyond those of a maid for him and his brother Benedict, services of an intimate nature. You almost tripped over yourself with excitement to consent. His victorious smile had your insides molten. However, you were confused when, instead of touching you or taking you right then and there, he merely nodded and withdrew, declaring that he would make arrangements.

And so here you are. Summoned into Anthony’s study on an early summer’s afternoon, he sat behind his desk with Benedict casually off to his side, shooting you a crooked smile when you had meekly entered.

“You can read, yes?” Anthony checks belatedly as you look down at the papers he handed you. 

“I can,” you confirm, suddenly so grateful for your grandmother's insistence that you learn as such, in spite of your lower social standing.

“Then please read. Take your time,” Anthony assures. “If everything is to your satisfaction, we shall all sign. If you have any questions or need help understanding any of the contents, we will be happy to assist. Or if you have any requested changes, we will ensure those are annotated with Mr Patter here as witness.”

You take a deep breath, then begin to peruse the paperwork, which may well be the oddest, perhaps the only, document you will ever sign. The matter-of-fact, business-like arrangement is so at odds with the subject matter at hand, but somehow you are inordinately grateful for such ceremony. Especially when you read specific clauses that secure a future for you, should the perhaps inevitable happen.

Anthony’s elegant, looped handwriting is scrawled large across the page, a flutter behind your ribs as you slowly take on board everything he has written down.

+++++

This agreement is strictly secret and confidential. Its content, existence, and the identity of those involved shall be known only to the parties concerned and the witness to its signing, the latter also being responsible for its safekeeping.

Party A, hereafter known as Doe, willingly and knowingly enters into the following arrangement with Parties B & C, hereafter known as Bucks.

Doe hereby agrees to the following:

Doe will not have sexual contact with any other person for the duration of this agreement.

Doe will be available for sexual activity with and/or penetration by Bucks at any time. This may include both Bucks at the same time.

Doe will not expect or request any preparatory activity or preludes for sexual activity, including (but not limited to) kissing and embracing.

Doe permits full, unfettered use of her entire body by Bucks at any time, including while she is asleep. Doe permits any part of Bucks’ bodies to be inserted into any part of her body. She also permits Bucks to insert inanimate objects into any part of her body.

Doe will follow any and all orders given by Bucks. Doe may experience physical discipline and the infliction of temporary pain. Doe may invoke the word ‘red’ to cease any activities that inflict a level of pain she cannot bear.

Doe will participate in any of the above activities in any environment, including (but not limited to) public settings and in front of other people. Said people will not be permitted to touch Doe. 

Doe will not wear any undergarments at any time while Bucks are in residence, or anything else that restricts their prompt and easy access to her nether region. 

Doe will sleep naked at all times while Bucks are in residence.

Doe will keep her nether region readied for use at all times, via oils or other such lubricating substances, including when asleep, while Bucks are in residence.

Doe may refuse Bucks only under the following specific circumstances. No other reason for refusal is permitted: Doe is sick or injured. OR Doe is on her courses, evidence of which will be provided. OR Doe is heavy with child (within 3 months of expected delivery).

Bucks hereby agree to the following:

Bucks will abide by Doe’s refusal if her reason is specified in the list above (see clause above). Bucks would like it noted Doe’s courses or her being heavy with child does not preclude their interest in sexual activity, should Doe be amenable to such.

Bucks will not deposit their seed in a manner intended to cause Doe to become with child. However, should this happen unintentionally, Bucks will be bound by the clauses below regarding medical care and provisions for any resulting offspring.

Bucks may discipline and inflict temporary pain upon Doe, but will not undertake activity with the intention of permanent scarring. 

Bucks will only insert inanimate objects into Doe that are clean and can fit into where they are being inserted without causing injury or lasting distress.

Bucks will cease all activity they are undertaking if Doe invokes the term ‘red’.

Bucks may choose to inform other household staff of this arrangement, but only to the extent necessary to ensure activities can take place uninterrupted and without knowledge of Bucks' mother, siblings and extended family. 

Bucks will provide the best staff bedroom within their household(s) for Doe to be its sole inhabitant. Bucks may enter said bedroom(s) at any time.

Bucks will provide and pay for all clothing suitable for Doe's standing and/or employment. 

Bucks will provide all necessary transportation for Doe should they wish to engage her outside of her principal place of residence/employment, that being their country home.

Bucks will provide and pay for all medical attention for Doe, above and beyond that which is provided to the usual household staff, including in any cases of discomfort, distress, anguish, sickness, injury and pregnancy.

Bucks will provide for any offspring born of Doe that are conceived as a result of their actions. This includes (but is not limited to) a suitably sized dwelling in the local area to be kept in ongoing good condition for Doe for the perpetuity of her existence, plus an immediate £1,000 per birthed offspring for all future food, clothing, healthcare and education. Bucks will not publicly acknowledge offspring as their own but retain visitation rights as/if they wish. Offspring will not bear Bucks last name or be eligible to otherwise inherit from their estates.

All parties hereby also agree to the following:

Maintain a suitable level of personal hygiene and grooming, including regular bathing, trimming of nails and body hair, particularly in intimate areas.

Keep this arrangement strictly confidential from Bucks' mother, siblings and extended family.

