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artficlly · 5 months ago

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lessons in lovemaking

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, grinding, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, premature ejaculation, reader has dubious methods of emotional control, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, mentions of red room, very consensual, safe words, kissing, panic attacks, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: hey guys, i'm a woman possessed. i've had so much motivation to write recently, so here is a quick one-shot. i'm sure this concept has been done before but i just couldn't stop thinking about touch starved bucky :( ! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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You never would’ve agreed to this mission had you known Barnes was going to be this squeamish. You’d seen the man slit throats without a sound, drop bodies with cold efficiency, and unload an entire chamber of bullets without so much as flinching. He hadn’t even blinked when aliens from outer-fucking-space rained hell upon Earth. But holding your hand? Letting his fingers brush your waist? Anything a devoted ‘husband’ ought to do? The super soldier looked like he’d rather swallow glass. He couldn’t even meet your gaze, for god’s sake.

What the hell had Fury been thinking?

You had to yank him away before anyone noticed the strained—Help me, I’m being held hostage by this incredibly attractive, incredibly capable woman who, might I add, is supposedly my wife—look on his face.

This gala, a weeklong jerkfest for the wealthy and villainous, was meant to be a stroll in the park. Your bread and butter, even if the Red Room had been... regrettable and against your consent, it had taught you an array of useful skills. Yet Barnes was ruining it, turning what should have been a simple infiltration into a goddamn babysitting job. The plan was airtight: pose as a glamorous Russian couple, collect incriminating evidence, and dip at the end of the week. Except Barnes wasn’t holding up his end of the deal. Instead of charming your way through the crowd, you were covering for his stiff, awkward pauses and the fact that he looked less like a besotted husband and more like a man being forced at gunpoint to stand beside you.

By some miracle, you managed to drag him away to one of the empty floors, a tucked-away space littered with stacks of unused tables and chairs. He was wound tight—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes flicking across the dimly lit room like he was expecting death itself to emerge from the shadows. You didn’t bother with subtlety. Tearing the small recording device from between your tits, you fumbled with the button until the tiny red light blinked off. Whoever ended up reviewing the footage later wouldn’t need to hear the verbal onslaught you were about to unleash.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed, keeping your voice low, though the sheer force of your frustration was enough to strip paint off the walls.

Barnes clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring as he refused to meet your eye. It reminded you of a scolded dog, all pouty and pathetic. You might’ve found it cute under different circumstances. “You’re making this incredibly fucking difficult.”

“I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal—”

“Because it’s our cover, Barnes.” you snapped, incredulous. “We’re supposed to be married, not some fucking timid virgin couple. PDA makes people uncomfortable; they look away, and we have less eye on us to, I don’t know—do our fucking job?”

Barnes looked down at his clenched fists, swallowing hard. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. The dangling diamond earrings you had hanging from each lobe tinkled slightly, and you ran a hand through your perfectly styled hair, resisting the urge to throttle him.

“You’re unbelievable. Fury should’ve just sent me alone—” you muttered, but the words barely left your lips before your eyes caught movement.

A group. Heading straight for you. Purposeful.

“Fuck.”

With haste, you tucked the small recording device back into your cleavage. Barnes noticed immediately, clocking your distress. His brows knit together, hand twitched toward the hidden knife tucked into his suit jacket.

“No.” You scolded. Catching his wrist, you guided it elsewhere—your hips. He stiffened instantly, making a noise of protest, but you kept him locked in place, pressing in until your chests brushed. Too close. Not close enough.

“Play along,” you murmured. “Kiss me. Now.”

“Wha—” His breath hitched, barely enough time to form a response before you rose onto your toes and sealed your mouth over his.

Barnes froze. Stiff beneath your touch, lips rigid like you’d just planted one on a slab of granite. He still tasted like toothpaste—spearmint—and the faint trace of his aftershave clung to his skin. If you’d been trying to salvage some believability, some small thread of natural chemistry, it was impossible now. It was like kissing a statue.

An aftershave-scented stone statue.

The passing group chuckled, one of them murmuring, amused, “Ah, young love.”

Maybe it was the murmured chuckles of the passing guests, or maybe Barnes had finally remembered how to act, because his grip on your hips suddenly tightened, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress with unexpected force. The silk pulled taut against your skin, trapping heat between you, and then—

A sound.

Low. Strangled. A rasping, utterly pathetic groan against your lips.

You barely had time to register it before something else stole your attention. In the tight press of your bodies, you felt it—hard, insistent, pressing against your pelvis.

Oh.

The realisation sent a flicker of shock through you, but you schooled your expression, keeping your face composed as you lingered just a second longer—just enough to ensure your audience was convinced. Then, finally, you pulled back.

Barnes didn’t move.

For a moment, he just stared, pupils wide and unfocused, a blissed-out haze dulling the sharp blue of his eyes. But then, like a lightning strike, awareness snapped back into him. Horror overtook his dazed expression, his breath hitching as he seemed to realise—

Did he just—?

You both looked down at the same time.

And there it was.

The medium grey of his suit pants betrayed him entirely, darkening at the crotch with an unmistakable wet patch.

You gaped, lips parting in stunned silence. No fucking way.

Barnes didn’t wait for a reaction. With the sheer force of a man fleeing for his life, he ripped himself from your grasp and marched away, stiff-backed and utterly silent, leaving you standing there, speechless.

—

It had been twenty minutes, and Barnes still hadn’t left the goddamn bathroom.

It had taken you all of thirty seconds to track him down, but the moment you found the door, it was locked. Of course it was. You twisted the handle, rattling it in frustration, then resorted to pounding your fist against the heavy wood—subtly, of course, but with enough force that he knew you weren’t going anywhere.

“Barnes.” You hissed his name through gritted teeth, pressing closer to the door. Nothing. Not a shuffle. Not a breath. Absolute fucking silence.

You exhaled sharply, trying to keep your expression neutral as a pair of guests passed by, casting you a curious glance. Yeah, you knew exactly how this looked—lipstick smudged, breath uneven, standing outside a locked men’s bathroom like a woman scorned. You must’ve looked thoroughly debauched.

Your pulse hammered in your throat. This was insane. A simple, fake kiss had made him short-circuit so hard that he fucking came in his pants? Twenty minutes ago, he looked repulsed by the mere idea of touching you, and now he was hiding away like some panicked virgin?

You let out a long, slow groan, dropping your forehead against the door.

“Barnes,” you muttered, knocking again—your patience wearing thinner by the second. “Open the damn door.”

Silence.

You straightened, glaring at the wood as if you could will it into splintering apart.

“Barnes, I have been patient.” You gritted your teeth, knocking harder. “If you don’t open this door in the next five seconds, I will break in.”

Silence.

Motherfucker.

"Alright, I’m coming in," you announced, your voice low but firm.

You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, ensuring no one was watching, before slipping a bobby pin from your hair. Years of practice made the process effortless; your fingers worked quickly, blindly, jamming the pin into the lock and feeling for the mechanism. A few precise twists, a satisfying click, and—

"Make sure you're decent, Barnes—"

The words were halfway out of your mouth when you pushed the door open, but whatever half-hearted joke you'd meant to make withered before it even reached your tongue.

Barnes was not decent.

Not in the way you’d expected.

He sat hunched on the closed toilet lid, head in his hands, his entire body drawn in tight like he was trying to fold in on himself. His knee bounced erratically, the rapid motion almost violent in its rhythm. He had ripped off his suit pants, leaving himself in nothing but his boxers, his bare thighs tense, twitching. His fingers dug into his hair, gripping at the strands like he wanted to rip them out, and when his bloodshot eyes flicked up to you—

You felt your stomach drop.

Panic. Raw, unfiltered, choking panic.

Tears welled along his lash line, his chest rising and falling in uneven, barely contained pants. He looked like a man caught in a cage, seconds from tearing himself apart just to escape it.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, and stepped in, shutting the door softly behind you before flipping the lock.

"Hey, Barnes…” Your voice was hesitant, softer than before.

He shook his head, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, his hands trembling as he dragged them down his face.

“I don’t—” His voice cracked, breaking on the words. "I don’t want you in—"

You moved before he could finish, lowering yourself to the cool bathroom tiles in front of him, as if making yourself smaller would make you any less intimidating.

"Hey," you murmured, tone careful but steady. "Look at me."

“No.” It came out sharp, like a whip, a defence mechanism honed over decades. His entire body went rigid, his breathing ragged.

“Barnes, you need to breathe.”

Your voice was steady, firm without being harsh, each syllable carefully measured as you crept forward on the cold tile floor. The dress, the dirt—none of it mattered. It wasn’t your dress, anyway. Tony Stark could foot the bill for a replacement if this one got ruined, all this fancy wear was on his dime.

“In through the nose,” you instructed, voice softer now. “Out through the mouth.”

By some miracle, Barnes listened.

He sucked in a ragged breath, chest expanding beneath his half-unbuttoned dress shirt, and then exhaled through parted lips. It was shaky, uneven, but it was something. You watched in silence, waiting. His limbs still trembled, his fingers clenching and unclenching against his thighs, but the worst of the violent, full-body tremors had eased.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely above a breath. “Keep breathing, just like that. You’re doing so well.”

Slowly, you inched forward, shifting across the tiles until you sat in front of his knees. His skin was warm, radiating heat even through the thin fabric of his boxers.

“Barnes,” you hesitated, watching his face carefully. “Can I touch you?”

His whole body tensed.

“What?” His eyes darted up, sharp and startled, as if the very question had knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Is it okay,” you rephrased, slower this time, gentler, “if I touch you?”

Barnes hesitated. His gaze flickered away, jaw clenching like he was at war with himself. But then, after a long, tense beat, he gave a small, stiff nod.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. Then, with slow, deliberate care, you reached out and cradled his face between your hands.

The moment your fingers touched his skin, he flinched.

Not violently. Not like he was afraid of you. But enough that you felt it—felt the way his muscles coiled beneath your fingertips, the way his throat bobbed in a hard swallow. The cool metal of your fake wedding ring grazed his cheek, and his breath hitched, like he had just been burned.

“Keep breathing,” you reminded him, voice low and steady. “Nice and slow.”

Barnes obeyed, dragging in another breath, and you felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. The hard lines of his face softened just slightly as he leaned into your touch, nuzzling—actually nuzzling—against your palms.

“There you go,” you murmured, your thumb stroking in slow circles over his cheek. “Look at me.”

His eyelids flickered, resisting for a moment, but then those storm-blue eyes finally met yours. He looked exhausted. Frayed at the edges. But grounded, at least. Present.

“Tell me one thing you can smell right now.”

Barnes blinked. A hint of confusion crossed his face. “Smell?”

“Yes, smell.” You nodded, keeping your voice soft, coaxing. “Just one thing. Keep breathing and tell me.”

He hesitated but then took a deliberate inhale through his nose, his bouncing knee slowing. “I guess… whatever shitty fucking chemicals they use to clean this place.”

A quiet laugh left you, your thumb tracing a swirling pattern along his cheekbone. “Good. You’re doing good, Barnes. Now, tell me two things you can feel.”

His breathing had steadied, his inhales and exhales falling into rhythm with yours. For the first time since you’d walked in, he wasn’t shaking as badly.

“This suit jacket,” he muttered after a pause. His metal fingers twitched against the fabric at his arm. “It’s too fuckin’ tight. They always are with my arm—”

His breath stuttered, his body tensing again. Immediately, you leaned in, close enough for him to feel your warmth. “Just breathe, remember? You’re doing so well. One more thing you can feel.”

Barnes swallowed thickly. His gaze flickered down, just briefly, before settling back on your face.

“You,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I can feel you. Touching my face.”

“Good.” You nodded, thumb gliding over his cheek again. “Are you okay with that?”

“Yes.” He exhaled, and for the first time, it wasn’t shaky. “It feels… it feels nice.”

Something in your chest clenched at the confession, but you pushed it aside. You smiled at him, soft and small, and kept going. “Now, three things you can see.”

Barnes’ eyes scanned over your face, searching.

“You,” he said, still quiet, still certain. His gaze lingered on your mouth. “Your lipstick is smudged.”

"Two more," you breathed, keeping your voice calm and steady, resisting the urge to comment on why your lipstick was smudged in the first place. No need to remind him of that right now.

Barnes' gaze flickered across the small, dimly lit restroom. His body had almost fully relaxed now, his mind preoccupied with the task you'd given him.

"Uh…" He scanned the space, brows furrowing in concentration. "The awful wallpaper… and the sink, I guess?"

You nodded approvingly, finally withdrawing your hands as you eased back onto your knees. The cold tiles bit through the fabric of your dress, but you barely noticed.

"Well done," you murmured. "Now, how about we keep breathing and get you sorted, huh?"

At that, Barnes stiffened slightly. The panic that had been receding just moments ago flickered in his eyes again, his hands twitching where they rested on his thighs.

You reached out, grounding him with a gentle touch to his knee. Your voice softened even further. "I’m going to turn around and face the door. I need you to clean yourself up—use the sink, use the soap."

His throat bobbed. "But my—my boxers, they’ll get all wet—"

"There’s a dryer on the wall, see it?" You tilted your head toward the small, dingy dryer meant for hands. "Use it to dry them. Then get dressed, and we’ll head back to the hotel early, okay? Order some shitty takeaway, watch bad TV. Just forget about all this for tonight. How does that sound?"

Barnes blinked as if thrown by the simplicity of the offer. His mouth parted, closed, then opened again, his voice small. "Yeah. Okay."

"Good." You flashed him a reassuring smile before pressing your palms against the sink, pushing yourself to your feet with a small wobble in your heels. "I’ll be right here. Just let me know if you need anything. Keep breathing, alright? Everything’s okay."

Turning, you crossed your arms over your chest and faced the door, giving him the privacy he needed. You tried not to listen too closely. Tried not to glance at the mirror reflecting the scene behind you.

The rustle of clothing filled the quiet, then the tap sputtered to life. You leant your forehead against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes as you focused on the steady stream of water, the faint squeak of the soap pump, and then the soft sloshing and scrubbing of fabric.

The sound of fabric wringing out echoed softly against the tiled walls, followed by the steady hum of the hand dryer sputtering to life. You kept your forehead against the door, listening as Barnes manoeuvred through the motions, drying his boxers first, then his suit pants. The wet fabric slapped lightly against the metal dryer as he held it up, shifting awkwardly as he worked.

You didn’t rush him. Didn’t make a sound. Just stayed where you were, giving him time.

Eventually, the rustling stopped. A sharp inhale, then the familiar slide of fabric as he pulled his clothes back on. The quiet click of a belt buckle being fastened. The creak of leather shoes shifting against tile.

Then—

Barnes cleared his throat.

You turned.

He stood stiffly, suit now back in place, though the fabric still carried faint traces of dampness. His jacket was slightly askew, his tie loosened just enough to be noticeable. You took a slow step toward him, scanning him up and down with a careful eye. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move—just stood there, watching you warily, as if expecting a comment.

You didn’t give him one.

Instead, you reached up, grasping the edges of his tie. He stiffened but let you work, your fingers smoothing the silk fabric, tightening it properly against his collar. His pulse thrummed beneath your fingertips as you brushed against his throat, and though he remained still, you caught the way his breath hitched slightly at the contact.

“There,” you murmured, satisfied.

You turned towards the mirror, angling yourself slightly to the side. Your reflection was a mess—lipstick smudged, hair slightly dishevelled. You sighed, wetting your thumb with your tongue before dabbing at the edges of the stain, then reached into your clutch to pull out a small tube of lipstick.

Barnes hadn’t moved.

You could feel him behind you, his body heat pressing against your back in the cramped space. His gaze was heavy, following your movements as you leaned closer to the mirror, carefully reapplying the pigment to your lips. You didn’t look at him. You just smoothed the colour in place, pressed your lips together, then capped the tube and tucked it back into your bag.

Finally, you met his eyes in the mirror.

“Ready to go?” you asked.

There was a pause. A hesitation. His jaw clenched for half a second before he gave the smallest of nods. “…Yeah.”

You turned fully, flashing him a small, knowing smile before reaching for his arm. He didn’t resist when you looped yours through his, guiding him towards the door. With an easy tug, you led him forward, your heels clicking softly against the marble floors. His arm remained tense beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t let go.

You glanced at him briefly, lips twitching into a small smirk. “C’mon, sergeant. Let’s get out of here.”

Barnes exhaled through his nose, shaking his head ever so slightly. But when you reached the bottom of the stairs, he followed without question, letting you steer him towards the exit, away from the crowded room—away from prying eyes.

—

A small, muffled whine stirred you from sleep. You blinked groggily, rolling onto your side as the cool sheets tangled around your legs. The plush hotel mattress dipped beneath you as you buried your face into the pillow, willing yourself back into slumber.

A low, panting groan cut through the silence, soft at first, then growing in volume. Your brows knit together, heart thrumming uneasily. Something about the sound was… strange. It wasn’t just a groan—it was strained, needy. Erotic.

Your eyes snapped open.

The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the dim red dot of the fire alarm and the faint reflection of the turned-off TV. You remained frozen for a few beats, your ears straining to catch the noise again. It came, louder this time—a choked whimper thick with desperation.

Was someone in the room? Adrenaline slammed into your veins as you rolled off the bed in one swift motion, bare feet hitting the floor without a sound. You had heard stories of creeps breaking into hotel rooms, preying on women while they slept. Had one made the mistake of picking yours?

Another sound. Low, breathy, utterly wrecked.

Your hand darted to the bedside table, fingers curling around the hilt of a knife, its leather grip smooth beneath your palm. Not even yours, Barnes’—

Barnes.

Your breath caught as your gaze snapped towards the couch, knife slipping from your grip and landing on the carpet with a soft thud.

There, bathed in shadows, was the writhing mass of the super soldier. His blankets lay discarded on the floor as though he’d tossed them off in his sleep. The two of you had agreed to take turns—one in the bed, the other on the couch—to keep up appearances. A stupid arrangement, courtesy of Fury and Stark’s meddling.

You flicked on the bedside lamp. The warm light spilt over the room, casting soft amber hues onto Barnes’ form. His face was twisted in torment, and his lips parted around quiet, breathless whimpers. Sweat clung to his skin, catching the glow of the lamp and highlighting the sharp lines of his body. His metal arm whirred faintly as he twitched, fingers flexing against the cushions.

Your stomach dropped when your eyes drifted lower. He was shirtless, his broad chest rising and falling erratically. The thin fabric of his boxers did little to hide the evidence of his dream—more than half-hard beneath the cotton. Was he really that big?

The realisation hit like a freight train.

He was having a sex dream.

Jesus.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. You should’ve looked away, should’ve given him privacy. But then his hand twitched, drifting downward—

“Barnes.” Your voice was sharp, cutting through the haze like a blade.

He jolted awake, body seizing as his eyes snapped open. For a moment, he was utterly lost, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with confusion. Then his gaze landed on you—standing there in your thin nightgown, face unreadable.

His eyes flickered downward.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, panic flickering across his face as he yanked a pillow over his lap, shifting awkwardly as if that would somehow erase what had just happened. A string of curses left his lips, voice still wrecked with sleep.

You tilted your head, studying him. His expression wavered, part shame, part something else, something raw and vulnerable. You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers into your temples. There was a pattern here. A man whose body wasn’t his own, whose skin felt foreign, whose touch-starved existence had left him unravelling at the seams.

What in God's name was Fury thinking sending him on a mission like this—or did Fury not know? How could he not? That one-eyed bastard had a habit of knowing everything. Hell, he probably knew the colour of your underwear before you even picked it out for the day, the all-seeing prick.

“H.Y.D.R.A really did a number on you, didn’t they?” you muttered.