This agreement becomes instantly null and void should any of the following occur:

One or both Bucks become betrothed. If this occurs, a new arrangement may be negotiated between any interested parties, including the Buck(s) betrothed.

Any other member of Bucks’ family is informed of or becomes aware of this arrangement. 

Doe leaves the employment of Bucks’ household.

Doe becomes infected with any pox or incurable disease that could be passed to Bucks.

Any party may request a meeting with all other parties and the witness to this agreement to resolve any disputes that may arise, including any non-compliance with the clauses above.

Any party may terminate this agreement at any time, for any reason, by written notification to the other parties and the witness. All other parties must adhere to the termination of the contract without question or reprisal. 

Signed by:

_____________

Party A (Doe)

_____________

Party B (Buck #1)

_____________

Party C (Buck #2)

Witnessed by:

_____________

William Patter Esq, Patter & Sons, Canterbury, Kent, England 

On _____________ (date)

+++++

“I understand all of the content. I have no questions or requested changes,” you confess quietly, knowing you are flushed, trying to tamp down your need to squirm, your clit pulsing softly, aroused merely by the words upon the page, let alone what they could signify.

Both men look extraordinarily pleased, their faces lighting up as you take the proffered quill and scratch your signature above the line for Doe, the first thing you have ever signed. 

The men then move in and sign; Anthony as Buck #1, and Benedict as Buck #2. All of your signatures are vague enough that no identifying names can be easily determined at first glance.

Anthony hands the paperwork to Mr Patter, who signs as the witness before sealing the document in his folio and, rather quickly, makes his excuses, heading out the door to his awaiting carriage…

… Leaving you all alone with two gorgeous men that you have just promised your body to—belly afire, pussy drenched.

masterlist • wips • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)

Anthony & Benedict taglist pt 1 : @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Hi, I was wondering if I can request a Steve Rogers fic in which he gets the reader pregnant, and they found she's carrying twins and bruce views as a high risk pregnancy due to the super solider serum.

and it super high risk, like her pregnancy seems only to take a few months rather than 9.

High Risk » Steve Rogers/Captain America

Pairings: Husband!Steve Rogers x Wife/Pregnant!Reader

Summary: Your pregnancy turns out to be high risk due to the Super Soldier serum.

Warnings: Fluff, language, crying, kissing, pet names

A/N: @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers thank you for the lovely request🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star / divider made by me

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

“What do you think the gender of our babies are?” You asked your husband, excitement coursing through your veins.

“I think our babies will be boys.” Steve smiles.

“You sure? I think our babies will be girls.” You smiled back.

“We’ll see about that in a few minutes, sweetheart.” He says, kissing you softly.

Bruce has offered to make sure everything is ok with yours and Steve’s babies, which you and Steve happily accepted. He did an ultrasound on you last month and he’s going to do another ultrasound. You and Steve are hoping that you’re far along enough to find out the genders of yours and his twin babies.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks.

“My feet hurt. Other than that, I’m great.” You replied.

“We’re excited to find out the genders of our babies.” Steve says.

“Let’s see if we can find that out.” Bruce says.

You and Steve held hands as Bruce did the ultrasound. Excitement was coursing through yours and Steve’s veins the closer you two got to finding out the genders of yours and his twin babies.

“Do you want to know the gender or do you guys want to wait?” Bruce asks.

“Tell us please.” You say.

“Ok.” Bruce replies and looks back at the monitor. “Twin A is a girl and Twin B is a boy.” He tells you.

“Oh my god!” You exclaimed excitedly. “Baby, we’re having a girl and a boy!” You say happily.

“I know!” Steve happily exclaims.

As you and Steve were having yours and his happy moment, Bruce noticed something about the babies. He noticed something different about your pregnancy that’s not the same as normal pregnancies. He was so focused on the monitor that he didn’t he you and Steve stop talking about the genders of yours and his babies.

“Bruce, what’s wrong?” Steve asks.

“It’s just- you said you were about 4 and a half months pregnant the other day.” Bruce says, looking at you and Steve.

“Yes.” You say.

“The monitor is showing that you’re farther along.” Bruce says.

“How far along is she?” Steve asks.

“Almost 7 months.” Bruce says.

“We could’ve got the conception date wrong.” You say.

“That could be a possibility, but I don’t think that’s the case with your pregnancy.” Bruce says.

“What do you mean?” Steve asks.

“Due to the Super Soldier serum, Y/N pregnancy is high risk.” Bruce says.

Yours and Steve’s hearts dropped. You two began to think the worst possible scenarios of what could happen to yours and his babies.

“Are you saying that me or our babies could die?” You asked, your eyes tearing up.

“It’s a possibility.” Bruce says honestly.

“I don’t- I don’t want me or my babies to die!” You cried.

“You and our babies aren’t going to die.” Steve assures softly, caressing your cheeks.

“It’s a possibility.” You say.

“Yes, it is, but Bruce is going to everything he can to prevent that from happening, ok?” Steve says.

“Ok.” You sniffled.

“Steve is right.” Bruce chimes in. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you and your babies. With the right prenatal care, you and your babies will be fine.” He says.

You nodded and tried to calm down with Steve comforting you. That’s all you thought about all day and night. Steve was sound asleep while you stared at the wall in the dark. There’s no way that you’re going to be able to sleep with what you found out about your pregnancy. You carefully and quietly took Steve’s arm off of you and quietly got out of bed. You went to the living room and turned the TV, putting it on a low volume. It didn’t take Steve long to realize that you’re not next to him in bed. He heard the TV on in the living room. He went to the living room to see you laying on the couch and watching TV.

“Sweetheart, it’s late. Come back to bed.” Steve says softly.

“What’s the point of going back to bed if I can’t sleep?” You asked.

Steve knew why you couldn’t sleep. He gently moved your legs and sat down on the couch, putting your legs on his lap.

“Are you still thinking about what we found out about your pregnancy?” Steve asks.

Your eyes teared up and you nodded.

“You heard Bruce. Everything is going to be alright if you get the right prenatal care.” Steve says.

“I know, but I can’t- I can’t stop thinking about the worst possible scenarios of what might happen to our babies.” You say, your voice cracking.

“I know it’s scary, honey, but you can’t think like that. It’s not good for you and our babies.” He says softly.

“I know.” You cried.

“Darling, look at me.” He said. “I am not going to let anything happen to you and our babies. I promise.” He almost whispers.

The softness of Steve’s voice made you feel better. Also, hearing your husband say those words made you feel better too.

“You always know what to say, Stevie.” You smiled.

“Isn’t that why you married me?” Steve smiles back.

Steve leans over and kisses you softly and sweetly.

“I love you, baby.” You whispered.

“I love you too, honey.” Steve whispers back.

-Bucky’s Doll

[allyeilishh]

A funny request where reader can read the minds of animals and communicate with them both in her mind and out loud. Maybe in the format of a 5 + 1 fic where it’s like 5 times reader almost exposes her power then the 1 time she can’t avoid it, so she tells Billie about it

ᥫ᭡ ANIMAL GIRL ── .✦ B.E.

pairing: Billie Eilish x Reader

genre: fluff

synopsis: where reader has the ability to talk to animals and exposes herself to Billie.

w/c: 3.6k

The first time it happened was on a hike. You and Billie were in a park, following a trail that goes around the entire woods. You could hear all the birds chirping, frogs croaking, and the gentle rustle of the leaves flowing in the wind.

Billie was holding onto your hand, taking in every detail of the park. It was so beautiful, especially this time of year. Everything was so fresh, so vibrant it was almost like it was a movie. It was refreshing to smell the clean air and the flowers growing.

You could see a deer staring at you off the trail. It wasn’t uncommon for animals to look at you, staring silently. You knew they could sense you understood them. That you knew what they were saying. But this deer looked almost worried. That’s when you spotted her.

A female deer, lying on the ground, a bullet wound in one of its shoulders. Shot and hunted, yet never picked up. It tore your heart to pieces. You had always loved deer, them being so cute and all. And seeing the deer just lying there helpless shot a pain through your heart.

But you didn’t know how to help. Billie was rambling and holding onto your hand. You didn’t have a way to help unless you exposed your little power. You didn’t want to leave Billie, but your heart yearned to help the deer. You let out a quiet sigh, before looking over at Billie.

“Baby, I think I left my water bottle back in the car. Do you mind going back and getting it for me?” You spoke in the most innocent tone you could. Eyelashes fluttering.

Billie stopped mid-sentence, her eyes softening as she looked at you. You both were already a little far from the car, but seeing your innocent expression and the little beads of sweat on your forehead, she couldn’t say no.

“Yeah, okay baby. Just wait here for me, okay? Be right back.” She said, letting go of your hand reluctantly, kissing your cheek before making her way back towards the car.

The second she was out of sight, you were off the trail and darting towards the two deer. You could hear the tiny whimpering of the female deer, and it tore your heart into two. You sank to your knees next to her, gently petting her head.

“Hey, sweetheart. I’m gonna help, okay? Can you lie still?” You said softly, taking in the deer’s expression. Then, you saw her nod. You couldn’t help but smile. It was always such an experience to see the animals understanding you.

You took off your backpack from your shoulders, putting it down next to you. You quickly began to rummage through everything, before finding the first aid. It wasn’t exactly the best, but it was all you could have for a hiking trip. You weren’t exactly expecting to stitch up a deer.

You moved closer to the deer, movements slow and precise, not wanting to scare her. One hand went to the deer’s back, gently rubbing the soft fur as you began to gently clean the wound. And when she jumped, you gently cooed the deer as if it was a baby.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s helping you. It’s cleaning so it doesn’t get infected. I know it hurts, sweet girl, just try and stay still.”

And she understood. The deer tried to stay as still as possible as you continued to clean. And the second you were done, you could see the deer slowly beginning to relax. It made your heart warm up. You couldn’t help but smile. She was already getting comfortable.

“That’s it, sweet girl. This is the worst part, it’s gonna really hurt. I’m so sorry.” You said in advance, knowing that pulling out the bullet would be the worst thing for the deer. You just had to make sure she didn’t bleed out.

You gently cooed at the deer as you went in with a pair of scissors clamps, slow and precise. You couldn’t help but hear the deer whimpering, and it was tearing you to pieces. But then, you saw the other deer—the one who had been staring at you, leaning down to lick the top of her head.