Bucky flinched. The words struck deep, sinking into something fragile beneath the surface. He didn’t say a word, just recoiled, fingers gripping the pillow so tightly his knuckles turned white. A moment later, he was scrambling off the couch, making a beeline for the bathroom.

“Barnes, we’re not doing this again. Let’s just talk—”

The door slammed.

Then, the soft click of the lock.

You exhaled through your nose, arms crossing over your chest as you stared at the wooden barrier now separating you. Asshole. You knew you should’ve been more sympathetic. Should’ve handled it differently. But after a long, exhausting day, dealing with Bucky Barnes’ second puberty was not on your list of priorities.

You stepped closer, pressing a palm against the door; your voice quieter now. “I know how you’re feeling.”

Silence.

You could picture him inside, hunched over on the edge of the bathtub, fists clenched, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. “I understand what it’s like to be in a body that doesn’t feel like your own.”

A pause. No response.

“It must be hard,” you continued softly. “Not knowing who you are. Not recognising yourself anymore. And then... feeling things you don’t understand.”

Another pause. This one stretched longer.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of trying to navigate that.” The silence that followed was heavier than before. You didn’t push, didn’t say anything else. Just rested your forehead against the doorframe, waiting.

You had spent the better part of your life under the Red Room’s control, under Dreykov’s control. Every breath you took, every move you made, had been dictated by someone else. Orders given. Orders followed. It was all you had ever known. And then, one day, it was gone. Just like that.

You remembered the moment with eerie clarity: standing in the open air, staring out at the horizon, the sunset bleeding colour into a sky that suddenly felt too vast. The question had gnawed at you, quiet but insistent. What comes next? Who comes next? Because you didn’t know. You didn’t know who you were beyond a weapon, beyond a machine engineered for death and seduction. Two decades of programming, of conditioning, of being nothing more than an asset to be wielded and discarded at will. And then, without warning, you were handed something you were told was freedom.

But what did freedom mean when you didn’t exist?

There were no real records of your birth, no true identity to reclaim. The Red Room had scrubbed that away long ago, erasing every trace of the girl you had once been. No family. No home. No belongings that weren’t issued to you by those who had owned you. And yet, you were expected to smile—to accept this newfound autonomy without question, to embrace the illusion of a life you had no blueprint for.

But how could you, when you weren’t sure if the body you inhabited was even your own?

So even if Barnes thought you were bluffing and just trying to relate for the sake of kindness, he was wrong. Because you understood.

Terrifyingly well.

The difference was that you had refused to let it consume you. You had forced those feelings into the farthest corners of your mind, locking them away where they couldn’t touch you. Because if you let yourself linger on them for too long.

“Go back to sleep.” Bucky’s voice finally broke the silence, muffled through the bathroom door.

You sucked on your teeth, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Yeah, not happening.”

“I know the others give you crap about not dating, but you don’t have to let them pressure you,” you continued, keeping your tone light. “You don’t have to force yourself into a role that makes you uncomfortable. It takes time.”

“Back in the day..." His voice was quieter this time, tinged with something that almost sounded like regret. “I used to be a real flirt.”

A humourless smirk ghosted across your lips. You could picture it, all smooth charm and effortless confidence. The kind of man who could wink at a girl across a dance floor and have her swooning in seconds. But that wasn’t the man behind this door. That man had been stripped away, piece by piece.

“I just don’t know anymore,” he admitted, voice raw. Your chest tightened. You could almost hear him weighing his words, picking them apart, and deciding how much of himself he was willing to give away.

“When I was the Winter Soldier... they made me do things.”

A slow, twisting knot formed in your stomach.

“It’s all… fractured in my mind,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Scattered. Broken.”

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply.

“I’m sorry,” you said, and you meant it. “I understand that. More than anyone. The Red Room… they didn’t just use us for assassinations and espionage.”

There. You had said it. Pulled a piece of yourself from the grave and placed it between you.

For the first time, the door cracked open.

Bucky stood there, dishevelled and breathless, still only in his boxers. A faint sheen of sweat clung to his skin, catching the dim hotel light, while his metal arm twitched slightly at his side. His hair was a mess—damp and curling at the ends, sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell unevenly, as if he hadn’t quite caught his breath, muscles taut beneath the weight of exhaustion.

“Why are you being kind to me?” he asked suddenly. His voice was rough, tinged with suspicion, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

You tilted your head, studying him.

“Because you’re hurting,” you said simply. “And obviously, you haven’t fully processed any of this.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Without another word, he turned and stalked past you, out of the cramped bathroom and into the main space of the hotel room. You followed at a slower pace, arms crossed as you watched him sink onto the couch, scrubbing a hand down his face. He was hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, his metal fingers tapping restless patterns against his flesh palm. His body had settled now, no longer betraying him with signs of arousal. That part of the moment had passed, but the turmoil in his head remained.

With a quiet sigh, you slid down to the floor, settling against the base of the bed across from him. Your legs stretched out in front of you, arms loose at your sides as you let the silence settle between you.

“Have you spoken to Steve about this?” you asked after a moment, voice soft but firm. “Sam?”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “God, no.”

“Why?”

“I dunno,” he muttered, fingers threading through his damp hair. “It’s just... awkward. I feel like a fuckin’ schoolboy.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “I could teach you.”

His eyes snapped to you, wary. “What?”

“I could teach you,” you repeated, voice steady. “How to make love. Fuck. How to gain control over your life again. You’re just sensitive; you need a bit of exposure therapy.”

Bucky’s expression darkened, jaw clenching. “Why the hell would you do that?”

You exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the patterned carpet beneath you. “Do you know how many men I’ve fucked and not felt a thing?” you said quietly, barely above a whisper.

“I wasn’t just an assassin or a spy. Not like Natasha or Yelena. I was a swallow, Barnes. A honeytrap.” His expression flickered, eyes scanning your face as if searching for something, some hint of insincerity.

You swallowed, pushing forward. “It’s why Fury sent me on this mission with you. This is all I’ve ever known.”

Bucky’s breath hitched slightly, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. “Fury knows what they did to you, and he still continues to—”

“I agreed to it,” you cut in, your tone clipped, controlled. “He just wanted our sham marriage to be believable. He wasn’t asking me to fuck you, just to perform. That’s what I do. Perform.”

Bucky huffed a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Look, I don’t know you,” he muttered, voice low, rough. “I don’t want your baggage, or for you to fuck me out of pity or... I don’t know, self-sabotage.”

The words hit like a slap, sharper than you expected. You recoiled—actually flinched—before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t just what he said, it was the venom in it, the way he threw it at you like a blade meant to wound. And damn it, it did.

Bucky saw it, too. The way your shoulders stiffened, the flicker of something raw crossing your face before you forced it away. His breath hitched slightly, fingers twitching at his side, but he didn’t take it back. Didn’t soften the blow. Maybe he regretted it, maybe he didn’t, but either way, the damage was done.

Your expression hardened like cooling steel, every crack that had formed between you quickly sealing shut, any semblance of vulnerability buried beneath layers of carefully placed armour. It was instinct—second nature, really. You’d spent years perfecting the art of locking yourself away, of making sure no one could reach the parts of you that still bled. You’d built it, brick by fucking brick, until you were fully encased, isolated from anything that might harm you.

Bucky wasn’t the first to speak to you like that. Wouldn’t be the last.

You swallowed down the sting, inhaled slow and deep through your nose, and then let it out in a steady breath. When you spoke again, your voice was quiet, devoid of emotion, a perfect imitation of indifference. “It was just an offer.”

Nothing more. Nothing less.

You held his gaze for a second longer, searching for something, anything, that might suggest he regretted it. But Bucky just stared back, face unreadable, jaw tight. Then, without another word, he turned away, stretching out on the couch with his back to you.

Fine. Message received.

—

The rest of the week had been nothing short of torturous. After the argument, the air between you and Bucky had turned to ice. The two of you barely spoke. Not outside of necessity, not outside of the roles you had to play. At the gala, he did what was required—he held you close, leant into your touch when needed, murmured sweet nothings in your ear to sell the lie. But you felt the restraint in him, the hesitance in the way he brushed a thumb over your knuckles, the barely-there tremors in his fingers when he smoothed a hand over your waist. It wasn’t as if he was walking on hot coals anymore, but there was still that same, underlying hesitation.

Back at the hotel, the silence stretched long and unbearable. Shower, eat, sleep—repeat. Conversations were reduced to one-word exchanges, curt and impersonal. At least by morning, this miserable charade would be over. You’d gathered the intel you needed at the gala, and in a few hours, you’d be free of this place. Free of this suffocating, awkward tension. Free from Bucky’s constant, looming presence.

God, the man had a staring problem.

You had noticed it before, how he always seemed lost in thought, his gaze heavy with some unreachable burden. You had assumed it was just brooding, the kind of silent, empty-headed angst that men like him fell victim to. But now you realised—he wasn’t staring through you. He was staring at you.

You saw it when you dressed for the gala, slipping into silken dresses and heels, when you pinned your hair into elegant styles, when you traced the lines of your lips with lipstick, perfecting the illusion. You’d catch his reflection in the mirror, eyes fixed on you, dark and unreadable.

Once, he had been so caught up in his daze that he nearly left without putting on his suit jacket. You had to press it into his hands, dragging him out of whatever spell he was under. He had taken it stiffly, mumbling a quiet ‘thanks’ but the heat in his face was unmistakable.

And now, as you sat cross-legged on the bed in a loose nightgown, the fabric riding high on your thighs, the same damn stare was drilling into the side of your face.

The TV flickered before you, an incoherent blur of colours and sound. You weren’t even sure it was in English. It didn’t matter. You weren’t watching it anyway. You were too focused on not focusing on Bucky, who stared at the side of your face like he intended to burn a hole through the flesh.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, running your thumb over your knee. The sheets were soft, the mattress more forgiving than the couch you’d been forced to sleep on last night. At least tonight was your turn back on the bed, though ideally, you’d be back in your own apartment by now, wrapped in high-thread-count luxury courtesy of Tony Stark’s absurd wealth.

God, you missed Egyptian cotton.

Bucky was still staring at you. You couldn’t help it, annoyance, filthy and venomous came pouring out of your mouth before you could stop it. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Bucky startled, his whole body tensing as if you had physically struck him.

“Nothing—” he stammered.

You arched a brow, unimpressed.

“No. There’s obviously something you want to say.” You shifted on the bed, your frustration mounting. “Go on, spit it out.”

He hesitated, his jaw working like he was biting down on whatever words were lodged in his throat.

You didn’t let up. “You sure had a lot to say earlier in the week. What, do you want to dig the knife in further? You might as well just call me a whore while you’re at it—”

“I’m sorry.” Bucky cut over you, his head dipping. You paused, momentarily stunned. He was doing that thing again, where he looked like a scolded dog. Adorable, but not the fucking time.“I shouldn’t have said that, it was inconsiderate of me, especially after... after all you’ve done.”

You frowned. “You don’t owe me anything, Barnes.” The words left your lips quieter this time, but still firm.

“I snapped at you. And I shouldn’t have.” he admitted. His voice was low, restrained.

You let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers to your temple.

“It’s okay. I understand,” you said, a little softer. “I haven’t exactly been… the kindest either.”

A bitter chuckle escaped him, his fingers twitching against his knee. Then, after a long pause, he asked, “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Act like everything is okay. Like it’s normal.” His voice was strained, like he wasn’t even sure if he believed in what he was asking.

You let out a short, almost nervous laugh. “I’m probably not the best person to ask about this—”

“But you get it, right?” He looked at you now, something almost desperate in his gaze. “To not know… who or what you are? Sometimes I… I just want to be normal again.”

You frown deeply, weighing his words carefully. You understood his sentiment, but you knew it was futile. There had never been anything normal about your life—not anything you could remember, at least. The Red Room had seen to that. Your earliest memories were of drills, of ballet, of suffocating discipline, and of the erasure of self. Even now, you weren’t normal; you were an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D for fucks sake, a woman barely pardoned of her crimes, existing in a liminal space. The world's governments couldn’t quite confirm you existed. You were a ghost, a fucking shadow of a person.

“I don’t think people like us get to be normal,” you said finally, choosing your words carefully.

His expression twisted slightly, like he had already known that answer but had hoped for something different.

“But I think,” you continued, “it would serve you a world of good if you let people in. Steve… Sam. You don’t have to face this all alone—Natasha, Yelena, and I look to each other all the time to process it all and patch together the missing pieces. There’s no shame in it.”

Bucky’s face creased, his body drawing in on itself slightly. You moved before he could shrink further, slipping off the bed and kneeling before him.

“It’s okay,” you reassured, voice steady. “Just tell me... what is it you need right now?”

His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line. He fidgeted, his fingers clenching and unclenching as if struggling to force out something that had been sitting at the edge of his tongue all week.

Finally, he exhaled, jaw tight.

“I want to take you up on your offer.”

You tilted your head. “My offer?”

Bucky swallowed, eyes flickering to the floor before darting back to you. His voice was hesitant, low—like he was worried some invisible presence might have overheard. “Lessons. Lessons in… love-making. I want to be able to look at a girl without... you know. This fucking week has been torture seeing you—”

He cut himself off, warmth flooding to his cheeks. A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it—light, amused, genuine.

Bucky stiffened, eyes widening slightly, horror flashing across his face as if he thought you were mocking him.

You shook your head quickly, reaching out to place a hand on his knee.

“Of course,” you murmured, smiling. “Thought you’d never ask.”

—

“Is this okay?” you asked softly as you swung your leg over, settling onto Bucky’s lap. The mattress dipped beneath you both, the quiet creak of the hotel bed the only sound between you for a moment. He sat beneath you, legs slightly spread, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. You dug your knees into the bed on either side of his thighs, anchoring yourself against him.

His breath hitched, sharp and uneven. “Yes,” he murmured, though there was a noticeable tremor in his voice, like he was still convincing himself.

“Just breathe,” you encouraged, smoothing your hands over his broad shoulders. His muscles were tense beneath your fingertips, wound tight like coiled steel. He swallowed hard.

“What’s worrying you?” You asked gently. “Is there something I can do to make this more comfortable for you?”

Bucky shook his head, a shuddering breath leaving him as his hands finally found purchase on your hips. His grip was hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold you. “No,” he said, his voice rough.

“This is great, I—” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together in frustration.

You tilted your head, studying him, before offering a reassuring smile. Your fingers kneaded into his shoulders in slow, soothing motions, attempting to melt away some of the tension knotted there. “Talk to me,” you coaxed.

His gaze flickered downward, shame creeping into his expression. “I just… don’t want to embarrass myself. Again.”

Your heart clenched at his vulnerability, but you refused to let him linger in self-doubt. Instead, you leant in, your lips curling in a playful smile.

“You’re cute when you say things like that,” you teased, running your tongue over your lower lip before continuing. “Don’t worry about any of that. Just stay here, in this moment, with me.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he obeyed, focusing on the warmth of your body pressed against his. Slowly, his grip tightened on your hips, fingers kneading into the flesh more firmly this time. His thumbs traced cautious circles against the fabric of your clothing, testing. You let your hands drift from his shoulders down to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“Now,” you murmured, keeping your tone soft but steady, “if you get overwhelmed, or if you need to stop, what do you say?”

“Stop,” Bucky answered without hesitation.

“Good,” you praised, smiling warmly. “And if you can’t speak? If the words won’t come?”

His fingers flexed on your hip before he squeezed in a deliberate rhythm—three distinct beats. You nodded in approval. “Perfect.”

His blue eyes flickered up to meet yours, searching.

“What about you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more earnest. “If you want to stop?”

You demonstrated by tapping three times against his chest, just over his heart.

“I’ll do the same thing,” you assured him. “Just like we discussed.”

For a moment, he just breathed. His lashes fluttered as he exhaled a slow, measured breath, his hands steadying against you. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he whispered, “I’m… I’m ready. I think.”

You smiled, fingers tracing a soft, reassuring path along his jaw.

“Okay. I thought we’d start with kissing, since you seem worried about it. Nice and simple, no pressure,” you murmured, your voice low and reassuring as your fingertips ghosted along his jawline. Bucky swallowed thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing as he leaned into your palm without thinking, nuzzling it like a touch-starved thing. His blue eyes, dark as the ocean in a brewing storm, flickered with something hesitant, something fragile.

“I’m sure you kissed plenty of girls back in the day,” you teased, lips curling as you brushed your thumb over the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

“Oh yeah,” he exhaled, the words dipped in self-deprecation, “until Steve became… well, the Steve he is now. None of the girls spared me a second glance after that.”

You let out a soft laugh, breathy and genuine, and felt the way his body tensed beneath you at the sensation. It was funny how a man who could tear through steel and strike terror into the hearts of the world’s deadliest enemies could turn so shy at something as simple as your laughter.

“You know…” he hesitated, voice quieter now. “You were my first kiss since… well, everything.”

Your teasing grin faltered slightly. You tilted your head, gaze flicking between his eyes and his lips, close enough now that you could feel the steady heat radiating from his skin.

“Well,” you murmured, the ghost of a smirk curling your lips as you shifted closer, “now I’ll be your second too.”

And then you kissed him.

It was slow at first, a testing press of your lips against his, feather-light and coaxing. Bucky inhaled sharply through his nose, his breath hitching as though he was bracing for impact. But when you didn’t pull away, when you lingered just a little longer, he melted into you—hesitant at first, but eager.

His hands, large and trembling slightly, hesitated at your waist before gripping your thighs as if he wasn’t sure whether to hold you or let you slip away. The warmth of his palms bled through the thin fabric of your nightgown, spreading across your skin like wildfire.

You deepened your kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips more firmly against his, and a quiet sound rumbled in his chest—halfway between a sigh and a groan. Encouraged, you shifted, rocking your hips, the new position pressing your bodies flush together.

Bucky tensed beneath you, fingers digging into your flesh instinctively as you settled against him. His own hips bucked in response, and you could already feel him growing hard against your inner thigh. He pulled back slightly, panting, his lips swollen.

“Am I doing… okay?” he asked, his voice rough.

You smiled, smoothing a hand through his dark hair, tugging him gently forward again.

“More than okay,” you whispered against his lips before capturing them once more.

This time, he kissed you back without hesitation. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring himself to you as he parted his lips, following your lead. You swept your tongue into his mouth, slow and purposeful, teasing along his lower lip before deepening it. A groan rumbled in his chest, muffled against your mouth.

You rolled your hips, grinding against him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, savouring the way his breath hitched and stuttered beneath you. Even through the layers of clothing, you could feel him—hard, straining, likely aching for more. His fingers dug into your skin, a bruising grip that only added to the heat blooming in your core.

You pulled away from his lips, shifting your attention lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, down his neck. You could feel his pulse hammering beneath your lips, quick and erratic. He tipped his head back, surrendering himself to your touch, a quiet curse slipping from his mouth as you sucked at the sensitive skin below his ear.

“You’re doing so well,” you hummed against his skin, your voice warm and indulgent, laced with soft praise. His body trembled beneath you as he bucked his hips up to meet yours, desperate for more friction, more of you. You rewarded him with a soft, breathy moan, letting him know just how much you enjoyed this too.

“I—” He tried to form words, but they crumbled before they left his lips.

The tension in his body coiled tighter and tighter, like a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap. His hands clutched at you, grounding himself in the sensation, like the overwhelming pleasure was building too fast for him to control. His breath came in short, needy gasps, his hips stuttering as he lost the rhythm.

“I’m gonna—” His voice broke, his head tilting forward as his entire body tensed beneath you. A strangled moan escaped him, deep and wrecked, as he came undone. His grip on your hips tightened, his thighs trembling slightly beneath yours as his climax overtook him. His body fell back against the sheets, a soft exhale leaving his lips as the last waves of pleasure wracked through him.