That’s when you finally realized. They must be in a relationship. The male deer looked concerned for his mate. The scene was so cute, you almost forgot what you were doing. You quickly snapped back into focus, clamping down on the bullet.

You were slow, precise, making sure everything went smoothly. And when the bullet was finally out and no blood poured out, you let out a sigh of relief, releasing the bullet and letting it drop to the ground. You softly murmured to the deer again, soft and kind.

“You did so good, sweetie, I’m so proud. I’m just going to patch you up now. Then you should be good.”

You began to grab gauze and wipe away any dried blood, making sure everything was clean and dry. You then placed fresh, heavily stacked gauze over the wound, placing medical tape around the edges, making sure it was all secure and felt comfortable for the deer.

You could see how comfortable the deer had gotten after you had taken care of her. You couldn’t help but smile, seeing as the deer got up with ease. Your heart felt like it was swelling in love. But before you could even think, the deer was licking at your cheek, and you couldn’t help but giggle, your hands going to rest on the sides of its neck.

“Okay, okay, girl. You’re welcome.” You giggled out as the deer finally pulled away. You didn’t need words to see the gratitude on their faces. You gave them a soft smile, before waving them both off, watching as they both ran back out into the woods.

It was always moments like this that made your heart swell. Seeing an injured animal but up on its feet just after some help was what made you love your little power. You let out a little sigh, before beginning to pack everything back up and stuffing it in your backpack.

As you made your way back to the trail, you could see Billie coming back. Perfect timing. You sped up just a bit, reaching the trail as a soft smile pressed onto your lips. “Hey, baby.”

“Hey, sweetheart. What were you doing off the path?” Billie questioned softly, handing you your water bottle.

“Just smelling some flowers I saw.” You lied, yet it was believable, because Billie didn’t push. She just took your hand again, continuing your hike and her story.

It was a sunny day, the sun beaming down onto your skin as you sat beside your pool. The day was beautiful, and you were on your lounge chair, taking in the sun. The backyard was somewhat quiet, behinds for the ruffling of the trees and the little animals running around behind you.

You were like a safe space for the wildlife. Since yours and Billie’s house were somewhat in a rural area, the wildlife often ended up in your backyard most of the time. Playing with each other and just having fun without the fear of being hunted. Because they were on your property, and anyone unwelcome would hear an earful.

Billie was still inside, making some smoothies for you two. Today was just a by-the-pool day, no work, just relaxing with each other. You weren’t exactly trying to mother some baby bunnies. But when two of them came hopping over to the pool, obviously about to jump in, you quickly sent a warning towards them telepathically. Which stopped them in their tracks.

You couldn’t help but smile as you rolled your eyes, watching as they hopped back away from the large pool. But, of course, peace never lasts, because not even a few minutes later, you heard the two bunnies play fighting. Which, at first, didn’t bother you. You knew they were just having fun, and you weren’t going to ruin that.

You only started to care when one of the bunnies came running towards you, squealing. And within seconds, the bunny was curled up on your chest, hiding its face with its ears. You had zero idea what had happened, but you could already guess, seeing the small scratch on the bunny’s ear. You let out a soft coo, gently petting the soft fur.

“Oh, baby, did your sister cut your ear?” You gently said, looking over at the other bunny, who had already started to shy away. They had definitely known what they had done wrong, and they knew that they would get a scolding from you.

“Come here,” you said to the other bunny, waving your fingers for them to come over. The bunny instantly hopped over, scurrying right next to its sister. You could see the sister’s legs bending, like she was ready to attack. You immediately put a hand between them, eyes darkening.

“Listen, you two can’t be picking fights. You’re going to get each other hurt.” You said firmly, already hinting towards the scratch on the sister’s ear. You gently petted the female bunny, soothing the scratched ear.

“You hear me? Both of you?” You said firmly, watching as they both nodded. You hummed in response, beginning to shoo them off. That’s when Billie began to come out with the smoothies. They both immediately scrambled away, hopping into the woods.

Billie sat down on the lounge chair next to you, handing you your smoothie as she smiled. “Were some bunnies just curled up on you?”

“Yeah, I think you scared them off with your big mouth.” You said teasingly, taking a sip out of the straw.

“Hey! I don’t have a big mouth!” She said defensively, rolling her eyes and leaning back against her lounge chair.

You and Billie had both gone to the beach for the weekend, set up under a big umbrella. Both of your towels were next to each other, trying to keep yourselves as close as possible. You two honestly just wanted to enjoy the beach together without any flashing cameras or deadlines.

And that’s what you two got. You and Billie were lying down on your towels, giggling and talking about some drama that had been going on. You hadn’t planned on going in the ocean, and when Billie had asked you, you politely turned her down.

She let out a dramatic groan, rolling her eyes. But she placed a gentle peck on your lips before heading out towards the water. You couldn’t help but chuckle, watching her walk away. You propped yourself up onto your elbows, watching as Billie made her way into the water.

You watched as she got slammed down by the waves, yet kept getting back up. It made you laugh, seeing her having fun.

But then, in the corner of your eye, you saw baby turtles coming out from the sand. They looked so small, and they were the cutest things that you could’ve ever seen.

The beach was mostly empty, and not many people were paying attention to you. So the second you could, you ran over to them, making sure they safely got across the ocean. You cooed at each one, complimenting on how pretty their shells were. They each smiled at you, and it felt like an award each time.