You perched above him, still straddling his hips. For a moment, he just lay there, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath. His eyes were half-lidded, dazed, and his lips parted as if he had more to say but couldn’t quite form the words.

“I didn’t mean to finish so early—” he started, his voice hoarse, cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and lingering pleasure. Leaning over, you flipped your hair to one side as your face hovered over his. You silenced him with a lingering kiss, slow and reassuring. He groaned softly into your mouth, still sensitive but already melting into the warmth of your lips. When you pulled away, his shoulders had loosened, the rigid tension gone from his body.

“You did so well,” you murmured, brushing your fingers through his hair. “How do you feel?”

“Good.”

You grinned, sliding off him and stretching languidly before settling back onto the bed. You exhaled, content. Bucky turned his head to look at you, still slightly frozen in place, as if unsure what to do next. His brows furrowed slightly. “What… what about you? Don’t you want to…?”

You snorted. “That doesn’t matter. This was about you, not me.”

He hesitated, clearly still unused to receiving something without feeling obligated to return it. “But I feel bad leaving you—”

“I’m fine, trust me.” You hummed, closing your eyes as you nestled into the warmth of his arm. “We have a long way to go before you need to be thinking about that.”

Bucky went quiet. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, unreadable.

For a moment, you weren’t sure if he would say anything at all. But then, after a beat of silence, you felt him shift beside you. A hesitant hand—warm and slightly calloused—ghosted over your arm before settling on your waist, drawing you in closer.

“…Thank you,” he murmured at last.

PART TWO

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky fanfic #beefy bucky #bucky smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #winter soldier #marvel fic #marvel au #marvel

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hermioneslovely · 4 months ago

Text

stolen kiss between classes

pairing: harry james potter x fem!reader

warnings: fluff, teasing, drabble

a/n: english is not my native language so sorry if there are any mistakes.

You were walking to your next lesson when a warm hand suddenly grabbed yours, pulling you into a quiet alcove just off the corridor.

Before you could even process what was happening, you found yourself face-to-face with Harry Potter.

“Harry!” you hissed, heart racing. “I’m going to be late!”

“So am I,” he whispered, not looking the least bit concerned.

You narrowed your eyes. “Then what exactly are we—”

Before you could finish, Harry leaned down and pressed a quick, soft kiss to your lips. Your thoughts immediately short-circuited. It was so sweet, and completely unfair.

By the time you processed what had just happened, he was already grinning like an idiot.

“There,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just stolen the breath from your lungs. “Now you can go to class.”

You stared at him, still stunned, flustered, and definitely blushing.

“You planned that,” you accused, poking his chest.

Harry only shrugged, looking very pleased with himself. “I saw an opportunity.”

“You ambushed me!”

“Technically, yes.”

You huffed, trying to glare at him, but your lips were already betraying you with a smile. “You’re impossible, Potter.”

Harry grinned, leaning in just enough that his nose brushed against yours.

“You love it,” he murmured. And he was absolutely right.

Before you could retaliate, the distant sound of a professor clearing their throat snapped you back to reality.

Your eyes widened. “I have to go.”

Harry smirked. “See you later, love.”

You quickly turned away, trying to walk as if your knees weren’t made of jelly.

Harry Potter was going to be the death of you.

#harry potter x you #harry james potter x y/n #harry potter x reader #harry potter #harry potter fluff #harry potter x y/n #harry potter fanfiction #hjp #harry james potter #harry james potter x reader #hjp x reader #hp x y/n #hp x reader #harry james potter x you

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hwajin · 1 year ago

Text

☆°. — study me | hhj

genre: smut, fluff

pairing: nerd!hyunjin x afab!reader

wc: 6k

warnings: inexperienced hyunjin, oral (m receiving), protected sex, fast-ish plot progression, strangers to lovers (only roughly proof read)

author's note: @hyunverse and @astraystayyh made me do it (also inspired heavily by rin's post!!!!!) 😚😚😚

He had always been cute, though he surely wasn't aware of it; when he sat in class, dainty glasses by the curve of his nose, he always seemed focused, taking notes with furrowed brows, full attention granted to the professor up front. When he left the lecture hall it was often in lonesome, and hurried; not shy, per se, but quick, and quiet. When people talked to him he was polite, though his shoulders tensed, and a blush crept up his smiling cheeks; not uncomfortable, as far as you could tell, yet visibly not in his element, either — and it all added to his charm. He was smart and aware of it, though he seldom raised his hand, initiated questions. He never corrected professors on their mistakes, never played the know-it-all even though he could. He simply sat in class, day after day, to your right in front of you, and left to go to his next class as quietly as he had entered your mutual one.

You watched Hyunjin walk into the lecture hall, headphones covering his sense of hearing, bag thrown over his shoulder lazily, a subtle lightness in his step. He fixed his glasses with a long, delicate finger before he sat down to prep his desk; placing his laptop in front of him, reducing the brightness before typing away his password, fishing in his bag for his phone right before the professor walked in. Hyunjin was busy taking off the bony headphones before they disappeared in his bag, and a big hand slid through the dark strands of his hair, only needing one movement to fix them into place; after that there seemed to be a click in his demeanour, in his attention. No music in his ears, no phone in his hands; quick fingers that were copying the headline of today's topic which the professor had projected onto the board, concentrated, glasern eyes void of the initial casual leisureness the had entered the classroom with.

It was a little bit of a ritual, watching him in class; you weren't sure if it was creepy, if it made you some sort of pre-version of a stalker, or an obsessed freak. You weren't sure either, if watching him was the reason you were at risk of failing the class, altogether. You were surprised every day anew that no one else was; that Hyunjin seemed to be nearly invisible for most people on campus, left for the few friends he kept with, or the occasional aquaintance he made for group projects before those relationships faded away, due to the lack of its' benefit. Yet even those people didn't seem to be taken by him the way you were, didn't see him the way you did; a striking beauty, hidden beneath a character so quiet and quirky, helpless, almost, that to others he appeared nothing but ordinary. A studious nerd, introverted and awkward; but you didn't want to go through another day without having talked to him. Couldn't, you thought; you needed to initiate a conversation, wanted so bad to hear the sound of his voice, the look of his eyes when the object he was looking at was you.

The professor had announced a group project for today's class, and had, by the end of explaining all about it and before dismissing the class, ordered you to look for partners until the next lesson, to start with first preparations. In your opinion, it was the perfect opportunity to go up to Hyunjin without appearing a freak, or too pushy, or utterly random; you weren't sure he even knew your name, so simply asking for a coffee seemed too finite to you. As expected, while everyone was still packing their bags and talking of weekend plans and just how boring their next class was going to be, Hyunjin had already put on his headphones and was on his way out of the hall, daring to disappear into the crowd of students before your very eyes. You hurried to collect your things before you stumbled down behind him, falling into a slow run to catch up with him. He was tall, quite a bit taller than you, so his struts were fast without being hurried, and you struggled to keep up with him, fighting your way between people before your hand could finally reach his figure, and a finger of yours tapped on his shoulder.

Your touch made him stop in his tracks in a rather confused manner, and he turned around perplexed before locking eyes with you. When you smiled at him expectantly one hand of his freed his right ear from his headphones, and he returned your smile, though only politely, yet not catching what you have stopped him for. The confusion was written in his eyes, and you hurried to clear it up.

"Hey, I'm y/n, from uh, Statistics... we just had this class together."

You looked at Hyunjin, waiting for a response, despite not having cleared up anything at all. He nodded, fixing his bag on his shoulder. You almost got distracted by the veins which ran through his hand when he did that, but you forced yourself to look him in the eyes instead. Brown and deep. You had never noticed before how captivating they were.

"Yeah, I know who you are...", a smile on his lips and you weren't sure what it meant, but there was a deep blush on his cheeks right after, and it made your chest fill with a warmth so sound you simply kept smiling at him.

"Was there anything you needed?" Pure curiosity in his tone, and you wondered how such a smart person could be so foolish. Though it was cute seeing him perplexed, cute seeing a void of his usual intelligence within his eyes.

You cleared your throat and fixed your bag yourself, before nodding up at him. You had never stood this close to him, had never noticed just how tall he was.

"I wondered if you wanted to be my partner for the group project thing. I'm not really good at statistics, so I wanted to pair up with someone who could... help me. In a way."

Hyunjin blushed deeper at that, and the fist around the strap of his bag tightened. He gulped visibly, Adam’s apple bobbing before his eyes lost yours suddenly, and he nodded, stuttering a little when he spoke.

"Uh, yeah, for sure. I, uh, I'm not really, like, sure if I can help much, I'm not a great teacher, but, uhm-", he looked at you, and you simply reciprocated his gaze; he blushed yet a little harder, fixed his glasses with a clumsy finger, and gave you a shy smile, "but, yeah. I'll be your partner."

☆.☆.☆

It was a Saturday night, and it felt strange not sitting in front of the mirror to apply some make-up, or get a decent outfit ready to wear to a night out with your friends. Instead, your old bag was thrown carelessly over your shoulder and the steps you took on the glistening asphalt were taking you to Hyunjin’s dorm, to study and work on the project with him at seven in the afternoon. Not what you normally busied yourself with, not on a weekend, but you hadn’t been this excited over a Saturday night plan in a good while. The day prior, Hyunjin had been ready to leave right after confirming he would partner up with you; that you needed to exchange phone numbers in order to be able to start the work he had seemingly forgotten, and you had giggled when he’d typed his contact into your phone with a guilty smile and a low-hanging head. He had replied quickly when you had texted him, clarifying his schedule – busier than you had expected, packed to the brim – before confirming to meet up today. And you had been giddy ever since.

When you knocked on his dorm room, Hyunjin opened moments later. He looked comfortable, in a plain black shirt and grey sweatpants, no glasses but his long, raven hair in a lazy bun. He smiled before welcoming you in, stepping aside and closing the door behind you. The room wasn’t big, much like your own, but clean, neat. Not much decoration on the walls but a picture or two, seemingly of family members, or close friends. You spotted multiple game consoles and a spacey monitor on his desk, an expensive looking keyboard, heavy headphones – different ones he took with him to class –, a mic, his school laptop on his bed. Two candles by his nightstand, and one bouquet of dried flowers on his windowsill; if dried on purpose of due to lack of care you were unsure, but they were pretty nonetheless.

Hyunjin stood behind you as you took in his small room, abashed and clearing his throat when you finally looked at him again. You smiled, and disposed your bag next to his bed.

“Nice room.”

He must have not expected the compliment; he looked perplexed, chuckling suddenly and a little too loud before thanking you quietly. He got rid of a couple strands of loose hair with a quick hand, and straightened his back, shaking his head as if to rid himself off thoughts, to find his way back to you. He gave you a quick smile, too; it was so pretty that you almost told him, almost stepped up to be level with him and touch the side of his face, purely to manifest him within you. Him and his face, his shy smile with its’ small, pearly teeth and glistening eyes.

“Alright, I guess we should start. The desk is pretty, uh, full and stuff, you can just sit on the bed, if... you don’t mind.” He sat down on the chair in front of the desk, motioned you to the bed. He tripped over the light carpet on his floor before finding his seat, though acted as though nothing had happened; cute.

“Just get comfortable.”

The sentence didn’t carry any connotation yet Hyunjin reddened after he spoke, and lost your eyes to rummage in his bag and in the drawers of his desk to fish out all the materials he thought he’d need. You smiled to yourself, and did as he told you; got comfortable on his bed, and got out your papers and pencils, spreading them out on his blanketed mattress. It smelt nice, his bed. Clean, almost like neutral linen, but with a hint of a scent you believed to be uniquely his. It was the first time you sensed it; you had never been close enough to him before to notice it, but now that you sat in the essence of it, in the core of his existence, in his very own four walls, it engulfed you. It was deep vanilla and sweetest honey, it was a scent dark and intense, but light. It wasn’t heavy, it didn’t suffocate you. It simply existed in the space around you, and it stuck to him; you doubted you’d ever forget the scent again.

When Hyunjin looked at you again, turning to face you on his chair, he stopped in his tracks, and his eyes seemed to widen, his jaw to tighten. It felt unfamiliar seeing him without his glasses, though very much known to watch the pink flush creep up his neck. He blinked a couple times, simply watching you, and it wasn’t until you shifted in your place, sinking further into his mattress that he moved again, pretending to look for something, or really doing so. He cleared his throat and choked on his own spit, fell into a short coughing fit; you almost giggled, and when Hyunjin caught sight of your repressed grin, the pink on his neck deepened into a red; he was even more helpless than you initially thought. He was still looking around, not frantically but close to it, mumbling something you didn’t catch, until you spotted his glasses on the nightstand. You leaned over to get hold of them, and offered them to him, with eyes big and expectant.

“Are you looking for those?”

The room was so small that the distance between the edge of the bed and the desk was only an arm length, so Hyunjin got hold of the glasses simply by reaching out, thanking you. He was interesting; everything he did around you, from the way he moved to the way he spoke, seemed always to be happening in a state of trance, or incredible awkwardness you hoped stemmed from fluster, not discomfort. The feeling spreading in the pit of your stomach was indescribable, when Hyunjin, with soft, delicate fingers and a familiar move, placed the silvery glasses on the rich curve of his nose, fixing them into the dip of his ears before sliding them up; ready to work, and he looked concentrated momentarily, serious; far more attractive up close than when you watched him in class, and you wondered if you’d handle an entire hour of speaking to him while in his bed, in his room, in the midst of his scent.

Yet the hour flew by too fast for your liking, and before you knew it you were packing your bag and making your way to the door of Hyunjin’s dorm room. The hour had contained of more giggling and casual talking than you had thought, and it had gotten you excited. Maybe it was your fantasy, but Hyunjin had seemed interested; more than just into the project, interested in you, too. He had asked questions, had initiated conversation, had neglected his work. He had been – after half an hour – brave enough to poke fun at your lack of mathematical skill, after you had failed to understand an equation he’d tried to bring closer to you. You had gasped and acted hurt, and the giggle which he had followed up with had made you so speechless that Hyunjin had needed to continue with the explaining, flustered and stuttering, a little rocky; all hope of understanding his explaining had been lost there, but you hadn’t minded it.

Hyunjin stood by the door, held it open for you. There it was again, the fluster in his eyes, the flush on his neck; and you weren’t even doing anything. It’s not like the big doe eyes you caught his gaze with could play any role in his abash, or the purposeful teasing smile you shot him. It also couldn’t be the fact you simply stood in his door, waiting for him to say something, instead of leaving for the night with a simple goodbye, with your bag in hand, and quick fingers in your hair, pretending to fix it.

“Uh, we didn’t really come really far.”, he finally voiced with a chuckle, and you reciprocated. Yet you waited; it seemed there was more he wished to say. Hyunjin stepped from one foot to the other, furrowed his brows quickly before losing your eyes, locking your gaze again and opening his mouth, though without success initially. He closed it again, at a loss for words, and you cocked your head curiously, deliberately waiting, feigning ignorance. He huffed out an awkward chuckle, more air than laugh, and ruffled his hair. It made it look messier than before, but you liked it.

“Sorry, just – do you wanna meet tomorrow? I know it’s a Sunday, but... I don’t know, I thought we could work on the project some more. Only if you want to.”, he added quickly when you didn’t say anything. Only after you nodded with a smile Hyunjin’s shoulders seemed to relax, the tension in his body dissipating into relief.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then. Same time?”

☆.☆.☆

It had been two weeks of continuous meeting and working on the project with Hyunjin; but it had also been two weeks of continuous laughing and talking, of conversations far more memorable than the frustration over the schoolwork. Hyunjin had opened up to you, though still shy and quiet, far calmer around you now, more comfortable, it seemed. Yet you shied from initiating more; you had touched his thigh in friendly manner a week ago, barely a second, and the man had turned to a statue of stone, had lost sense of every word he’d had dancing on his lips, had lost train, even, of every thought; it had needed him a good five minutes before he had spoke again. Not only that, but he had eyed you the entire time after, hadn’t left his eyes wander from you, unless you’d caught and reciprocated them; only then his gaze had fallen to his fiddling hands in his lap, sneaking a look again only when you weren’t watching anymore.

You were sure he liked you, you doubted to be wrong about that; but ironically, you liked him too much to confront that, in fear of shying him away, of risking the delicate friendship which had developed over the past two weeks. The group project would end next week, and you weren’t sure if you’ve acquainted enough to stay friends beyond that.

You were sitting on Hyunjin’s bed, him on the mattress beside you, two hours into working on a PowerPoint which looked somewhat decent; decent to Hyunjin’s standards, that was, because you didn’t even know half the tricks he used to connect slides and merge texts and pictures; you would have stopped working on it a good while ago, deeming everything neat and sensible, but Hyunjin had looked at you wide-eyed and shocked, claiming it wasn’t near half-way done. You didn’t mind that he continued working on it; you enjoyed spending time with him, and you enjoyed watching him work, seeing him in his element. He had told you that he was into computers and everything regarding them, whether it was gaming or programming, or merely learning about the matter; you’d had the privilege to watch him build together a new keyboard he acquired, and as little interest as you had in the matter yourself, it was fascinating seeing him burn for something. He had grown bashful when he’d notice how much he had talked, and had apologized; when you’d admitted how cute it was, he hadn’t known what to do with himself, and had simply gone back to installing.

The small laptop lay on Hyunjin’s thighs as he typed away, finding new things to add, brows furrowed and the familiar, concentrated look in his eyes you knew so well from class; and, now, from working together with him. You watched him, weren’t left to do much more; and you enjoyed it. Hyunjin wore a nicely fitting polo-shirt over a simple flannel, and loose jeans which hung down his body leisurely. One of his fingers was adorned by a simple silver ring, matching with the silver of his square glasses; he looked unbelievable, and he didn’t even know it. Over the past week – if it was any possible – Hyunjin had somehow become even more beautiful to you. Knowing him closer made his exterior seem brighter, kinder; as though his soul reflected on his body and pulled you in even deeper than previous.

When he noticed you staring from his peripheral he caught your gaze, though not without his usual shyness. He chuckled a little before you smiled at him, and his eyes lost yours again.

“Why’re you looking at me like that.” His voice carried a hint of a whine, and your skin burned at the sound of it. The side of his face was a deep pink, his ears fire as he typed away on the project. You gathered your bravery; today could be the last time you’d meet him like this, with an excuse and void of brave initiations.

“I like looking at you. You’re cute when you’re working.”

He hadn’t expected it, neither have you; you meant the words, but you were surprised just how easily they slipped past your lips. Without friction, smooth; clear. So clear that Hyunjin stuttered around before going back to the laptop, the blue hues illuminating his face so prettily, you wished to remember this sight forever. Even if today didn’t go anywhere. Even if your short friendship would only be a memory a year down the line; you wished to remember the way his eyes glistened with a mix of confusion and curiosity in the dim light of the laptop screen, how his nose curved beneath his reflecting glasses, the way his tongue darted out and his wet lips caught again the hues of the computer.

Hyunjin mumbled a quiet “What are you saying?”, almost to himself because you barely caught it, and you huffed out in amusement.

“I’m serious.” Your tone was, too, and it made Hyunjin look at you, momentarily. His brows were furrowed, in something like question, doubt. It needed him a while to find his words, fishing them from somewhere within him; you could see the work in his mind, processing your words and understanding them, thinking of a response. You saw the whole process, before he finally spoke.

“Why, though?” Too long a time he took for two words only, but they sounded so honest your eyes softened, and your head cocked a bit, questioning. Hyunjin noticed, and followed up.

“I’m, like, boring. Why are you even hanging out with me?”

“Because I like you.”

The words flooded the room. They had felt trapped in your throat though gushed out the moment you allowed them, and they drowned you both in their weight. Hyunjin only sat, and looked at you. You have never seen him so pale, so colourless; you hoped it was a good sign.

“I don’t think you’re boring. You’re the most interesting person I know. And I like you.”

Only then Hyunjin’s face returned to the usual colour he’d acquired around you over the past two weeks; crimson red and his ears flaming, his neck probably hot if you only touched it. The moments of silence he granted you with were torturing, but the look in his eyes as he held your gaze looked promising; and then his cheeks painted pink, and he started blinking excessively.

“I... I like you, too.”

Two highschoolers confessing, but something about it was sweet, and pure, and ignited a fire within you.

“Can I kiss you?”, you heard yourself saying, and before you knew it, you felt his lips on your own. Soft, the very first thing you thought. Like clouds on your lips, or feathers, or sweet cotton candy. And though Hyunjin wasn’t skilled per se, a little helpless with his teeth and his tongue, unsure of what to do, you enjoyed it. You enjoyed the slow pace of the kiss, the wet sounds your lips made when they touched. You enjoyed feeling his urge to touch you, to lay a finger on your thigh, before he collected enough courage to do so; and the touch was heavenly, too. Heavy on your body, significant and real. Everything about Hyunjin made you buzz; and then a whine slipped past his lips. It tumbled over into your mouth and you swallowed it, before Hyunjin could retract from you a bit, embarrassment glazing his eyes. You smiled in response, burning with a newly found passion now. He mumbled a quiet “Sorry.”, but you shook your head, softly, inching yet closer to him. You felt his breath on your lips, could see the droplet of sweat on his forehead. You could see your own reflection in his glasses; you took them off slowly before almost connecting back to a kiss, yet not quite.

“Don’t be sorry. I wanna hear that sound again.”

You closed the distance between you, and at your words Hyunjin complied, and let a sigh escape him. You almost reciprocated, almost followed suit; you had never heard anything prettier, anything more desperate and honest. You continued kissing him before you allowed your hands to explore his body, cautious of his reactions and even more eager when he leaned into your every touch. He was chasing you, your lips, your hands, your fingers which started playing with the loop of his leather belt. Hyunjin’s breathing had become staggered by this point, heavy and irregular, chest heaving so intensely you almost chuckled at it.

It was subtle, but when you felt his hips buck up from the mattress in impatient anticipation you moaned into him, and finally undid his belt, opened the button of his jeans. You retracted, gave a quick peck to his searching, reddened lips.

“That’s okay, yeah?”

Hyunjin didn’t seem like he had understood the question. He didn’t seem like he understood anything around him while he was looking at you; seeing him so very dumb founded, in absence of his usual cleverness and brains, was far better than you had anticipated, far more satisfying. It gave you an ego boost you didn’t know you needed, or wanted, for that matter.

You chuckled, and asked again; only then Hyunjin nodded frantically, following up with what felt like a million “Yes, yeah yeah, yes.”’s before you continued with a smug grin.

And it was adorable, seeing Hyunjin pucker his lips in the thought of feeling your lips on his again, only for you to lower your head, and bury your face in his neck instead. You felt his low whine against your lips before you heard it, and he sensed your smile against his skin, followed by a kiss deep and long, while your hands played with the waistband of his jeans. It’s been far too long he’d had anyone like this, embarrassingly long; and even longer since he’d liked someone as much as you. He was in trance as your lips travelled further down his body, not undressing him but catching bare spots of skin to plant kisses atop; his collarbones, the curve from his neck towards his shoulders, his jewellered chest right above the neckline of his shirt.

It wasn’t long before you were levelled with his core. Your position on the bed was awkward, a little uncomfortable, but it was the least of your concerns. You pulled up the hem of Hyunjin’s shirt a bit to kiss at his abdomen, teasing and licking and making a show out of it, and it paid off; the man was flush against the wall of his room, fingers digging into the blanket beneath him, looking at you, blinking so often you wondered if he was able to see anything in between. And you were getting impatient. You could feel the faint weight of his erection beneath his jeans as you brushed his core occasionally, his jerks and jumps when you did so, silently begging you for more. When you asked another “Can I?” he nodded, and you pulled his erection from its’ confines. Hyunjin sucked in a breath at that, bashfulness written in his eyes, brows furrowed; and he suddenly looked for something, tapping across his mattress before he got hold of his glasses, slipping them on. He blushed when you cocked your head at him, fixed them onto his nose with a finger; you loved that habit.

“Just, wanna see everything clearly.”

He was almost ashamed when he said it, but he huffed out in embarrassed amusement when he heard you laugh softly, teasingly. Your hand tightened a bit around the base of his sex, causing him to tense up at the sudden pressure, and your fist moved further up his length. You looked up at him beneath your lashes, intently, dark, almost. You gave a single kitten lick to his tip, gave him a kiss after before smiling up at his dizzied expression; “Watch, then.”

With that, you started softly sucking on his tip, cautiously and void of hurry, taking your time. You were languish with it, letting your tongue dart out and dance across his skin, swirling it when he moaned out or tightened his fist which held captive the fabric of his vanilla scented blanket. You didn’t know that watching him throw his head back would bring you the pleasure it did, but watching Hyunjin’s Adam’s apple beneath the soft, frail skin of his neck made you roll your hips into nothing, the sweat slowly forming on his skin made you flush and sigh against him. You took him deeper, engulfing him in your warm, wet mouth, inch by inch, getting used to his length, the feeling of his heavy veins against your tongue. And he was shy with his hands, placed them everywhere but on you; ran his fingers through his hair with furrowed brows, fisted the fabric of his jeans, or the softness of the blanket, or the pillow laying next to him. It wasn’t until he locked eyes with you, when he caught sight of a loose strand of hair framing against your cheek that he was courageous enough to reach out; Hyunjin moved the hair out of your face softly, delicately almost, held it then, his palm a nice feeling on your skull. And he kept it there. Stroking your hair, tightening around it when you hollowed your cheeks, when you sucked away the salty precum oozing out his angry tip.

You felt him at the back of your throat. He was bigger than you had expected, and his weight lay on your tongue, his tip grazing repeatedly at your uvula, by now sensitive and reddened, though you didn’t stop your antics. Not when the sounds he let roll off his tongue increased not only in volume but in desperation, whines so high pitched you couldn’t help but grin against him. You watched him, every of his movement; the way his glasses slid off his nose before he fixed them with a haste movement, quick and messy, making them sit slightly tilted; enough for you to notice, not enough for him to care. The strands framing his face starting sticking against the sweat forming on his forehead, his lip had developed a bruise from his repeated biting on it; he was a mess, heaving breath and breathless sighs, sweaty palm fisting at your hair in utter helplessness. And he could barely speak a word, could barely form a thought, yet opened his mouth nonetheless, only for words to fail him. He stuttered about, whimpered more than he succeeded to speak. You slowed down your pace, halted a little in the bobbing movement of your head, let your jaw rest to allow him to collect his mind. He looked down at you, urges so deep swimming behind his eyelids, and he breathed out shakily, licked his bruised-up lips.

“I’m so close.”

The words came out his mouth almost apologetically, breathless and quiet. He sat there, back against the wall, an utter mess, too beautiful to be real; lips spit-covered as he spoke, brows formed into one line, eyes glazed with every human emotion this planet granted.

“Do you have condoms?”, you whispered against him, your voice hoarse and weak, your throat sore. He hadn’t expected the words, but nodded after a moment of blushing, motioning to his nightstand with a cock of the head. You eyed him teasingly before shifting to open the drawer of his nightstand; packs of painkillers and coughing drops, looking old and unused. Pencils and other useless stuff before you spotted packs of condoms shoved into the very back, and you fished for one before meeting his eye again. You contemplated teasing him about it; you knew he wasn’t bringing girls over regularly – if at all – to his dorm room, so the small stack of contraceptions was all but adorable – Hyunjin was so very reddened though, and looking so very bashful already that you decided against it, and busied yourself with sliding off your jeans instead, leaving you to sit in front of him in your shirt and panties.

And he couldn’t take his eyes off you. Not much exposed but when you straddled him your thighs were everything his eyes ate alive, shyly placing his hot palms atop them, breathing in shakily when you giggled at him. You tore open the little plastic wrapping, slid on the condom after a confirming nod of his; and when you leaned in to kiss him, he reciprocated it with a depth before not shown, clashing against your mouth clumsily but so passionately that you couldn’t mind it. You shifted in your place, lips never stopping to eat up his own, until you hovered above his erection. He felt your warmth atop him already, bucked his hips up in impatience only for his tip to graze your clothed sex; you both moaned at the embarrassingly short contact, and it was your cue to sink down on him slowly. You weren’t prepped, but you were wet enough for him to slide in easily after pulling your panties to the side, taking him inch by inch, not hurrying, dragging out the scenery. You watched him all the while, and the sight was utterly priceless; blown-out pupils beneath his glasses, a longing so grand behind his lids that you couldn’t help but kiss him again. A deep kiss as you bottomed out on him, felt him endlessly inside you, and he whined into your mouth, loud and raw when you clenched around him.

“I’m not gonna last long.”, he breathed out when you leaned back again; he was too adorable. Looking almost guilty, digging his fingers into the flesh of your thighs desperately. You chuckled before placing another peck on his swollen lips – even more like clouds now, puffy and soft to touch – and rolled your hips against him. He groaned deeply, throwing his head back with a quiet thump against the wall, hands tightening on your body, as though trying to hold you in place. You felt him twitch inside you, felt him throb against your depth; he wasn’t lying, he wouldn’t last at all.

“I don’t care. Just enjoy yourself.”

With that you started riding him slowly, and softly, giving him an opportunity to collect himself, though it was to little use. He was whining, he was throwing his head back and forth, lulling to the side, he was losing control of everything around him; his glasses slid off his nose repeatedly, sitting so deep they dared to fall off, sounds so loud you wondered if people outside could hear what was happening behind closed doors. His neck was red, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes were closed so tight you wondered if it strained the muscles in his face; and you kept rolling your hips against him, chasing the feeling yourself, basking in the way he filled you out entirely. Basking in his sounds, in the sight of him, in the way he felt; this was better than what you had dared to dream of, and you hoped it would be yours for eternities to come.

It wasn’t two minutes, and not before you started bouncing up and down Hyunjin’s length slowly, with thighs strained and hips eager, that the man stuttered in his demeanour, bucking his hips so helplessly into your own, without much success in causing friction, simply to chase you, to chase the feeling, to come closer to you. And it wasn’t long after that when a whine so endearing, so frantic left his throat, and he came into the condom with a string of apologies and curses, and whispers of your name. You allowed him to ride out his high, moving against him in failed search of your own release, kissing at his neck and nibbling at the lobe of his ear, whispering reassurances, feeling his hands on your skin, his arms caging you in. His breathing was heavy, shaky, his eyes closed in exhaustion, or relief, or simple and pure pleasure when you leaned back again. You smiled to yourself, watching calmness take over him now; no nervousness now as you yet sat atop him, no awkwardness, only satisfaction, content.

When he opened his eyes and noticed your staring at him he blushed again, and upon remembering his softened sex inside of you he groaned lowly, twitching in his seat. He was sensitive, he was endearing; and for now he was yours. You smiled at him, and he reciprocated it shyly; you fixed the glasses on his nose, gave him a long, deep kiss. He basked in it, simply let you kiss him, let you run your hands through his hair. It wasn’t until you guided his right hand to your core he sucked in a breath again, upon feeling your warm wetness on his fingertips; and he looked at you with eyes wide open when you leaned back, and whined out again when you whispered; “Gonna show you how you can make me feel good, too.”

taglist: @es-kay-zee @jeyelleohe @angelwonie @yvniek4ng @ppiri-bahng @bintificreads-archived @svintsandghosts @llunapastell @sensitiveandhungry @minniesvenus @junebug032 @noellllslut @wolfennracha @unexceptional-h @like-a-diamondinthesky @katsukis1wife @binniesbang

#hyunjin smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #hwang hyunjin smut #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin scenarios #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz scenarios #stray kids hyunjin smut #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader

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nicholasgoodgirl · 10 months ago

Note

could you make a jealous Nicholas smuttt???

request accepted!

crazy in love -nicholas

summary: you get jealous so you successfully make nicholas jealous in return and he teaches you a lesson.

warning: smut, pin v, unprotected sex (plsplspls use a condom), overstimulation (i think thst it not sure)

a/n: thanks for the request. pls keep them coming

nicholas wanted me to attend this red carpet event with him, and of course i was quick to accept but i quickly dreaded and pushed down the eargness i so suddenly felt to be able to attend such an important place. i started going down a rabbit hole of posts of him with other girls.

the comments collectively agreeing he looks better with the other women he has worked with in the past.

i cut my phone off and waited in silence for my boyfriends stylist to be done with the finishing touches on his suit.

i walk in the dressing room and he was laughing with his stylist, and of course she had to be a woman.

at the after party of the even i planned on getting pay back for the jealousy he probably didn't even know he had instilled in me.

we were here at the after party and I've seen a few recognizable celebrities there but wouldn't dare approach them.

nicholas' hand was comfortably placed around my waist "nervous?" he asks, his words coming out ever so subtly "nope, why would i be" he replied with a low hum; shrugging.

i left his side and went to go get drinks he dispersed off somewhere else as well.

not even 10 minutes later i found myself talking to some guy with nice brown hair that complimented his soft brown eyes but his looks didn't even compare with my man.

"do you have somewhere to be after this?" he asked and i just let out a chuckle "maybe" i looked around to seen nicholas eyes were already on us.

i swallow drly and try and wrap the conversation up "i think i gotta go" that was my abrupt attempt on ending the conversation.

"c'mon pretty lady i can make it worth your while" the man placed his hands on my hip trying to make me stay.

before i could say anything i was being dragged away from him to no suprise by my boyfriend himself.

"let go of me" my voice wobbles. i struggle to tug my hand out of his grip; trying to get free. "no, we're going home. now." his voice was stern and there was no question. we were going home.

in a hurry nicholas unlocks the door, we both walk in and he slams the door shut behind us "what the fuck was that!?" he shouts.

"suddenly we go to a party and you're single?" i feel guilty but then remember the pictures i saw of him with other girls; looking cozier then ever.

"tha-thats not what happend at all" i try to explain myself. "you need to be taught a lesson. wanna be taught a lesson love?" he asks, his hand firmly squeezing my cheeks too firm towards i could only nod

"yeah I'm sure you do" he scoffs and pulls me to our shared room.

once we reach the dimly lit room, the only light illuminating the room was the warm tone of the lamp.

Nicholas pushes me down on the bed and crawls ontop of me starting to place open kisses down my neck, to my collar bone.

going back up to my lips, grabbing my face kissing me roughly. i moan into the kiss giving him enough space for his tounge to invade my mouth, claiming me as his.

he stops what he's doing "take your clothes off" he demands. i comply and begin taking off my heels throwing them aside with a loud bang they hit the ground follwed by the other heel. then pulling my dress off painfully slow so he does it for me.

snatching the material over my head and tosses it aside kissing down my stomach, trailing down to my inner thigh.

"you're so perfect" he mumbles, his fingers mess with the hem of my lacey panties and pulls them down and off me.

he goes down on me and licks the arousal that leaked from my core. i bite my lip to suppress a moan.

another lick, and a pressured kiss against my clit. i was a mess. feeling his breath against me sent shivers all over. i let out a gasp when he swirl his tounge on me. i felt my orgasm nearing; the band ready to snap "close- oh fuck!" i shout

he pulls away almost immediately. "not yet you aren't. turn over f'me"

"please.. i just- m'sorry" i whine, turning over anyway putting my ass in the air "sweetheart this is a punishment you can cum whenever i say. alright?" he says with faux sympathy

i hear his belt fall to the ground and his zipper unzip before he positions himself behind me and lines his throbbing cock up with my entrance.

with a deep thrust, he buries himself far inside me. "you feel that? how deep im inside you?" i nod vigourisly letting out a whimper. his hips snap forward; each thrust giving pushing my body up the bed.

his hand moves down my back pushing my face into the bed allowing me to take him deeper.

nicholas leans down and whispers in my ear "could he fuck you like this?" everything was so intense i could harldy ever come up with a verbal response for anything he asked. so again i shook my head 'no'

he grabs my hair and makes a makeshift ponytail "could he?" ,,no" i cry out squeezing my eyes shut in relief when he lets go of my hair

he continues slamming into me at a relentlessly brutal pace. the only sounds that could be heard was lewed sounds of skin slapping together paird with my muffled moans

we discussed a safe word prior to moments like these and i would have used it in this moment but as intense as everything was it felt so good.

without warning i clench around him and realese the knot that had formed in my stomach bursting. his thrusts didn't slow down, "i didn't say you could cum" he disdainfully reminded

i hiss at the sensitivity. my vision began to blur with tears while I also realize this is him teaching me a lesson. "apologies" he demands "imsorry.. im so fucking sorry" i began sobbing

i could no longer keep my body up my legs began to shake but no matter the condition nicholas' hands kept me in place as he pounds into me. before i knew it he had finished inside me already

i was so far gone in a daze i didn't even realize it. he pulls out and lets my body flop onto the bed "are you alright?" he asks tucking pieces of hair that had fallen in my face behind my ear.

he gets one of the throw blankets and puts it over me. 'mm' is all i could muster up. i was fine but in the moment i just wanted to sleep

a/n: i wanted to add aftercare but i feel like this was long enough..

#nicholas chavez x reader #nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas chavez smut

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spookysanta · 1 month ago

Text

Lessons in Chivalry. (MBJ)

Summary: Michael has to train you to let him spoil you. No doors, no checks, no 50/50.

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x reader

Warnings: romantic hand pops

the first of many ideas on my list!! been working on this all last week - it's been so fun to read everyone's feedback on the upcoming fics i have planned. thank y'all for your support! don't forget to send me asks if you have a request or fic idea.

He’s the gentle kind of sweet that made you roll your eyes, even though your stomach flipped like it was your first date all over again. The first time he did that thing, you didn’t think much of it. You reached for the handle of the restaurant door, and his hand appeared out of nowhere, gently smacking yours away like it had personally offended him. “Hey,” he murmured, one brow raised, lips twitching with amusement. “What I tell you about doors?”

You blinked, surprised, your hand suspended midair. “That I’m capable of opening them?”

Michael let out a soft laugh, stepped around you, and pulled the door open wide. “You are. But that’s not the point.”

“The point is…?”

He leaned down as you passed through, his breath warm against your skin, carrying the faint scent of mint and cedar from the cologne you loved. The heat of his chest hovered just inches from your back, and the rasp of his voice climbed up your spine. Your skin prickled, breath catching before you could stop it, the intimacy of the moment stealing your thoughts for a beat. “That if I’m with you, you don’t lift a finger. Not for doors. Not for checks. Not for anything.”

You scoffed. “Chivalry is alive and dramatic, I see.”

“Damn right,” he said proudly. “Get used to it.”

But you didn’t. Not immediately.

Because about a week later, at a boutique checkout counter, your card was already halfway to the reader before you realized he was watching you like you’d just betrayed everything he stood for. He didn’t even speak, just slid his hand over yours, plucked the card from your fingers like it was something fragile, and handed his own over with infuriating calm.

When the receipt printed, he passed your card back like a teacher returning a test. “You trying to get in trouble?” he asked, voice low and playful, head tilted like he already knew the answer. His fingers lingered on yours just a second longer, eyes scanning your face like he was daring you to try it again. “Because you know what happens when you don’t listen.”

“You weren’t even—”

“Doesn’t matter.” His eyes met yours, soft but firm. “Don’t reach first. Ever.”