You shooed away any seagulls that tried to pick them up, using your stern look to turn them away. Even asshole seagulls listened to you. You could see each baby turtle waddling off the sand and into the water, and it made your heart melt seeing them disappear into their new, safe home.

You stood there for a moment, watching the ocean’s waves crashing beneath your feet, trying to get one last glance of the turtles. You were suddenly snapped out of your little trance as a wet hand was placed on your shoulder.

“You’re such an animal girl, you know that? Sometimes I think you can actually speak to them.” Billie said softly, placing her dripping wet chin on your shoulder. You couldn’t help but chuckle, turning around to face her.

“Yeah, I know. But you’re just a shark person.” You teased slightly, tucking a drenched strand of hair behind her ear.

“Nothing wrong with a girl loving her dog,” she said, before leaning in. Her arms wrapped around your waist, her face in your neck.

“But I’m more of a you girl if I do say so myself.” She murmured, before placing a gentle kiss to your neck.

You rolled your eyes teasingly, before gently pushing her away. “Alright, c’mon, miss flirtatious, you’re gonna get me all wet.”

“I already do that on the daily.” She teased, biting her lower lip.

“Billie, oh my god,” you said, embarrassed, dragging her back to your towels.

You and Billie had this date idea, and she knew it would be something you would love. She was taking you horseback riding. You weren’t very educated on how to do it, but having Billie with you felt safer and more secure.

You could see the horses in the stables all suddenly paying attention to you, but you tried to ignore it, knowing that Billie couldn’t know. You never told her—not because you didn’t trust her, but because you didn’t know how she would take it. So you just kept it to yourself.

Billie led a horse out of one of the stables, a gentle smile on her face. “This is Ruby, and you’ll be riding her. She’s a real cutie.” She said softly, getting the saddle on top of Ruby and securing it.

Ruby was a white-coated horse, with a dark brown mane and tail. She had little spots all over her, and it just added to the cuteness of the horse. You gently rubbed her nose, feeling her leaning into your touch. You couldn’t help but giggle, seeing Ruby so comfortable with you already.

“She really likes you, huh?” Billie said, a smile placed on her lips. She gently took your hand, leading you over to the saddle.

“Yeah, I guess.” You spoke back, a small chuckle ringing through your throat. Billie helped you up onto the horse, making sure you got on securely. She led Ruby outside of the stables, telling her to wait there as she got her own horse.

As Billie left, you leaned down, getting close to Ruby’s ear, but making sure you didn’t get too close. “You’re a very pretty girl, aren’t ya?” You spoke in a soft murmur, before hearing Ruby neigh softly.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, gently brushing her mane with your fingers. You spoke again, voice a quiet murmur. “You like it here? You seem to be very happy, I can tell.”

Ruby nodded, letting out another neigh. You smiled, gently scratching her ear. And right then, Billie came out, already on her horse.

She gave you a soft smile, speaking gently. “Ready, sweetheart?”

You nodded, and then, you two were off. You were just taking a few laps around the land, not trailing too far away from the stables. You were next to Billie, trying to get used to the feeling of controlling an entire horse beneath you.

“You doing okay?” Billie said softly, reaching out to gently rub your back for a moment. You nodded, taking a small breath.

But eventually, you got used to the feeling after a lap, and Billie could tell you had gotten comfortable. She couldn’t help but tease a bit, speeding up her horse a bit.

It confused you for a second, before you realized what she was doing. She was trying to show off. She wanted to show you that she had more power. But you weren’t going to let that happen. Not on your watch.

You leaned down, speaking in a soft murmur to Ruby. “Speed up for me, girl.”

And that’s exactly what happened. Ruby’s slow walk turned into a jog, sending you forward a bit, before composing yourself. You quickly surpassed Billie, letting out a soft giggle as you looked back to see her shocked expression.

But then, the battle was on. Billie sped up even more, passing you yet again. You rolled your eyes, before telepathically speaking to Ruby once more. “Run, girl. Run into the wind.”

And before you knew it, Ruby was speeding off, and leaving Billie in the dust. But not for long. You were giggling and gently playing with ruby’s mane before you saw Billie by your side again.

“Oh, you’re so on.”

You had been minding your own business, trying to cook breakfast in the kitchen, peaceful and silent. You hadn’t expected Billie to even be awake yet, since she normally didn’t wake up until almost noon.

But when you heard the blood-curdling scream from your bedroom, you knew she was. And it had you jumping out of your skin. You called her name in a panic, turning off the stove before darting up the stairs.

And in your room, there she was, teary-eyed, curled up on top of the bed, staring down at the ground like it was going to murder her. you were confused for a moment, before seeing it. A spider. A tiny, itty-bitty spider that was no bigger than your palm.

“Seriously, Billie?” You said, a mixture of annoyance and teasing. “A spider?”

Her eyes instantly locked onto yours, terrified like she had just witnessed her entire bloodline getting murdered. “Kill it! It’s terrifying!”

“I’m not gonna kill it, you drama queen.” You said, rolling your eyes. You made your way over to the spider, picking it up into your hand. You smiled softly, feeling the tiny legs shifting on your hand.

You walked over to the window, cracking it open and setting it on a leaf of the plants you had on your windowsill. “You’re a little cutie,” you murmured to yourself, under your breath.