It became a little game after that. You’d try to sneak your hand past his, get there first, test the boundaries. And every time, he’d catch you. He was very committed to the bit.

By the time you were walking into a hotel downtown, he caught your wrist mid-air before your fingers could even graze the glass of the hotel’s front door. “What did I say?”

“Michael, I was just—”

He stepped in close, mock-serious now. “What did I say?”

You tried not to smile and failed. “That I don’t open doors or pay for anything when you’re around.”

“And am I around?”

You pouted a little, but nodded.

“Then relax.” He kissed your temple. “Be the beautiful, spoiled woman I insist you are.”

“I’m gonna forget how to function.”

“Nah,” he said as he pushed the door open. “You’re just gonna remember what it feels like to be treated how you deserve.”

So you did. For two days. Maybe three. Then, as always, your instincts kicked in. A door handle. A brunch bill. A quick swipe of your card before you thought he could stop you.

But of course, he always beat you to it.

Before, it was gentle. A soft tap. A warm palm curling around your wrist. A low, “Nah, I got it, babe,” as he handled the moment with ease. He kissed your cheek after, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t actively retraining the way you understood care.

Then came the test. It was a Saturday morning. You were downtown, still wrapped in his hoodie, half-awake but smiling as you reached for the boutique door. He was a few steps behind. Before you could touch the handle, his hand landed on yours. Not hard, just firm. A definitive pop! that made you whip around. “Michael.”

His eyes widened with fake innocence. “What?”

“You popped me.”

“You reached for the door.”

“I thought I had rights.”

“You do,” he replied, stepping ahead of you, holding the door open with a slight bow. “You’ve got the right to be cherished, pampered, and treated like royalty when I’m around.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. Inside, you browsed, danced a little when your song came on. And when it came time to pay, you reached for your card … just to see what he’d do.

He was across the store, deep in conversation with the stylist. But he saw you move. His head turned fast. Five quick steps, and he was there, hand slipping around yours, gently guiding it down. “Don’t.” His voice was calm. Certain.

You swallowed. “I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were.” He brushed his thumb over your knuckles, then kissed them. “If I’m here, you don’t do anything. Got that yet?”

And the thing is, it wasn’t about money. It wasn’t about doors. It was about what it meant. The quiet, steady promise stitched into every small act.

That same night, it happened again at the hotel. You were laughing, caught in the rhythm of his jokes, when your hand reached for the gold handle of the revolving door. He caught your wrist. “Aye.”

You turned, surprised. “What?”

“What did I say?”

Your breath caught, immediately knowing the answer to the question but choosing to remain silent like a scolded toddler.

“Am I around?” He asked after a brief moment.

“Clearly.”

“Then act like it.” He opened the door, his hand resting at the small of your back as you stepped inside. And once you were through, he leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’m not doing this because you need me to. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you deserve to move through this world like somebody’s got you. Like you can finally exhale. Let me be that.”

You noticed everything after that.

The way he carried your work bags without asking. Checked you into hotels and trips without needing a word. Watched you like you were wild and delicate all at once; worthy of care, not control. Reverence, not rescue.

“No doors. No checks. No questions,” he murmured, kissing your temple as the elevator doors closed. “You’re mine. Let me act like it.”

It didn’t stop at dates. Or hotels. Or dinners where you weren’t allowed to even glance at the check. When Michael said, You don’t lift a finger when I’m with you, he meant it. Especially when you traveled.

From the second the trip began, you weren’t your own responsibility anymore. You were his. Not in a controlling way, but in that careful, deliberate, I got you so completely it’s second nature kind of way.

The trip, for him, started at home, when he told you to sit down and sip your coffee while he brought your suitcase downstairs. You offered to help once, halfheartedly, because you already knew the look he’d give you, and sure enough, he paused mid-stairwell with a sharp eyebrow and a smirk. “You tryna get popped again?”

You held up your palms in surrender, laughing. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“I don’t need help. I need you to relax. Matter fact,” he set the bags down, crossed to you, and kissed your forehead. “that’s your only job for the next four days.”

At the curb, it continued. He opened the Uber door before you could reach for it, helped you in with a hand on your lower back, then rounded the car to load both of your suitcases into the trunk by himself. You tried again, leaning out to ask if he needed anything, but he didn’t even look up. “Get comfortable,” he said. “Turn your heated seat on. I’m almost done.”

By the time you got to the airport, you’d already been relieved of your travel documents. He held your passport, boarding pass, and ID in his back pocket, patting it every so often just to reassure you.

“I can carry something, you know,” you teased.

He looked at you like you’d cursed in public. “You do not carry,” he said, hoisting your carry-on with one hand and taking yours with the other. “You glide.”

At TSA, he had it down to a science. He pulled the bins before you even spotted the stack, laid out your coat, shoes, and electronics with quiet efficiency. As you stepped up, he tilted his head and held out his hand. “Bracelet, too, baby. You know they gon’ make you take it off.”

You slid it into his palm, biting a smile and rolling your eyes, and watched him place it gently into your bin like it was fine china. When it was time to walk through the scanner, he waited on the other side, arms open for you to walk into as soon as you cleared it.

“Easy,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just like that.”

At the gate, he had your favorite snacks ready, somehow remembered from a trip the two of you took three months ago. He’d already scanned the seating chart to make sure you had the window like you liked, and when boarding started, he carried your bag and his, scanned both passes, and guided you down the jet bridge with that steady hand on the small of your back.

You barely touched a thing. And when you tried to joke about it, a little overwhelmed by how seamless he made it all feel, he just shrugged and looked at you like the answer was obvious.

“You do so much, baby. Every day. For everybody.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping just for you. “So if I can give you a couple hours where you don’t gotta think, where you don’t gotta lift, or plan, or worry about a single thing. Just let me take care of it. Let me show you what it feels like to be taken care of right.”

The rest was gradual. There were little shifts, little gestures that you didn’t think much of until one day you realized: you hadn’t driven yourself anywhere in weeks.

It started with him grabbing the keys before you did. At first, it was just casual: “Nah, I got it, come on.” But it became a pattern.

Before you could blink, Michael was always behind the wheel, adjusting the seats, curating a playlist you didn’t even know he’d noticed you loved. Making sure the A/C hits your legs just right. He’d swing open the passenger door with a smooth, practiced grace and tap the roof before helping you in like you were stepping into a chauffeured town car instead of your own vehicle.

“You good?” he’d ask, one hand still lingering on your thigh before he circled around to drive.

You’d nod, half-melted, every time.

Because who would want to drive when the man next to you makes you feel like royalty on a cross-country tour just to go to brunch?

And it didn’t stop there.

You’d be in the middle of your day when a casual text would come through: Taking your car to get detailed. Left the Range for you in case you NEED it. I’ll be back in an hour.

Or, Oil change done. Full tank. Tires checked. You’re welcome. :)

And the most you could do was send back a heart emoji or a voice note calling him annoying, because any attempt at gratitude would get deflected with an “Aight, relax. That’s what I’m here for.”

But the gas station? Oh, the gas station is where the line got drawn in thick, permanent ink.

Because one afternoon, he pulled into the Shell station after a long day, parked, and hopped out while you unbuckled your seatbelt.

Just as your fingers wrapped around the door handle, you heard it.

“Don’t.”

You froze. “What?”

Michael whipped around the pump with a look so disbelieving, you’d think you just tried to fight him. “You thought you were about to get outta this car and pump gas. With me right here.”

“I was just trying to help—”

“No, see,” he said, pointing, “this is why I have to retrain you. Every time you do something like this, it’s like you forget I exist.”

“It’s gas, Michael.”

“It’s my job,” he corrected. “Sit there and be cute. Matter fact…” He leaned into the window. “Try it again, and I’ll block your card from working at gas stations. Don’t play with me.”

You laughed. He didn’t. Not until he got back in, slid a hand over your thigh, and kissed your cheek. “Now change the playlist. I’m feeling something old school.”

Not when he took your car before you could even notice it needed to be touched. Not when he reached for your keys with a look that said don’t make me embarrass both of us. And definitely not when he stopped you from pulling open the car door with that same firm, gentle hand on yours and a single question, low and amused: “You tryna get popped, baby?”

No. No you were not.

You were the passenger princess. And he made sure you wore that crown daily.

And it was always funny… until it wasn’t. You’d mentioned it casually the first time, over cocktails with your girls, legs tucked up on the patio seat as the sun started dipping behind the skyline. “I swear he’s training me, y’all,” you muttered, laughing into your glass.

Tati nearly snorted her mojito. “Training you to do what, exactly? Sit pretty and let him open doors?”

“Pretty much,” you shrugged.

“Oh, come on,” Kris groaned. “Ain’t no man out here walking around with a syllabus and a PowerPoint for how to love you.”

Nas grinned, skeptical. “So what? You don’t open your own doors now?”

“I can’t,” you said, deadpan. “I tried at the hotel last week and he smacked my hand like I touched something hot.”

Lex was already cracking up. “Oh my God.”

“He takes my keys. Pumps my gas. Carries all the bags. I haven’t paid for anything myself in months.”

They thought it was cute. A little fantasy. A joke with real rich-boy flavor. Until they realized you were serious. And what got them to make the connection: your phone lit up with his name and the ringtone he picked out himself.

You answered with a soft, “Hey baby,” already knowing what was coming.

“You still at the rooftop spot on Grace?” Michael asked, voice smooth as ever.

“Mmhmm.”

“You on the side with the valet entrance or the front?”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Front.”

“Aight. Be there in five. Don’t move.”

“Kay.” You hung up and turned back to find four pairs of suspicious eyes locked on you like they’d just witnessed a twist ending in a thriller.

“He’s picking you up?” Kris asked slowly.

“He just calls like that?” Nas added, mouth open.

You nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. “We share our locations. I don’t even try to beat him to the pickup spot anymore. It’s a waste of energy.”

Lex pointed at your drink. “You’re not paying for that either, are you?”

You just slid the heavy black card across the table like a mic drop. The one with your name under his. The one that buzzed your phones every time you used it because he insisted on keeping the notifications on. Just in case.

“You’re joking,” Tati breathed, lifting it with reverence like it might dissolve if she stared too long. “He let you on his account?”

“Didn’t ask,” you said with a laugh. “He just handed it to me one morning and said, ‘Use this. Stop touching your own money. I mean it.’”

“Okay, but like… why?” Nas blinked.

“Because it’s easier,” you admitted, sighing dramatically. “Do you know how exhausting it is to hear a whole damn lecture because I paid for a $12 salad with my own debit card?”

Kris gasped, already laughing. “No he doesn’t—”

“Oh, he absolutely does,” you cut in. “I was just going to lunch with my coworkers last week. I thought it didn’t count. He called me mid-chew to ask why he didn’t get a notification.”

Tati was wheezing now. “He knows when you use your own money?”

“He doesn’t track my spending but I swear it’s like he can feel it,” you said, dead serious. “I have receipts. He acts like I’ve personally disrespected him and his ancestors.”

Lex wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “Okay, I'll take it back. This man has a training regimen. You’re not being dramatic.”

“I told you,” you grinned, sliding the card back into your purse. “I’m not allowed to lift a finger. If I try? It’s a whole thing. A ride-home lecture thing.”

Sure enough, five minutes later, a blacked-out SUV pulled to the curb, and there he was: leaned against the hood, phone in one hand, other hand already lifting in a beckoning wave like let’s go, baby.

He opened the door before you even said goodbye, hand outstretched for yours.

And as you walked away, you heard Kris whisper behind you, “…Nah, he really is training her.”

You waited until the car doors were shut and the engine hummed beneath you, the soft R&B playing low in the background. His hand had already found your thigh, like it always did, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles just above your knee as he pulled away from the curb.

You watched him for a minute. How relaxed he was. The way his jaw shifted when he checked the mirrors. The tiny crease between his brows as he merged into traffic with one hand.

Then you turned to him, lips curled into a smirk. “You know the girls think it’s hilarious that you’re ‘training me.’”

Michael didn’t even look over at first. He just let out a quiet, knowing sound, deep in his chest. “Do they now?”

“They’re like, ‘Is he building a custom housewife? Teaching you not to open doors or touch money?’” You laughed softly, head falling back against the seat. “I think Kris said you must have printed out a whole syllabus.”

That made him chuckle. Finally, he glanced your way, a smug little tilt at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t need a syllabus. You were already perfect. Just needed a little… refinement.”

You gave him a look, lips parted like you couldn’t believe him. “Refinement?”

He shrugged, completely unfazed. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with learning how to be treated right. You’re too used to doing everything yourself. I’m just reminding you that you don’t have to.”

“I know that,” you muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

He gave your thigh a squeeze. “Do you, though? Or do you still feel guilty when you don’t split a bill or carry your own shit?”

You were quiet for a beat. “…A little.”

“Exactly.” He shook his head with a tsk. “You've been holding it down so long you think that’s normal. But not with me. Not ever with me. If I’m here, I’m handling it. All of it.”

You glanced over at him again, your chest pulling tight in that stupid, swoony way he had mastered. “Still,” you said, biting back a grin, “the girls think it’s giving 1950s husband with a modern credit limit.”

Michael laughed out loud at that. Deep, warm, proud. “Good,” he said. “Tell Jamal and them I said they should take notes. I got mine trained and spoiled.”

You shoved his arm playfully, cheeks burning. “I am not trained—”

“Really?” he said, buzzing into the front gate of your home, pulling slowly into the driveway. “Whose card did you use at lunch?”

You groaned.

“Exactly.” He cut the engine and looked over at you fully now, expression softening. “You don’t have to prove nothin’ to me. Not your independence. Not your strength. I already know who you are.” He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your temple. “So let me show you who I am. Again. And again. Until you stop fighting it.”

“…So you’re just gonna keep lecturing me every time I use my own money?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, dead serious. “I will nag you to death, baby. You will pray for peace and find none.”

You laughed, fully exasperated and fully, hopelessly in love. “Ugh. Fine.”

“Good girl,” he whispered, slipping out to open your door. He circled around the car with that confident stride, opened it smoothly, and held out his hand like he always did: palm up, fingers slightly curled. You took it, stepping out as his other hand slid to your waist, steadying you. His eyes didn’t leave yours for a second, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leaned in just enough to make your breath catch. “You know I got you, right?” he murmured.

You nodded, heart thudding, and he closed the door behind you, hand never straying far from the small of your back as you walked inside together.

Because yeah… he was training you.

But you had to admit: you kinda liked it.

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#x black woman #x black reader #x black fem reader #michael b jordan #michael b jordan x black reader #michael b. jordan #michael b jordan x reader #spookysanta #add to masterlist #x you #x reader #x black girl #x y/n

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losvroomvroom · 12 days ago

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absolute all-timer of a youtube comment on the atlassian williams racing cricket video. youtube user caesarHQ please consider sports journalism

Let’s be absolutely clear about something. You take a modern Formula 1 driver – a creature honed by telemetry, fed by nutritionists, and programmed to shave off thousandths of a second while sustaining G-forces that would turn a normal human’s spleen into pâté – and you ask them to play cricket. It’s like asking a peregrine falcon to do your taxes. It’s the wrong tool, for the wrong job, in the most spectacularly wrong place possible

And that place is Lord’s. The "home of cricket." Which is another way of saying it's a very old, very green field in London surrounded by people in blazers who clap with the sort of polite enthusiasm usually reserved for a well-made scone. It is the absolute, polar opposite of the Eau Rouge-Raidillon complex at Spa. One is a symphony of screaming V6 hybrids and impending doom; the other is the gentle thwack of leather on willow, followed by a lengthy nap

Into this cathedral of calm walk Carlos Sainz and Alex Albon. Two young men whose entire existence is based on violent, immediate feedback. They make a mistake, they’re in a wall. In cricket, you make a mistake, you have to do the "walk of shame." This isn’t a quick trip back to the pits. No. It’s a long, lonely, soul-destroying trudge across an enormous lawn while thousands of people silently judge your very existence. Frankly, I think they’d prefer the wall

Guiding them is Freddie Flintoff, a man who is to cricket what a sledgehammer is to a delicate piece of porcelain. He’s a big, northern lad who used to hurl a ball at 90mph for a living. You can see the drivers looking at him, these lightweight, precision-engineered athletes, and then at Freddie, who looks like he was built in a shipyard, and the cogs are turning. They’re trying to compute how this analogue machine can generate so much force

Then comes the equipment. The "pads" and the "box." An F1 driver is cocooned in a carbon fibre monocoque that can withstand biblical impacts. Yet, here they are, strapping what look like giant mattress samples to their legs and being told the most important bit of kit is a plastic cup to protect their particulars. You can see it in Sainz’s eyes: “I drive a 200-mph Williams and this is what I’m worried about?”

The batting is, of course, a comedy. Sainz, bless him, holds the bat like a nine-iron. Every shot is a follow-through for a 300-yard drive down the fairway at Augusta. He’s trying to apply logic to a game that has none. You’re meant to watch a bouncing ball and, in a nanosecond, decide whether to defend it with a straight bat or smash it into a nearby county. All he knows is "point and squirt." Albon, meanwhile, just looks happy to be there, swinging with the joyous abandon of a man who knows this has absolutely no bearing on his actual job

But the most telling moment is the bowling. Albon hurls one down like a torpedo, all aggression and surprising speed. It’s pure instinct. There’s no technique, just a primal urge to throw something hard and fast. That’s the racer in him. Forget the line and length; just get it there, now

What you’re watching isn’t just two sportsmen trying a new sport. It’s a clash of philosophies. It’s the explosive, instantaneous world of motorsport colliding with the slow, grinding, psychological warfare of cricket. One is a sport of pure instinct and reaction; the other is a sport of patience, planning, and waiting, waiting, waiting for your moment before the inevitable failure

And in the end, they learn the most important lesson cricket can teach. It doesn’t matter how fast you are, how much downforce you have, or how brave you are into turn one. When you’re standing on that pitch and you miss the ball you look like a complete and utter clot. And there’s nothing more British than that

#carlos sainz #alex albon #carlos #alex #silverstone 2025 #i love to read youtube comments even though it is unwise and it PAID OFF. wow #this absolute wall of text i was like is this ai #but i don't think it can be lol it has too much heart #'protect their particulars' i feel so confident that no ai has ever come up with that phrase

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lqveharrington · 1 month ago

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Don’t Blame Me | F.W.

summary: you’re in a forbidden relationship with fred weasley

pairing: fred weasley x malfoy!reader

includes: mild cursing, fluff, forbidden relationship, draco loves his sister, fred being the sweetest boyfriend

wc: 1.3k+

a/n: i figured out how to write again, lol

For the longest time, you didn’t believe in love at first sight.

After years of hearing the romanticized tale of your parents falling for each other the instant they met, you always found the idea overly sentimental—impossible, even. Besides, you were 99% sure Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were promised to each other before they were even born. Whether they grew to love each other didn’t change the fact that love at first sight sounded like fiction—a reckless, illogical fantasy.

But all that changed the moment Fred Weasley didn’t just walk—but staggered—into your life.

It was the start of the fifth year, and Flitwick had just begun his lesson when your eyes met Fred's across the classroom. Something shifted inside you. A spark. A jolt. A switch flipping on in a pitch-dark room you didn’t even know existed.

It was strange, falling for a boy like him so quickly—especially him. You had trained yourself to ignore the Weasleys and anyone your family deemed "beneath" you, raised on the belief that power and blood status defined worth. But when you truly saw Fred—his natural talent in Charms, his wicked sense of humor, his unapologetic joy—it became impossible not to fall.

Suddenly, the world was brighter, sharper, more alive. Everything burned hotter and faster. You’d spent years guarding your heart behind iron walls, fortified by cynicism and caution. But Fred didn’t knock. He didn’t ask. He shattered every barrier within seconds.