You shut the window, returning your focus back to Billie, who had now calmed down, and was practically begging you with her eyes for you to come over.

You let out a little chuckle, before sitting down next to her, pulling her into your arms. “It was just a spider, it was harmless, sweet girl.” You said with a soft chuckle, feeling her hiding into your neck.

“But it was so scary!” She said with a whine, holding onto you tighter.

“No, it wasn’t, you drama queen.” You said, gently stoking her hair. You knew she had a fear of spiders, but seeing it in action made it even funnier.

“You want breakfast? I was cooking before I got interrupted by your screaming.” You teased, gently tilting her head up to look at you. You felt her nod, and you teasingly rolled your eyes, before getting up and walking back downstairs with her hand in yours.

It was one of the days where Billie spent a long time at the studio. It was late, and you were curled up on the couch with Shark. The room was quiet, the tv playing in the dimmed room, and you felt at ease. A blanket draped over you, and your hand gently scratching sharks head.

You felt Shark sigh in contentment, his head leaning into your hand. You couldn’t help but chuckle, seeing Shark all relaxed. You spoke softly, your voice teasing and a little annoyed. “You’re acting like such a big cuddle bug now, but once Billie gets home and sees you torn apart her favorite shirt, you’re not gonna be so cuddly.”

Sharks head instantly lifted, his eyebrows furrowed and his teeth slightly showing. You couldn’t help but laugh, seeing him all angry.

“What?! I told you not to, but you just think that everything’s a chew toy.” You said as a chuckle, feeling his paw hitting at your stomach. He let out a bark, denying it.

“Yes you do!” Another bark. You and Shark kept going back and forth, before another voice cut in.

“What’s going on?” Her voice was confused, a little shocked. It was Billie. You froze, and so did Shark. But before long, Shark was off of the couch and running out of the room. Leaving you alone with Billie.

The room was silent for a moment, other than the tv playing awkwardly in the background now. Billie plopped down next to you, searching your face for some sort of explanation.

You looked back at her, locking eyes. You didn’t know how to explain it. You didn’t know how to explain that you could speak to animals, and how they could understand you. How they could understand the words you said like you spoke their own language.

“You can understand when animals speak?” Billie spoke softly, her voice holding a bit of shock, but now, a bit of amusement. She felt a small smile forming onto her face, gently pulling you closer.

You gave Billie a soft nod, and your fears were slowly falling away. You could see the curiosity in Billie’s eyes, how excited she was for this new found information.

“Why didn’t you just tell me? You knew I wouldn’t have been mad about it, right? This is so cool!” She said, her voice rising with excitement. You let out a soft giggle, feeling Billie pulling you closer.

You felt like a weight was lifted off your shoulders. A secret you had been trying to keep hidden didn’t even matter. It didn’t even have to be a secret in the first place. You snuggled into Billie’s arms, letting out a content sigh.

“Shark also tore up your favorite shirt earlier. He wanted me to tell you that he doesn’t regret it.”

“What?!”⋆. 𐙚 ̊

a/n: can yall tell I got lazy towards the end…. ALSO I know Billie doesn’t have arachnophobia I just didn’t know what to write I’m sorry 💔💔 this is terrible I’m gonna delete this

[hhaechansmoless]

CHASING THE FRONT [TEASER]

pairing: mercedes driver!joshua x fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst, f1au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series.

New team, new teammate, new standards to live up to. For Joshua, stepping into Mercedes is a test of everything he’s worked for. Competing against a world champion teammate, adapting to a new team dynamic, and finding his place in the spotlight, he’s under pressure like never before. But things start to get a little out of control when he keeps bumping into you, his teammate's sister...and manager.

warnings for the fic: strong language, stressful situations, mentions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn (i cannot stress on this enough), quite f1 heavy

teaser w/c: 1155 full fic: 57k [ part one comes out on 18th july! ]

glossary taglist

ITALY, AUTODROMO INTERNAZIONALE ENZO E DINO FERRARI

Thursday, Media Day

May 15th 

Minghao calls you right after breakfast, his voice sounding thin and scratchy.

“I’m so sorry, I won’t be able to come today. I’m down with a fever, and I’m not even kidding when I say I couldn’t get out of bed this morning.”

Slightly worried, you assure him that it’s alright and tell him to rest. He pauses for a few seconds before croaking out again.

“I told the team, but I think they’ll most probably hand Joshua over to you as well.”

You stop in your tracks then, just outside the Mercedes hospitality. “What?”

“I know, I know it’s going to be so busy for you and I am truly so sorry. I’ll send over his schedule” He sighs. “I tried telling them to not hand it over to you, cause I know Doyoung has a shit ton to do today but I don’t think they’ll listen.”

You hang up just as you step through the glass doors. The paddock’s already starting to fill—press, crew, sponsors, all of them moving with that media day urgency that feels a little more frantic than usual. You’re used to it. What you’re not used to is the weight of two drivers and whatever the hell Joshua Hong’s day looks like.

Joshua’s schedule hits your inbox seconds later. You skim it through it quickly, stomach tightening when you realise how little time there is between each thing. Back-to-back and some even overlap with Doyoung’s.

Great. You think, mentally scorning the higher-ups for not having a backup plan.