His laughter made you laugh. His hugs wrapped you in warmth. His kisses—quick and stolen before Filch could round a corner—left you dazed, breathless. Everything he did made your heart swell with something terrifying and beautiful. Something that changed you completely.

Your friends told you you weren’t yourself anymore—and deep down, you knew they were right.

If this wasn’t love, then it was something more dangerous. Something addictive. Something divine.

And you didn’t want to be saved.

Of course, Draco had thoughts about your relationship. He was your brother, after all. But even he couldn’t stop you—not after he saw the way Fred made you laugh, how you glowed with happiness. Sure, he still sneered at the Weasleys, but he was protective of you above all else. A petty house rivalry wouldn’t outweigh your joy in his mind.

The real problem was your parents.

You and Fred had been together officially since the end of the fifth year. Draco only found out because he caught Fred shamelessly kissing you in the dungeon corridors. He wasn’t a snitch by any means, but it was painfully obvious to both Lucius and Narcissa that something had changed. Narcissa’s constant questions about whether you’d “found someone suitable” were getting harder to dodge.

It was only a matter of time before the truth came out.

Draco, always one to stir the pot, made sure to remind you. “How long do you plan on hiding that oaf from Mother and Father?” he asked, tone laced with mild disgust—completely ignoring the fact that Fred was walking beside you and could clearly hear him.

You rolled your eyes at his childishness. He was only fourteen, but still, the dramatics were tiring. You glanced over and met Draco’s blue eyes—annoyed, but with a flicker of concern. He always tried to mask that part.

You sighed. “I was thinking either never…” You smirked, glancing at Fred. “Or, you know, Freddie and I could elope—”

“Or you could not.” Draco glared at you and then at Fred, who was grinning smugly. Draco still wanted to be at your wedding, even if it meant dealing with the entire Weasley clan. But he couldn’t resist taking a jab at you. “Besides, how are you so sure you’re going to marry Weasley anyway?”

“I won’t hesitate to hex you, Draco,” you warned, narrowing your eyes at him. Fred chuckled from behind you, and you whirled to face him, jabbing a manicured finger against his chest. “I’ll hex you too, Weasley. You two better learn to get along, I swear.”

“I’m trying!” Fred placed one hand over his heart and raised the other like a Boy Scout, tilting his head toward Draco. “Your brother isn’t.”

Draco crossed his arms, eye twitching as Fred stared him down. “Excuse me for looking out for—”

“Go.” You pointed to the Slytherin entrance with a cocked brow, and he rolled his eyes, obeying your command. You waited until the stone wall sealed shut before turning back to Fred with a look that matched the one you’d given your brother. “Must you annoy Draco?”

“I feel like it’s my duty as your boyfriend,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. When you didn’t move, he sighed and gently pulled you to him by the waist. “Alright, alright. I’ll play nice with your twat of a brother.”

You pursed your lips, but a laugh slipped out. “You know what? Good enough.”

Fred grinned and brushed his thumb along your waist. “So what I’m hearing is… You want to go to the Astronomy Tower tonight.”

You scrunched your nose, pretending to object, but you didn’t stop him when he tugged you by the hand and led you through the castle. Both of you ran through the stone corridors, avoiding other students and professors who were too exhausted to reprimand the of you. Your laughter filled the air the faster Fred pulled you along, the sweeter music to his ears.

Especially when your laughter switched to giggles. You began to giggle when he picked you up halfway up the stairs to the Astronomy Tower, pretending to be annoyed with him when he made it his goal to carry you the rest of the way up.

“I can walk, you know,” you huffed, resting your chin on your palm as you looked down, lips turning up at your view. “Nice arse, Weasley.”

“Says you,” he said smugly, giving your backside a playful tap before setting you down on the platform and helping you stabilize.

You breathed in the fresh air and leaned against the railing, smiling when the breeze blew through your hair freely. You loved the Astronomy Tower because you could see everything Hogwarts had to offer from up here and you were so close to the constellations and stars your family were named after.

Fred stood beside you and admired quietly, gaze averting to your flowing hair, tilting his head and letting his fingers touch the ends of your blonde hair that faded into a dark color.

“How come your hair isn’t like your brother’s?” he asked, twirling a lock of your hair.

You hum and look over at him, your eyes softening at his gentle gaze. He quietly repeated his question, his normal boisterous self gone when he was around you.

Like you, Fred was also changed. He became gentle around you, acting more like the boy his mother raised him to be. He got so used to that personality that it bled into his everyday actions. He used to be the ringleader between him, George, and Lee, but he slowly let George and Lee take the lead the second he began to date you.

Even so, he would never stop pranking. In fact, you became the main victim of his more personal pranks.

You replied to his question, directing your gaze to the ends of your hair. “My mum’s hair is like this. I quite like it.”

“I love it,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You smiled to yourself and felt your heart swell. Every day, Fred had something new to say about you. No matter what he said, they were all compliments with small kisses anywhere he could reach.

Merlin, you fell fast for him and you knew he fell just as fast as you did.

You finally look up at him again after a silent moment, a teasing grin placed upon your face. “You’re so in love, it’s disgusting.”

“Yeah?” he said softly, sliding one hand to cradle your neck as he leaned closer. “What about you?”

Your voice lowered to a whisper. “You make me feel like I’m on fire.” Your arms wrapped around his neck as you gazed into his face, memorizing every freckle, every flicker of emotion in his eyes. “And I don’t want to put it out.”

Fred smiled—dangerously, beautifully—though the warmth in his eyes betrayed nothing but love. “Then burn with me.”

And you did.

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mini-godzilla · 8 months ago

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People talk about how the POV in SVSSS is everything and I am personally obsessed with the idea of being a Bai Zhan peak disciple. Like imagine it.

Your teacher, who’s a certified badass, whose idea of a lesson plan is kicking the shit out of you, suffers a mild health emergency. Afterwards he becomes friends with the guy he hates??? The guy you ALL hate??? The guy seems to have had a Phineas Gage -esque personality switch so that’s not even the weirdest part of the situation. Your teacher is suddenly bringing him monster parts and having him over for tea and chucking you off a mountain if he asks. This continues for YEARS until the guy your teacher likes literally explodes himself in front of the entire student body. Then the exploded guy’s disciple comes back from the dead as a DEMON, takes over a peak you have a rivalry with, and kidnaps the guy who’s responsible for bandaging you up when you get hurt (which is often). THEN, your teacher, badass of all badasses, fights this demon every day for five years. He LOSES every day for five years. When you ask why, it turns out he’s after the other teacher’s corpse. Which the demon won’t let your teacher have. Some of the students think this is romantic. You’re here to kill monsters and Do Not Care, but are concerned for your teacher.

Then the exploded guy comes back to life, and after a quick stint of the world looking like it was going to end, marries the demon who took his corpse captive. He completely snubs your teacher. They STILL have tea with each every other week. The demon is not invited but shows up anyway. Your teacher still regularly throws you off a mountain.

Bai Zhan peak disciples really had the shortest and weirdest end of that particular stick.

#svsss #mxtx svsss #svsss shitpost #svsss spoilers #scumbag self saving system #scum villian self saving system #liu qingge #shen qingqiu #luo binghe #mxtx fandom

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gangplanksorenji · 19 days ago

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Her (Risky) Invitation.

Pairing: Chuu x Male Reader

Word Count: 4,432

A/N: Hello Orenjideul! This fic was supposed to be out as a BFH but I got busy so whatever haha. I feel like this should out in the draft hell since my folder's getting stacked and dusted (rip) but anyways, hope you guys like this pretty quick bit.

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

The ebullient sounds of the audience roars around the stadium, and you contribute to it with a single percentile. The match is getting exciting at this moment, considering how a single home run changed the course of the game yet someone isn’t in the same boat as you.

“This is pretty boring, argh—” The girl is unfiltered, not giving a care on who may hear her despite her opening pitch earlier that made the crowd erupt in cheers.

“Don’t say that—a wrong word that comes out of your mouth could get you in trouble, Chuu.”

“So?” She raises an eyebrow, following a coy smile as you sigh in little disbelief.

She doesn’t care, and you couldn't care less—her pettiness is something you despise, an attitude worth removing with teaching her a lesson but that won’t even make her learn anything.

“What do you mean ‘so’?”

She brushes you off, looking at the distance, reeking with boredom, and with nothing much for Chuu to say right after, you just avert your attention back to the game where it’s getting spicy.

“You know what—whatever, I’ll go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.” You couldn’t care less even if she leaves the stadium (metaphorically, you do, yet realistically, you won’t let her) knowing how you’re getting more hooked with the game in front of you.

Letting Chuu by, you nod to her as she just looks at you and flashes out of your sight, through the door, then averted your attention towards the possible climax of this stupendous game.

“Hope this delivers an exciting ending.” You hope it does, and you’re looking forward to what happens in the next minutes.

---

Almost a home run, and the waves of cheers erupt as the pitcher poises himself to throw the ball until a buzz in your phone piques your attention.

jiwooya__ at 5:58 PM - “come at the restroom rn plsss”

You at 5:59 PM - “why am i gonna go there with u?? something wrong?”

jiwooya__ at 5:58 PM - “yeah, just come over pls pls”

The ephemeral conversation sums up: her needing your help on something, an immediate call for you, and possibly another game from her—you know how this can end and whatever the outcome may be, you would welcome it with open arms because it’s Chuu and you can’t resist her.

You’re quick to get off your seat and excuse yourself, not giving a damn if the game’s getting spicy or not.

“This better not be a waste of my time...” You’re optimistic it won’t be, rather suggestive or not, you’re in positive spirits with what trick she may have up her sleeve.

---

You’re an easy bait and no one can blame you for that—like earlier, you can’t resist Chuu, not even in public places like this and you doubt anyone would care if something may happen here, the eruption of cheers that quakes the stadium says otherwise.

“It’s pretty compact here, don’t you think?”

“It doesn’t look like it—” Chuu’s eyes wander around the bathroom, sensing possible dangers to unveil such profanities. “Besides, this is the perfect place.”

It was all part of your plan, and hers—it was all an act out there, because deep inside, the both of you want to discover the thrill of the underlying threat of being observed, but you’d love to keep all of what’s bound to happen for you and you only.

You’d make it clandestine, a secret that will be locked just between the both of you.

“Can’t wait any longer~” Chuu’s tone teases you, legs uneasy as you could sense her wetness beneath such a hot pair of jeans that accentuates the fine build of her ass. You can’t let yourself die out of impatience, a cruel death that’s not worth as your hands did an audacious move—gripping her ass and pulling her closer to you.

“Me neither.” It’s simple, enough for Chuu to receive the message with clarity as your lips lock hers. An entangled mess comes right after, hungrily exchanging torrid kisses with tongues dancing around gracefully with the aim to taste each other.

She’s insatiable and you can’t wait to just do the unthinkable. Knowing her patience is running low too, she knows this isn’t the reason why the both of you are alone together in a restroom.

“Been wanting this for a while.” Her breath blesses your face, just inches away as her seductive barrage of words comes after, not without her hand finding its way onto your clothed bulge that’s growing with every second that passes.

“Elaborate, Chuu.”

“Huh, you wanna hear the things I want to do with your cock?” She chuckles as you nod, Chuu then fixing her hair and tucking it behind her ear just to whisper these words: I want to stroke your cock until it leaks all over my fingers, then, I’ll suck it sloppily just like you always wanted, and then, you’ll cum all over my face, and it’s not just going to end there, because you’re going to pound me in front of this mirror until you drain your balls into me.

You’re fucked, and you love it. Chuu doesn’t just say it all because she wants to, because she’ll mark her words and she’ll fulfill her needs whatever it takes.

“So, you in?” Simples words as a smirk paints your face, then nodded knowing how much you fucking liked the dirty talk she’s escaped.

She doesn’t need to be commanded, because it’s in her nature to know what she’s an expert at, and she’ll show you why you won’t find a girl like her—she’s just that type of girl. She drops down to her knees, dexterous fingers coming right after, unbuckling your belt and undressing what fabric that just hinders her to her deserved reward. She can undress you with her eyes closed, and with just your boxers as the last bit of defense, she exhales and drops it down with one, swift motion.

Her eyes glimmer in lust and admiration, your erect shaft in sight for her to savor for the umpteenth time. She places her hand around it and brings shivers down in you, the coldness of her hand rivaling the emanating heat of your cock.

She strokes it, you wincing with that hint of pain until she spats on her hand and continues her expertise. “Just want it slow? Give you some room?”

As much as you want to tell her to pacen up her strokes, you want to savor every second of her dexterous talent, a pleasurable drive that’s downright commendable. “Like t-that, Chuu—god, your hands are a blessing.”

“Already stuttering? Oh my, I really did turn you on, hm?” Those doe-eyes that only have innocence as its façade, begs for your answer as she continues her work until the base of your shaft.

“What do you think, hm?” It’s rhetorical and you know it as her laugh says otherwise. She averts her eyes onto your already throbbing cock, leaking such a minuscule amount on the slit where her tongue laps the gifts, making your knees weak.

“I fucking love you—and this cock, god.” Her handjobs are just the side dish, because the main course is being delivered immediately, lips enveloping on a tight snug that earns a moan out of your lips. Her strokes on your base are continuous, massaging the hardness where it stands tall yet you crumble, and it's evident with her lips venturing deeper, almost taking half of your shaft to really test you.

If she’s not careful, she’ll knock down the architecture of your legs, and she’ll pick up the pieces once she’s done.

She just swirls around your sensitive crown, dethroning your attempts to resist her utter control. She licks with passion unwavering, moreso, her lips sucking you off like a lollipop with a suction that rivals even a vacuum. It doesn’t end there, because she’s just starting this, and she’s not even bobbing her head frantically to the point where the both of you become a mess.

Well, speaking of that, she’s fulfilling her promises, one by one.

“Shit—that feels good, Chuu.” You’re hissing, a hand cradles her head, then your fingers running through her locks as she bobs with a pace that’s moderate, yet her experience shows evidently—her absence of gag reflex, her tongue licking wherever it lands, her hands fondling your balls and her lips that’s wringing out the best bits of pleasure from you. Her bobs are in this recurring pattern to die out the inevitable building inside you—slow, fast, slow—and it’s just perfect, because you’re moaning like you mean and encouraging her that she’s doing great.

“Keep sucking—shit, you’re really a filthy cocksucker, aren’t you?” You taunt her but it falls deaf onto her ears, continuous with her pace and what she’s great at.

Saliva seeps out of her mouth, dripping onto your balls that she’s taking care of, until such a hot pursuit was hindered, ejecting out and looking at you with delight. “I am your filthy cocksucker.”

Then she continues, only this time, she’s locking eyes with you as down she goes, relentless with her oral pursuit of greatness.

Her nails are digging deeper, gripping your thighs harshly yet not enough to mark you, as she’s bobbing more furiously, the saliva staining her orange top and the puddle of worthless clothing of yours—rather rendered as worthless, the intention of the commotion says otherwise. She’s slobbering all over your length, gawking with the succulence as her actions are repeatedly dangerous and rightfully audacious—she doesn’t care if her mascara runs rivulets onto her cheeks or she messes the clothing full of saliva, because all that matters is the fulfillment of the need.

She’s just bringing you down slowly, piece by piece until you break as she’s relentless, but she knows what her limits are, and releases such warmth out with a loud pop.

“Are you close? You’ve been throbbing more than before—like my mouth that much?” She’s igniting you, words that unlock a safe that’s your reservoir, slowly filling in and nearing the end. You’re not going to be under her spell, not this time, and as much as she thinks you’re lying, there will be a single answer to her rhetorical question.

“No and yes, Chuu.”

She’s stroking, wringing it out leisurely and you inevitably grunt as she does so, a mischievous smile directed towards you as she seems appalled with your answer. “Elaborate, please?”

She knows she’s fucking you up, barely got any space to genuinely articulate a sentence, what more about a simple elaboration? Well, it doesn’t matter whether you answer or not, because your earlier reply is enough to stroke her ego, and she’s giving it all, stopping the feverish pumps and letting her mouth do the job.

Let’s be honest, with the suction Chuu provides, the plumpness of her lips and her mouth complementing the shape of your cock, you’re not going anywhere far as the inevitable builds up quick on par with her pace. Albeit the lower ground, she keeps your lower body in check, ultimately powerless to move as all you can do is embrace the warmth she brings. You’re gripping those dark locks as a leverage, not restraint and decelerating her pace because this is the outlet you have to combat the pleasure she delivers.

You want to thrust and fuck her throat just to suffice the filthiness that’s orchestrated at your end, and with those doe-eyes glimmering with lust, she’s quick to assess the situation and nods as her lips just puckers at the tip of your cock.

“Do it—” She laps the drool that dribbles onto your underside, licking fervently as she continues her verbal approval. “—fuck my face—I know you’re dying to do that.”

With her disheveled look begging to get your job done, you know it’s the green light. She doesn’t need a breather even if you ask her to have one, because she is that addicted to your taste that she can’t bear the vision of being depraved by it even for just a second. Your pace is immediately ruthless, and you wouldn’t give such an introductory act considering how she slobbered all over your length earlier without giving a damn with the mess she can make.

The pace dictated didn’t render herself useless, being used like a toy, but instead battled against your roughness as she bobs repeatedly alongside your thrusts, which makes her falter a little, gagging onto the rapid actions of filth. Your thrust, do a couple and she gags—it’s beautiful, all that pretty countenance just to be ruined within minutes as your control dominates her. Chasing the nearing high, your hands grip a handful of her hair, a leverage to muster greater pace, skin clapping and her repeated gags reverberating around the restroom.

At this point, someone may suspect something suspicious between the both of you, and thank god her mouth is shut thanks to you because you know how much noise she can create in such a filthy session with you.

“Fucking like t-that, hm?” You tug her hair as she looks up at you with glee beneath the dishevelment, nodding with just those eyes as you continue your assault, yet she never resisted, only carving more.

You’re dying to paint her body with your cum, you really do—nobody can blame you for that, not when her outfit perfectly accentuates a godly figure. Despite that, you can’t just do that immediately when she’s still all dressed but just a mess.

Just a mess. Well, you should really fulfill her needs and add up to the monstrosity.

You pull out as the saliva-sheathed cock is throbbing relentlessly, as Chuu catches her breath but her words contradict her visible struggles.

“Hah—hah, I c-can—can take more of it—fuck me more, please.”

Her grip on your thighs weaken and ultimately, you’ll do what you need to do.

“But I can’t, Chuu.” Your hand raises her chin, as she smiles and anticipates what you’re about to do. What she had in mind might be right, and you’d know it’s imminent. “Stay fucking there and make me cum.”

She does what she’s told to and does it with eagerness. You’re on your wit’s end as Chuu’s fingers wrap around them and muster a velocity unparalleled, slick with her drool and messing her up. She closes her eyes as she knows what’s about to come, and she embraces it.

White, pearlescent streaks paint her porcelain skin, splattering and coating almost every feature of her face as her awaiting mouth receives plenty of her reward. She hums in satisfaction with what you’ve given her, the warmth complementing the hotness the both of you are in and the succulent taste that she’s been yearning for quite some time.

This is far from over and she knows it, but for now, you marvel at the fruit you bear—an outstanding sight, her face covered with your cum and it’s filthy in all of the right places.

She parts her lips, hitches a breath and opens her eyes just to meet yours painted with utter satisfaction. Sweat forms on your forehead and it’s worth effort, ruining her in a space where risk lingers around the corner.

Even with the marvelous sight, you’re still not done with her, and she knows that.

“Get up.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” You didn’t hesitate to outpower her, grabbing her by the wrists and flipping her over, facing the mirror. “And I’m fucking you up to get the job done.”

You meant it, and she gets herself ready.

Your eyes just darts onto her fine ass accentuated by those tight jeans (thankfully), its scrumptious volume allowing you to really test its integrity with a single, harsh spank that makes her yelp, and bite her lip. You see it in the mirror, a clear vision that she’s genuinely enjoying this and so you did another until you know to yourself that you shouldn’t play with your food.

You tug, she wiggles and you spank. It repeats for another time as the lust emanates the air the second that inviting face of hers exactly points out her reasons to fuck her—it doesn’t get any better than this and you know it, you’re damn impatient as much as she is. You undress her pants slowly, down to its ankles as your cock throbbed to the sight of a monumental wonder of nature and you’re glad to see it firsthand, nobody being blessed as much as you are.

“Red ones, hm?”

“Like what you’re seeing? It’s your favorite shade.” Chuu knows you well, and you can’t lie. You just can’t help the fact that this looks like she orchestrated herself for you to fuck her publicly, anticipating with the right moment of the possible embarrassment to come and risk of being caught.

“You’re really a fucking slut—you did this intentionally, didn’t you? You wanted me to fuck you at this very day, hm?” More spanks wrings out cries at her end, a sweet disposal of the masked pleasure. She laughs and kept that gleeful face on hers, nodding because you debunking her sole reasons was just a piece of cake.

“You alwa—o–oh! Fuck, t-that’s great…” She grows weak, the second finger teasing the cameltoe formed onto those panties, feeling her wetness evident as her hands grasp the concrete of the sink and close her eyes.

“Keep d-doing that—oh!”

“Grab the sink, Chuu.”

“What—ow!” You spank as your command renders deaf on her ears, the pleasure finally getting into her and she’s submitting slowly to you faster than you’ve expected.

“I’m fucking you with my fingers—be ready. Grab the fucking sink.” She does what she’s told to, gripping tighter as you plunge a finger, half with its depth and she moans in reply—that alone is the driving force to tease her, plunging another just to elicit that same, sexy moan you love hearing.

You thrust in and out, a repeated process that orchestrates sounds in such a rhythmical and discordant pattern even with such a benign way of introducing yourself into her clit. You swipe and slowly make her descend down to her carnal desires, and your eyes sparkle with each passing second that passes, drooling with the fact how much it turns you on to see her dripping, glistening under the lights and her legs shuddering due to your own actions.

Guess you need to really start the show, for the better for both worlds.

Chuu knows you can’t contain it anymore, unleashing the beast, setting up the pace and going to “home-run” all over her backside—

“Fuck!” She swears at you, laced in goodness of what she’s feeling as your exposed lengths envelops another eventful paradise, plunging in deep and withdrawing with just the tip resting in it. The pace is sluggish, much intended for your comfort rather than hers, getting accustomed to her tightness that still surprises you until this day. You hold her hips and she holds the side of the sink tighter as your thrusts grow harsher and deeper, the profoundness driving you into insanity as Chuu spews profanities that reverberate around the puny restroom. It’s not just her dulcet tone that is an ear-candy, but also the clapping of your bodies against each other, a sound that adds to the erotic soundtrack that’s purely an abomination, your greatest creation.

She grows louder and it alerts you, so with an immediate action against it, the domination truly shows and it starts with you reprimanding her. “Shut y-yourself or we’re going to be fucked and you’re not gonna like it—do you understand?”

It’s surprising how articulate you could still be even with thrusts nigh-unbearable. Your other hand is occupied shutting her mouth up, letting her muffled screams vibrate on your hand as her eyes portray the sight of being satisfied, and it’s all shown in the mirror just to fuel you to take it into the extremes. It will be, but you’re still having the semblance of humanity left to just fuck her in a pace that she can take but if she talk right now, you know that she’ll beg for more and she won’t break—the former, an absolute chant yet the latter can be debatable.

Thank god the cheers and the sounds outside rivals the absolute sinful cacophonies the both of you muster, and you’re thanking the blessing in disguise with that. With the climax of the game being evident outside thanks to the sounds of the audience, now brings the opportunity to bring spanks onto her butt that makes her grit her teeth in pain and pleasure.

You let go of your hand on her mouth to let those beautiful moans out for your ears to be blessed again, and she wails in pleasure with your pace and the harshness your hand makes contact with her ass. The sight of a rosy hue is the fruit of your efforts, and the events occurring in such a stingful session is a sight to see—a jiggle of her ass was enough to make you riled up even more.

You’re gripping her hips and you can foresee what can be her—

“Shit! Fuck, more, more! G-god, just fuck me real g-good…” Chuu is utterly fucked and she’ll thank you for it. She snapped and there she goes, you reading her like a book—she’s going to beg for more and with her numerous pleas that isn’t even registering in her head totally, you fulfill it anyways knowing it’s the route that you’ll inevitably pass.

“Fuck m-me—my ass—shit, more!” Your hips muster a velocity that is uncertain, but ultimately frantic and in for no-return. Her juices just stain the tiles and thank god you still have some time to discard her pants away to the sinful scene where her nectar will fall into, and at that point you know you’re breaking her apart slowly. At this point, Chuu is just blabbering with nonsensical jumbled pieces of existing words that will soon be more incoherent when you put the final in the coffin.

“You fucking like that, huh?” She nods in the mirror, those cum-glazed lips smiling after as she closes her eyes, savoring whatever that’s stimulating her and the pleasure you’re bringing all over her body.

“God, fuck! Ah, you’re crazy!” You pull her hair and make it as a leverage for you to fuck her truly. The pain stings but is translated as pleasure the second she feels it, and it’s evident because she’s been secretly talking about it and with the live reaction, oh, it’s all right there for you to hear.

You spank her and she bites her lip, you hissing at her remarks. “What did I say? Shut your fucking mouth.”

You’re vulgar and she didn’t care, even dropping the honorifics when you’re dropping her pants. You thrust repeatedly until burying it deep in her, making her moan so sultry and cry in pleasure, as lean towards her and whispered, “You want my cum again, hm?”

You slowly oscillate your hips, kissing her nape and ear as she replies an audible yes that enables the green light for the denouement of this spectacular show—spoiler: you did this before and you’ll never get tired of doing it again.

You pull yourself back, grab Chuu’s waist and run your hands towards her clothed tits, caressing it as she moans with your actions and cries once you return to your original pace. It went for possibly twenty seconds that felt like minutes on how heavenly she feels until you lean towards her again, this time, announcing the very thing she wants to hear again.

“I’m going to fucking cum, Chuu.”

You’re nearing the end and it won’t be in her pussy.

Well, here are the reasons why: firstly, you don’t want people to see your reward marked onto her pants and that would be unhygienic; second, she haven’t earned that luxury yet as per the situation the both of you are in; third, it’s a damn risk to it knowing it’s a sudden invitation by Chuu because you don’t want to risk these things; and lastly, you might just need to add up to the mess on her face you plastered all over her earlier.

Reasonable arguments, and it’s easier to be done than being said.

She doesn’t argue with your principles and wants, but eagerly obliges as she brings herself down to her knees again, stares at you with anticipation and her mouth agape. You know she really does know what she’s doing when she’s initiating the actions, stroking your cock frantically as your knees shake a little due to the pleasure her hands bring.

“Come on—cum on my face, right he—” She doesn’t need to finish her sentence when yours does, spurting strings and strings of cum on her already disheveled face, flinching whenever it gets on her forehead and savors with her hums when it gets on her tongue and lips. With the final orgasm that possibly lasted about ten seconds, she still wrings out the leftover cum in your slit, even licking it clean to savor your succulence, then smiling towards you because of the gratification.

“God, you still came a lot…” She still grips your length, admiring it as she slowly strokes it for good measure as an ending.

“It’s all your fault, Chuu.” You reply back, chuckling as the both of you exchange smiles. Chuu licks her lips and wipes her face full of your cum, the messy liquid being tasted by hers and she commends that taste, and you roll your eyes because of that.

Now, with the adrenaline diminishing slowly, the both of you are grasping the situation as the both of you get dressed up quickly, and Chuu is cleaning up the mess you’ve made on her face.

“Shit—I’m sorry, Chuu—was I too rough? Sorry if I came too much—”

“No, no, it’s fine—I can retouch and reason with them later. You got me pretty sore though.” Her bubbly smile takes effect and reassures you, and you trust what she can do to reason herself out of this mess. You got her ready and you know it’s still a risk even going out, even with the busy atmosphere around the stadium.

Chuu just smiles at you, smirking even with a single sentence that follows. “We should do these things again, I never knew it would be this fun…”

You’d be truly damned if it was to be fulfilled but you’re foreseeing the inevitable, and it’s just about when would be the next time such sin would happen.

#chuu smut #chuu x male reader #loona smut #loona x male reader

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mvth3r · 1 year ago

Text

daryl doesn’t think he’s anything special. he never has. but to you? he’s everything.

5 times daryl feels your affection down to his core and the many 1 time he unconsciously returns the favor.

cw: 18+ MDNI, p-in-v, mention of injury, swearing, mostly fluff, 4283 words

a/n: this draft got the most votes in the poll, which was surprising tbh! next up medieval au, princess reader, forbidden romance?? hmmmm

one.

daryl hears you coming before he sees you. he knows it’s on purpose, so you don’t startle him (“and get an arrow in the tit or something, i don’t know!” you had explained, laughing). he’s long since taught you how to be quiet when walking over leaves and branches.

his eyes drifted in the direction of the noise, watching you melt out of the trees, water bottle in one hand and knife in the other. you had a bad habit of speeding through or ignoring your own duties in favor of tracking him out into the woods while he was hunting. the teasing looks from rick and carol when they saw the gates open in the evening, revealing the two of you instead of just him, were enough to have him blushing up to his ears, but he couldn’t find it in him to stop you. if anything, daryl found himself lingering closer to the prison when he was first setting out for the day and making his tracks a little easier for you to follow as he went on. he liked to think of it as a teaching moment, encouraging you to follow his lessons, but he knew what it really was.

he liked having you here with him, away from prying eyes and ears. daryl wasn’t big on pda, he’d never been, and you knew that, but you could be as affectionate as you wanted out here.

the smile that split you face when you saw daryl was blinding, creasing your eyes and cheeks, “hey, handsome.”

daryl felt his heart start to pound immediately in his chest and warmth radiate through his belly and down his limbs. he had the distant, bizarre thought that any walker for a few miles would probably be able to smell his blood as it rose rapidly to his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

he scoffed quietly to keep the words he really wanted to say from spilling unbidden from his throat as you caught up to him, instead deadpanning, “handsome? really?”

you hummed, raising a hand to card through his long bangs, eyes tender when they met his, “mhm, very handsome. don’t i tell you every day?”

you leaned up to press a sweet kiss to his lips, no longer than a moment. you hand drifted from his hair down to cup his jaw as you did, and daryl found himself leaning into your palm, his own hand coming up to grip your wrist loosely.

you pulled away with a smaller, more intimate smile, one that daryl had only ever seen directed at him. and, if you had felt the pounding of his heart through his shirt or seen the intensity of his flush, you didn’t say a word.

two.

daryl was distracted.

this council meeting was dragging on much longer than intended. what was initially supposed to be a quick conversation about planning a run to get supplies for judith and a few of the other kids had turned into a heated debate about possibly opening up the council to a few of the people from woodbury. he could understand why. there was still a stark divide between their group and the new people, but daryl had been content to sit back and let the situation mend itself, so long as it didn't escalate.

the discussion was split down the middle. or.. maybe there were more in favor of maintaining the current council? daryl couldn’t tell because he couldn’t focus and he couldn’t focus because every time he tried to lock in on the conversation, he could feel your fingers brush over his knuckles.

earlier, when the meeting started, you had sat yourself right next to daryl, reached under the table, and grabbed his hand where it was resting on his knee. no fanfare, no lovesick gazes, just your fingers intertwined with his calloused ones like they belonged there. which, he mused to himself, maybe they do.

and so there your hand had remained as the meeting went on. every so often, you would brush your fingers lightly over his knuckles, or give his fingers a squeeze if you happened to catch his eyes… which would lead to you chuckling quietly to yourself when his neutral expression would warm over with a blush.

the meeting had been going on for at least an hour. god.

“daryl, what do you think?”

glenn’s voice cut through daryl’s thoughts like a knife. he jerked a little, almost dislodging your hand when he looked across the table, meeting the expectant stares of the council.

“uhh,” he grunted eloquently, “‘bout bringin’ some of them folks on?”

hershel nodded expectantly, his voice thoughtful, “don’t you think we could afford their input? after all, this is their home now just as much as it is ours.”

your fingers brushed again over his knuckles and daryl willed himself not to lose focus. not to allow his mind to run on with thoughts about the softness of your fingers and how much he liked the feeling of your palm against his. how comfortable-

no.

daryl blinked and cleared his throat, “we don’ even have rick on the council right now, i’on think it’s a good idea.”

glenn nodded along with maggie and, reluctantly a moment later, hershel did too, though his mouth had settled into a thin frown.

daryl felt your hand squeeze his twice, taking it as a nonverbal ‘good job!’, and paused only a moment before squeezing back his own nonverbal ‘thank you’. he saw a small smile flit across your face out the corner of his eye.

before the debate could start up again, you were leaning forward and speaking up, saying, “alright, let’s table this for next time then. the run is already planned for the baby stuff, so—?”

hershel’s eyes swept across the table and he nodded, “meeting adjourned, i suppose.”

three.

the woods were clear as daryl looked out over the gate. he could see everything from the watchtower, as was intended, but for once the calm darkness was not a comfort.

instead, every moment that passed heightened the panic that had been swirling in his gut since earlier that evening.

it had been roughly fourteen hours since you had left on a run with glenn and maggie. there was a small gas station a little ways out that looked to be mostly untouched, and you had been pulled to fill in daryl’s usual slot since he was already slated to go hunting.

he was regretting it now, though, as he continued to watch the road leading up to the gate for any sign of maggie’s headlights.

while the general rule of thumb was to be back to the prison before dark, everyone knew that sometimes shit happens, whether it be walkers appearing at the worst possible time, or not being able to secure the haul. hell, shit happened more often than it didn't, as far as daryl was concerned.

maybe the haul had been much larger than the three of you had planned for, and you had to hide some of it away for a return trip.

maybe y'all had come across a herd large enough to block the car's path and had to find a way around it to get home without leading them back behind you.

maybe the gas station had been a bust all together and you’d gone further out in hopes of not returning empty handed.

the thoughts swimming through his mind sent daryl pacing across the small area of the watchtower. back and forth he went, eyes flashing over to the gate of the prison every few seconds.

“you’re gonna wear out your shoes like that.”

oh right. daryl isn’t even on watch, not officially at least. he’d joined carol a little after the sun went down and been up here ever since.

carol continues on despite his brooding silence, “they’re okay. something probably held them up, it happens.”

daryl turned to face carol, scrubbing a hand down his face. he opening his mouth to respond, but before he could, the sound of wheels crunching across gravel made him whip back around.

he barely registered that it was maggie’s car before he was yanking the floor hatch open and climbing down. rick, who’d been poking around the farm despite the late hour, unwilling to admit his own anxiety, was already pulling the gate open to let the car in.

daryl stopped further up the hill to meet you, and, as soon as you popped the lock on your door, he was tugging it open with one hand and reaching for you with the other.

you went willingly, a sheepish smile on your face as you let him turn you this way and that, checking for any injuries or bites, neither of which you had.

“sorry i’m late, handsome,” you whispered, “i didn’t mean to worry you.”

daryl grunted in response, resisting the urge to press himself against you and feel your heart beat against his skin. he understood that you were capable, and that you had lasted just as long in the apocalypse as he had, but he can't help but wonder if he'll ever get used to this, or if he'll spend any moment you aren't within his reach on the edge of a panic attack.

by then, rick had made his way up the hill to the car and was helping unload their findings from the boot. all things considered, the three of you had brought back a pretty decent amount of stuff.

“everyone alright?” rick questioned, eyes skirting over the contents of the trunk to scan the three of you instead. "what held y'all up?"

maggie shook her head with a smile, “nothing like that. we found a good bit at that gas station, but there was a map of a small trailer park a little ways away, and we thought it was better to go for it while we were right down the road.”

“and we had the space anyway. didn’t make sense to waste a second trip, but it took a little longer to search than we thought,” you added. you had turned to face the group and, under the cover of the dark, you leaned back just slightly into daryl’s side.

carol, who had followed daryl down from the watchtower, hummed, and rick nodded thoughtfully. they both followed behind maggie and glenn, grabbing as much as they could carry from the car and heading up to deposit it for sorting tomorrow.

now alone, daryl took a moment to breathe you in, but he was moving soon as well, heading for the trunk to grab what was left.

he didn’t notice you coming up next to him until he felt your fingers slipping into his pocket.

“found something for you,” you said quietly, standing at his side.

daryl patted his pocket, feeling the dented box of what he assumed to be cigarettes and looked over at you, brows furrowed in confusion.

“i noticed you ran out the other day,” you answered his unasked question, a small smile lifting your cheeks, “combed through every trailer looking for ‘em.”

with that, you turned away from him and back to the trunk.

daryl stood speechless, his heart building up to that rapid thrum he only seemed to feel in your presence.

you had brought something back for him. had spent the daylight rummaging through dirty trailers on the off chance that you’d find a pack of cigarettes to replace his empty one that he himself hadn't even bothered to go searching to replace.

he wanted to think he didn’t understand why you would do something like this, why you would care, but he did. he’d done the same for you, time and time again on the road, if only to see you smile. he understood exactly why.

“‘preciate it,” he grunted, thankful that the darkness surrounding you kept his blush from being too obvious.

you hummed in acknowledgment, and daryl could your small smile growing out the corner of his eye.

four.

having sex in the prison was no easy feat, mostly due to the lack of privacy. a sheet could only provide so much, and even then it did nothing for the noise echoing constantly off the concrete walls.

as far as most were concerned, maggie and glenn had found the best spot early on, making the most unused watchtower their designated private retreat, but you and daryl knew otherwise.

deep in the tombs, which were no longer a threat as they had long since been cleared and sealed, there were a few tucked away offices that had sat empty even after the woodbury residents had been moved in. noise didn’t escape the tombs, and no one ever just wandered in, especially not in the middle of the night, so despite the cell that you and daryl shared, you both much preferred spending your more intimate moments here.

well, daryl did. you weren’t picky, and could be quiet when you really tried, but it made daryl more comfortable.

he’d like to think it was just because he was wary of any listening ears, especially with all the children roaming around, but he knew the truth of his resolve.

daryl had never been a selfish man, and certainly not after the world fell. everything he had, everything he was, he would give to his family in a heartbeat.

but this.. this was just for him.

your body arched beautifully under his, legs falling open to accommodate his weight settling against you. daryl’s hand left your heat, fingers dripping with wetness, to squeeze your hips, using them to guide you as your moved against him.

you were already bare, both of you having stripped each other of your clothes between heated kisses while you stumbled in the office. you hadn’t even made it to the double-stacked cot in the corner, daryl instead pushing you firmly down on the dusty desk and leaning in to mouth at your neck.

you moaned under him now, a breathy sigh of his name, and the sound sent a shiver down daryl’s spine.