“Hey,” a voice says behind you.

You turn. It’s Joshua, already changed in his team shirt, cap low, and with a bottle of water in hand. You straighten slightly, unsure how to even begin.

“Hi,” you say. “Uh—so Minghao’s sick, I don’t know if you know. They’ve put me on double duty today.”

His brows lift just a little. “So I’m yours now?”

The way he says it—casual, almost amused—makes you blink once.

“Temporarily,” you reply. “Until he stops dying.”

Joshua nods, then pushes his cap up a bit. “Guess I’ll try not to be too difficult.”

You don’t reply to that. You’re already flipping through his schedule and cross-checking it with Doyoung’s in your head. You have twenty minutes before Doyoung’s interview with American media, but Joshua’s supposed to be at a sponsor photoshoot in ten. It’s in a completely different building.

“I’ll walk you there,” you say, more to yourself than to him.

He follows easily, steps matching yours as he scrolls through his phone. At one point, you drag him by the sleeve towards yourself so that he doesn’t bump into a few Alpine mechanics hoarding around a box of something.

“Sorry,” he lets out with a small gasp, “God, my friends are planning to come in for Silverstone and I’m trying to figure out their passes.”

“All good.” You grumble slightly, checking your watch again.

The photoshoot runs long. Doyoung’s media prep runs early. You’re glued to your phone by mid-morning, answering one call while texting logistics to two different comms interns. It’s chaotic, but it’s familiar. You’d handle it fine if it weren’t for the fact that now, somehow, you’re fielding questions like “what do we usually do for Joshua’s media pen appearance, later on?” when you have no idea what his “usual” even looks like.

At one point, you find him sitting outside the hospitality, sipping a coffee like the world isn’t on fire.

“You’re supposed to be on your way to the Sky Sports filming right now. What are you doing?” You ask, huffing out a breath and trying to continue, when someone calls your phone. Letting out a small sound of frustration, you glance at him once more, pointing in the direction of where the interviewers are standing, before picking it up.

He blinks at you, almost innocently. “They told me it got pushed ahead by ten minutes.”

You don’t have the energy to check if that’s true. The call you’re on is already starting to drone in your ear, and someone’s messaging you about a missing team jacket. You close your eyes for a second.

“Fine,” you mutter. “Just go now. Please.”

Joshua lifts both hands in mock surrender, rising from the chair. “Okay, fine, fine.”

You shoot him a look, even as you bring the phone back to your ear and mutter something resembling an apology to the comms assistant still waiting on the line. By the time you look up again, he’s halfway across the paddock.

You don’t see him again until much later, when the worst of the day has passed and you finally get a minute to breathe inside the hospitality. You’re leaning back in a chair, half-reading a spreadsheet, when Joshua walks in holding two iced coffees.

He sets one down in front of you without a word.

You look up with a questioning glance.

“Half milk. Less sugar. Like how you ordered yours this morning,” he says, casually. “Figured I owed you.”

You blink, surprised but grateful nonetheless. “I—thanks.”

He shrugs, sliding into the seat across from you. “Didn’t get lost or miss anything this afternoon, so I’d say your track record’s looking good.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t jinx it.”

“Are you done for the day? Or does your brother dearest still have schedules?”

“He’s in a meeting right now,” You sigh out of satisfaction from your first sip. “So I’m not done for an hour or more. I have a meeting to get to in…” you trail off.

Joshua raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue.

“Now. Actually. You’re done for the day, so you’re free to go home.” You mutter, getting out of your chair and setting your cup down before beginning to gather your things. Joshua shifts, trying to help you, but you wave a hand at him.

“Thank you for not being a pain, actually.” You say to him once you’ve got everything you need in your hands. “I thought I’d have to chase you around all day or something. I know Minghao’s there with you most of the time, so I’m sorry I couldn’t but…”

“You thought I was difficult?” Joshua lets out, almost incredulously.

“I think you’re used to Minghao borderline baby-sitting you.” You roll your eyes.

He laughs now, tipping his head back a little. “To be fair, he likes bossing me around. Who am I to refuse?”

There’s something oddly warm about the moment, despite the fatigue clinging to your limbs. You glance at him again, at the way he’s still nursing his coffee like he has nowhere else to be.

He pauses, gaze flickering to you. His smile softens, not teasing or sharp, instead almost sincere. “Thanks for stepping in,” he says. “I know you didn’t have to.”

You shrug, throwing him a grin over your shoulder. “It’s just what we do as a team, I guess.”

[dzvelinaskebiyars]

Fucked it up !

Yet another fic hehe:3 doing anything but posting part 4 of Moth Drawn To Flame...Forgive me y'all! I'm having writer's block, so I don't like anything I'm writing rn. I don't like this either but, oh well...I still wanna keep updating. Anyway, dividers by @cafekitsune tagging: @shintaru @ravenwritten @bfwooin @sylith @wthphe1n @zyart-jpg @bunnygirlgonewild @kuchisabishiiiii @i-nssomniia @mscatheart @erisawrites

Wooin has always been the type to catch up on trends, know what's trending rn and what's not. To be entirely honest, he's the one that introduced you to many trends in the first place, which later you got obsessed with. And truthfully? He didn't mind. Those stupid pranks you pulled? Entertaining, at least for him—even though you'd get frustrated for almost never being able to prank him. But whenever you succeed, you'd always celebrate it and gosh, that cute little celebration? He found it so adorable that he couldn't even get mad at you.

He was almost always informed on what was going on social media and never has he made a mistake during pranks or even during your stupid lil questions that girlfriends often asked their boyfriends.

But everything can happen at least once, huh?

You were spread out on the bed, watching Wooin play one of his online game that you already forgot the name of—but he surely loved it. However, your mind was drifting to another places, specifically to the memory of something you came across on tiktok and for whatever reason, curiosity ate you up whole, wanting to know how Wooin would react.

So, with a playful smirk, you leaned over his shoulder and rested your chin on him, mumbling excitedly. "Damnn, my current boyfriend is very good at playing games."

His fingers paused, his head tilting a little to get a look at your expression. He wasn't offended, no. He was trying to figure you out. What intentions did you have now, huh? Make him jealous? How cute. Shouldn't you know better?

You spoke up again. "I want to play it with you, current boyfriend."

He almost snickered. "Current?"

You hummed, nodding your head. "Yup, current."

Oh. He gets it. That's what you want, huh. Well, two can play at that game.

"Aww, really.." He turned to his screen once again, continuing his game. "I'm your current boyfriend?"

"Yup!" You answered without hesitation.

"Then you're my current girlfriend. Still thinking if I should keep you or upgrade to someone who can cook."

He said it.

Gosh, he really said it.

With no hesitation.

Your smile faltered before completely disappearing, your eyebrows knitted together as you frowned upon him. "What..?"

He turned to look at you, completely unfazed by what he just said. "What?"

"Why would you say that?" You tried to laugh but your voice almost cracked.

He sighed like this was giving him headache, turning his phone off. "Because you started it?"

"I called you my current boyfriend because I want you to be my husband one day..." You explained, your voice trailing quieter, watching the way his mouth parted open in surprise. "But..You think I'm repleacable instead?"

His phone almost dropped from his hands, his expression more than just surprised, but also capturing the moment of realization on him. He could swear to god, he started cursing himself in his head.

"No. No, I don't—fuck, baby, I was joking." He gets up from the floor, sitting on the bed beside you, his fingers immediately linking with you.

You fought the urge to swat his hand away, but you didn't. In the end, you knew he just misunderstood what you were trying to say but, damn, that hurt so bad. And that familiar yet very unpleasant feeling of your heart feeling heavy, eyes burning from unshed tears, settled in your chest. "You...You said it like it could happen, you know."

"I'm sorry.." He groaned, laying you back down on your back, his head resting on your chest while his arms wrapped themselves around your waist. "I thought you were pranking me and I thought I'd match your energy, but I misunderstood what you truly meant. And you know how I am—Joking about shits I shouldn't."

You sighed to yourself, your gaze glued to ceiling. "You're stupid."

He clossed his eyes in acceptance. "Yeah, yeah, I'm stupid." Though, there was no seriousness in his voice while saying that.

"And idiotic if you thought I'd ever joke about replacing you." You huffed, shifting beneath him to have space for yourself but he has glued himself on you like a parasite, unwilling to let you go, like his life depended on you.

"I'm sorry, I fucked it up." He muttered, cursing under his breath. How could he not understand your intentions in the first place? You were like an open book, easy to read, easy to understand. But only because he thought he could get stupid for a second— gosh, the more he thinks about it, the more he hates himself for it. "It was just a dumb joke. I didn't mean it."

You didn't answer. Instead, you were much more interested in the ceiling, avoiding eye contact with him. He groaned again—not in annoyance, no—but because he felt so stupid in moments like this, awkward and stupid. "You're not gonna be replaced, you know that, right?"

You finally looked at him, your lips curled in disdain and unamusement. "I better not. Or I'll cut your balls off."

"See?" He smirked, lifting his head from your chest. "Who needs forgiveness when I can have my beautiful girlfriend threatening me with Castration?"

Your lips twitched in smile slightly and he didn't miss that moment. His heart calmed down now that he successfully made you smile, even if slight.

"But seriously..." He rubbed his neck, glancing down at you. "Let me make it up to you, yeah?"

"And how?" You raised your eyebrow at him.

"I'll buy us matching rings from Chrome Hearts, deal? The ones you've been eyeing for." He noticed. He always noticed how much you loved Chrome Hearts rings. So, for a while, he's been planning to make them customize for you and perfect moment for that finally came.

His attentiveness made you forget about what you were upset about in the first place. You sit up on the bed, still not done with him. "And ice cream."

"And ice cream, of course."

You bit your lip. Gosh, he was so annoying sometimes but great heavens, you were so lucky to have him.

"And kisses." He added, his smirk stretching wider.

"What—Oh—" You were caught off guard by him suddenly pressing his lips to yours in a firm kiss, as if he was pouring all his apologies and promises in it.

And maybe he was. Hence, he kissed you breathless, cupping your cheek in his hand, slowly cradling you as if you were most delicate thing he has ever touched.

When you finally pulled away to catch your breath—cheeks flushed, he asked. "Am I forgiven?"

You nodded your head, still distracted by the kiss and closeness of his presence. "Mhm. But don't joke like that again."

"I won't." He left peck on your lips. "Never again."