“needy girl,” he grunted teasingly, reaching down to grasp his hardness. he dragged the head of his cock up your slit, collecting your wetness and smearing it over your clit.

your head knocked back against the desk and a loud groan burst out of your throat. your knees tried to close around daryl’s waist as if to keep him away, but you arms came up to wrap around him, pulling him closer to your body, and he leaned into you willingly.

your voice trembled when you spoke into his ear, want dripping from every syllable, “please, baby. need you inside me so bad.”

and god, daryl wanted to make you beg for it. he wanted to wait until he could see the desperation in your eyes and then wait some more, but he couldn’t. not when you looked so pretty spread out beneath him and your hands were petting over his shoulders and neck just how he liked. he almost thought you were doing it on purpose, but he knew better. this was just you.

you couldn’t stay off him when he was in you, always tugging at his hair or rubbing his chest, hands scrabbling for any skin you could reach. it used to send him reeling, flustered and blushing bright, but now he looked forward to it. he could feel the want in your touches like physical imprints of your affection.

daryl pushed into your slowly, groaning deep in his chest. your slick walls felt heavenly around him, but daryl was more focused on you right now.

soft whimpers fell from your lips as your hands drifted over his sweat slicked skin. daryl’s thrusts were slow but purposeful, and he ignored your legs squeezing around his waist, trying to urge him to speed up.

“relax, peach,” he soothed, hands drifting up and down your sides in pace with his thrusts, “i’ma take care of you.”

“kiss, please,” you whispered, voice floating past daryl’s ear. he would have missed it if you weren’t pressed together like this.

daryl would not describe himself as a selfish man. he might have had his moments in the past, but now, with the dead walking and a prison full of survivors to protect, it was virtually out of the question.

but as he leaned down to press his lips to yours, feeling your hands finally make their way up into his long strands, daryl thought that he might be a possessive man.

he’d sooner spread you out deep in the woods than have you where anyone could see you like this or hear the noises you make.

no, daryl thought, tongue sliding in your mouth to tangle with yours, this would always be just for him.

five.

daryl came into awareness slowly and then all at once. he startled, trying to sit up, but a searing pain made itself known in his abdomen. the pain clouded his senses, blooming out across his torso and down his limbs. he flops uselessly, feeling like the wind has been knocked out of him.

hearing bits of voices above him, daryl wills himself to focus. he’s hurt, obviously, and it’s pretty fucking bad, but he’ll have to suck it up and figure out a way home if he’s in bad company.

the voices start to filter in. the volume makes his temples throb in rhythm with his abdomen and his heart as the situation starts to force adrenaline through his body.

“—harder! put more pressure on it!”

daryl relaxes just a bit. that’s rick. frantic, angry, but rick all the same.

“what the fuck do you think i’m doing?!” the other voice, higher, snarls in response, “just drive the damn truck!”

and daryl feels his body try to relax all together. he would recognize your voice in his sleep, and this milky haze of pain is no different. he can feel your hands pressing a wad of something soft into his abdomen.

he can hear your panicked breaths and feel the way your fingers flex continuously against his skin. whatever’s wrong with him must be bad, and it definitely hurts like hell, but daryl takes comfort in the weight of your body against his. you won’t let anything happen to him if you can help it, you’d sworn that fiercely, and if you can’t help it then he doesn’t think anyone could have.

daryl can just barely make out the creaking of the gate being pulled open over the sound of rick laying on the horn.

as they pull in, the gravel of the path rocks the truck and daryl feels the ache in his abdomen bloom again, distracting him from his thoughts, but here, knowing he’s safe and back with his family, he allows himself to drift away.

—

this time, when daryl comes into awareness, the first thing he feels is fingers carding through his hair, tugging gently as if to untangle a couple of knots and snarls.

without even opening his eyes he knows it’s you. he can feel the heat of your body settled next to him and smell the soap you like to bathe with. daryl leans towards you, chasing the warmth of your hand against his skin.

the bandages on his stomach are wrapped tight, but it’s more annoying than anything and the pain has finally, thankfully, subsided to a dull ache. daryl stretches on the cot, trying to loosen him limbs from their inactivity, but what he focuses on is your fingers immediately pulling away.

“daryl?” your voice prods quietly, “you awake?”

he opens his eyes slowly, squinting at the sunlight that streams through the bars of the cell. the privacy sheet isn’t down, actually there’s no sheet at all, daryl notes as he looks out. he must be in one of the cells near hershel’s.

“‘m up,” he grumbles, a cough working its way out of his throat. before he can attempt to clear the dryness, you’re standing to grab a bottle of water off some boxes stacked nearby and pressing it into his hand.

your fingers linger against his wrist as you pull away, but you’re resuming your previous position anyway, in a chair brought right up to his bedside.

daryl hasn’t sat up yet, staring instead at you as one of your hands return to his hair and the other rubs down his arm.

a few quiet moments pass before you speak again, head bowed and voice a little choked, “we almost lost you. i almost lost you.”

“didn’t though,” daryl croaks. he feels your grip tighten on his arm and just knows. knows that you’ve been sitting right here every moment that you could since he went down. knows that you probably haven’t had your hands off him. knows you’ve spent the time, however long it’s been, agonizing over what went wrong and how to keep it from happening ever again. he knows.

“i didn’t,” you agree with a barely restrained sniffle. you refuse to allow the tears beading your waterline to fall, but daryl sees them all the same.

oddly, he feels that familiar warmth blossom in his chest. he hates to see you upset, but to see your love, your heart laid so bare for him? daryl thinks he can finally understand the depth of your affections.

plus one.

to anybody who knew what to look for, it was obvious that you and daryl were.. something.

you remembered when the woodbury residents had really began to settle in, how they began to whisper about ‘the hunter and his lady’.

it had confused you at first. the group knew, of course, nothing could be kept a secret from them for too long, but for strangers? it was odd, given that you weren’t very public with your affections.

regardless, with an entire prison to secure and almost triple the amount of people to provide for, it was nothing to think too hard about. there was always something that needed to be done or something bigger to think about. you couldn't afford to think about it now.

eventually, though, you ended up mentioning it to carol, and the older woman had laughed, a teasing edge to her smile as she considered you.

“i think it has less to do with you and more with him, if i’m being honest,” she said.

“more to do with.. daryl?” you said slowly, raising an incredulous eyebrow, “nah, no way.”

carol hummed, her smile turning knowing, “just watch. he’s more affectionate than he gives himself credit for.”

you’d left the conversation feeling like carol had no idea what she was talking about. later that evening, though, when you were sitting with the group for dinner and daryl was sliding a couple pieces of meat from his plate to yours despite your multiple protests, you understood.

your face must have been the textbook picture of a lightbulb going off because carol sent you a wink from across the table, lips twitching like she was hiding a laugh.

it wasn’t that the woodbury residents were over analyzing the very minimal physical affection that passed between you and daryl in a day, no. instead they were observing his quieter, more unconscious actions.

they saw the way that daryl always took care to come and find you before leaving for a run, even if it meant holding everyone up a little.

and how every so often they could find daryl sharpening a knife that was far too small for him to be wielding safely while you sat nearby, watching with a grateful smile.

and how whenever you were in the same room, you always had his eye. daryl had been adamant about keeping you within his sights while you were on the road, and the habit hadn’t left him just because you were behind walls now.

even now, months later, the newer additions to the prison were starting to catch on quicker and quicker.

they overheard daryl talking to glenn about taking your place on the run later today because you’d overdone it in the sun earlier and he wanted you to get some rest.

they saw you gush excitedly every time daryl brought you back any kind of gift, whether it be a pretty rock that he thought you’d like, or your favorite animal to cook into the stew.

they watched him watch the road every time you left for a run, regardless of who was with you, and also saw him come back to be the first to greet you when you returned if he could help it.

daryl was a quiet lover and a private man if you didn’t know what to look for, but if you did, you’d see that his affections ran just as deep as yours.

your thoughts brought a sleep smile to your face as you stretched out on the cot in your shared cell, waiting for daryl to shut off the lantern on your makeshift nightstand in the corner.

you could barely make him out in the dark, but the weight of him settling in next to you sent you right into his arms, your head pillowed on his chest while his arms came up to wrap around your back.

you tilted your head up to place a small kiss to the bottom of his jaw, mumbling a quiet, “love you.”

daryl’s arms tightened around you momentarily before loosening again. you felt him lean down to press a kiss to your hair in turn.

just over the steady thumping of his heart against your ear, you could hear him whisper back, “love you too.”

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon imagine #twd imagine #daryl x reader

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okwonyo · 1 month ago

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LESSONS ， 𝗉𝗌𝗁

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐕 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌

𝟏𝟐𝟑𝟔𝒾──── tutor!sunghoon 𝗑 f!rea ✿ fluff getting together 𓂋 kissing skinship ❞ 𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆 ｡

rbs ！ ✶ 𝗔 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦 for @tzyunaes ◜ ᴗ ◝

“you did well, i’m proud of you.”

it’s long overdue. passing your chemistry exams, after a entire semester of spending your free time at school, to be tutored and tortured.

tortured by the creation of the gods themselves leaning right behind you, overing your shoulder to see your grade, close enough to rest his hot breath against your neck.

you can exhale again when he finally leaves the personal space he seems to like a lot, the personal space that is yours. he sits on the chair next to you, which is not better than his previous position. his presence itself drives you crazy.

sunghoon licks his lips. sending a random cramp in the pit of your stomach. you don’t really know what to do, you open your mouth slightly to say something alas your tutor’s unwavering gaze makes you unable to talk.

“can i kiss you?” your eyes widen. saying that you are surprised is an understatement. and seeing the man’s remaining calm demeanor baffles you even more.

there is much you want to say, many questions he needs to answer. however, as in every lesson, you are unable to formulate a proper sentence. “i–what?”

sunghoon chuckles as he watches your cheeks redden. behind his frameless glasses, his eyes narrow, teasingly.

“i want to kiss you, i never tried to hide it,” he states, in this borderline condescending, undeniably attractive tone he always uses. “i think you want to kiss me too.”

you could pass out from embarrassment alone. you never thought your attraction to him, your tiny crush was well hidden. your unceasing thought and wonders on how his mouth would taste like, however— you believed they were a bit more discreet.

“so, i’m asking, can i kiss you?”

“uh,” you wonder, silently, if you have ever sounded this stupid before, “sure.”

your shaking and breathy answer doesn’t seem to bother him. he looks more endeared than anything else— even making fun of you in his head.

“great,” he says, taking one of your chair’s legs. he pulls you closer to himself in a quick movement and you know, he is somehow flexing his muscles right now.

sunghoon thinks its lovely how easy it is to make you nervous. from the first tutoring session, he knew that his mission would be to, making you understand chemistry apart, seduce you.

he was never subtle about it. he loves to tease you with his weighing gaze, standing close to you but never touching, sliding allusions in his words and watching you physically react to all of his actions.

making you learn chemistry wasn’t the hardest part. you were cute, very cute, and smart: able to understand terribly fast. the hardest part of the job was trying to make you notice how bad he wanted to kiss you.

he passed most all of his time biting his lower lip, nervously bumping his knee, crossing his arms under his chest as he watched you bite into your pen.

when he wasn’t explaining chemistry to you, he was thinking of the obvious one between you and him—while wondering what your lips would taste like.

sunghoon is a pretty bold guy, yet he haven’t earned the courage to do anything but tease you. today, he asked if he could kiss you without planning, controlled by a sense of hurry, thinking it would be his very last chance.

as he leans in, he still wonders: what is the taste of the lipstick you are wearing, what does your soft lips under it feels like, if would you run your finger through his hair, if you would cup his face in your gentle hands, jf would you let him touch you, if would you touch him.

he knew, from the moment his mouth was on yours, that he wouldn't want to stop. it’s a small kiss, a mere and shy contact, but he still sighs when he gets what he wants.

it’s nothing really, yet it sends butterflies right to his stomach.

“ninety four out of hundred on a chemistry test,” his voice is hoarse as he pulls away a tad. “how many kisses is that, hm?”

“…a lot,” you answer.

“oh, yeah?” he breathily laughs. he puts his hand in the back of your head, “i think so too.”

meanwhile he restrained himself the first time, he is not strong enough to control himself the second time. after months of dreaming about this, finally getting it, he doesn’t want to be shy about what he wants to do to you.

he groans into your mouth when his glasses gets in the way. he is forced to pull away from your heavenly lips to take them off and yank them somewhere he can’t care enough of.

through his slightly opened eyelids, he sees you with your eyes closed, chasing for his lips and looking at least as desperate as he is.

his heart is pounding, his hand finding the nape of your neck, he presses you closer to himself, so goddamn eager to kiss you again.

your lipstick tastes like peaches, your fingers craving in his hair sends chills down his long spine, you let him him stroke the side of your thigh as your touch drives him insane.

and if he thinks you are the one trying to send him into a spiral— then he must not know that his hand slide from thigh all the way to your hips.

he pulls your hips, closer, closer, closer. he continues until he is satisfied, until you are right where he wanted, right how he wanted: out of breath and climbing on his lap.

while your tutor is living his dearest dreams, a scenario better than his most precious fantasies, you feel like melting under the melt of his praise.

he always does that. he is always telling you how good you are doing, how proud of you he is for the bare minimum. it already sent waves of warmth in your body, but when you are doing this, it’s different.

“holy shit, baby,” his voice is shaky between a deep kiss. “you are so good at this,” —he licks your lips— “keep going.”

sunghoon’s thick eyebrows furrow as the kiss gets deeper. you grip onto his shoulders for the life of you— feeling your pulse getting higher and your skin heating every passing second.

you move your lips against his, like it was your birthright to be in this position as of now.

perhaps. you don’t know how long he can kiss without breathing but you are sure it’s way much longer than you.

sunghoon whines when you pull away, chasing after your lips with multiple pecks. you have to tilt your head up, a giggle escaping from your breathless chest— he aims for your neck.

“i’ll teach you how to last longer,” he smiles against your neck. then he looks pauses to look at you.

you rest your forehead against his, biting down an obvious smile, “i hope you don't reward all your students like this.”

“only the ones i want.”

you wrap your arms around his neck, leaning in for another kiss. “cute.”

sunghoon pulls you closer to his circle of warmth by your waist. he kisses you so hard that you almost lose your mind, living up to his words, kissing you until there is no other option but pulling away with heavy chests.

chemistry is the best subject ever.

분지 ܃ in the utmost hope jenn will come back to me— and that the hoon girlies will come my way 💌 thank you ima for helping me out with this ! ^_^

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abbotjack · 5 days ago

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Showing Up Anyway

THE LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST , PREVIOUS PART : IRREGULARITIES

summary : A wedding countdown set against night shifts, compliance deadlines, trauma bays, and Target registries. Two imperfect people, choosing each other again and again.

word count : 16,330

a/n : Here it is.. the long-awaited new official chapter in the series! I’ve been working on this one since I released the prequel back in May, so it’s been a labor of love (and many, many rewrites). Because it’s grown into something bigger than I expected, I ended up splitting it into two part. This chapter is the lead-up, and the wedding + honeymoon will be posted later this week. Thank you for your patience ♡

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI !!! slow burn, emotional intimacy, wedding planning, night shift/9–5 relationship dynamic, war references, hospital setting, mass casualty events (mentioned), depictions of burnout, dissociation, anxiety, perfectionism, implied PTSD, suicidal ideation mention (15 months chapter), partner care during illness, grief and loss, parental death, strained mother/daughter relationship, reader is competent and exhausted, pie charts as emotional coping, soft possessive Jack, love through the mess, mutual devotion

18 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 7:52 PM | Kane & Turner LLP, Federal Compliance Division, Downtown Office ✧ Lesson One: Love Is Showing Up Anyway

You’ve forgotten what time it is.

Not in a casual way. Not like, oh, it’s later than I thought, but in the disorienting, jarring way that happens when your body and your mind are no longer in sync. When the clock reads 7:52 and you swear it was just 4:30. When your hands are still typing but your vision keeps blurring out at the corners. When the last thing you ate was a protein bar shoved into your mouth between flagged grant summaries, and your coffee’s cold and untouched next to your elbow.

You’re still in work mode... or what's left of it.

Your office glows down the darkened hallway, the only one still lit. Everyone else is gone. Even the interns who pretend to like staying late. You haven’t moved in hours, not really... just shifted, stiffened, cracked your neck now and then and blinked too long at your dual monitors, waiting for the numbers to make sense again.

There’s a manila folder open on your desk. Pages covered in fine-tipped notes and color-coded underlines. Red for risk. Pink for inconsistencies. Blue for double checked lines. Your system. Your safety net.

This case is bad.

Worse than AGH.

Which says something, because you still wake up some nights thinking about those trauma logs. But this one? This one is messier. Bigger. More money. More eyes. More ways to screw it up.

Your phone buzzes again. A soft, short vibration against your desk.

You don’t look. You can’t.

If you look, you’ll remember that Jack’s been calling. That he texted an hour ago. That he probably texted again. That your silence is saying something you don’t mean to say.

So you keep your head down. Keep your pen in your hand. Keep breathing like it’s your job. You tell yourself: If I stay ahead now, I’ll have breathing room later. If I catch everything early, I won’t be drowning come next quarter. I can be sharp. Composed. The kind of person who doesn’t fall apart eighteen months from now, standing at the end of an aisle she didn’t give herself permission to enjoy.

That’s when you hear the knock.

Soft. Muffled through the glass door.

You look up.

Jack.

He’s standing just outside your office, half shadowed in the hallway light, one hand braced against the frame. He’s in his hoodie, the dark gray one with the thinning sleeves. Hair still damp from what must’ve been a quick, distracted shower. There’s a takeout bag in his other hand. His brow is furrowed.

He looks worried.

You can feel it in your chest.

You stand. Walk over and unlock the door. Jack slips in with a kind of quiet you’ve only ever seen in him when something’s wrong.

“Dale let me up,” he says, gently.

“Security Dale?”

“Yeah. He said I looked like I knew where I was going.” Jack shrugs, but there’s no humor in it. “Figured he recognized me from the Christmas party. Or the bake off thing… or that time I had to come rescue you after the emergency stairwell coffee disaster."

You almost smile.

You don’t.

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes dragging across your face. Down to your posture. Your hands. The tired set of your shoulders. “You didn’t answer your phone,” he says, softly.

“I turned it on silent,” you reply, not quite meeting his gaze.

“I texted.”

“I know.”

“I called.”

“I know, Jack.”

He doesn’t move.

The bag in his hand sags a little with the weight of the cannoli inside. You recognize the bakery stamp on the side. “I just…” You swallow. “I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“I know you didn’t,” he says, too quietly.

He takes a few steps toward your desk. His limp is more pronounced when he’s tired, you’ve learned that. He favors the left, absorbs with the right. It’s subtle, but tonight it’s worse. Which means he didn’t rest today. Which means he was waiting for you. That realization makes your throat burn.

Jack sets the bag down gently next to your folders. Then he turns and looks at you again. “You’ve been here how long?”

You hesitate. “Since seven.”

He doesn’t sigh. He doesn’t raise his voice. But something in his jaw shifts. “You eat?”

You don’t answer.

“Water?”

You glance at your bottle. “It’s full.”

He nods. Like that tells him everything.

“Jack,” you say, trying to head off whatever he’s about to do. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I just need to get ahead of this—”

“No, you don’t.”

He walks around your desk, slow but deliberate, and crouches down beside your chair. Places a hand on your knee.

“You’re trying to outrun it,” he says. “The stress. The risk. The idea that if you just work hard enough now, you won’t have to panic later. That if you make yourself perfect, the rest of the world will back off and leave you alone.”

You blink fast. Jack’s voice softens, breaks a little at the edges.

“But baby,” he says, “you already fixed everything that needed fixing.”

You shake your head, jaw tight. “No. I didn’t. This case is a mess. If I miss even one item, the feds will escalate it. The firm gets hit. The client sues. And I...”

“You what?” Jack asks, gently. “You don’t get to marry me?”

Your breath stutters. He leans in a little, eyes locked on yours. “You think I need you to earn that? Like it’s some kind of performance review?”

You look away.

“Don’t,” he says, voice firm now. “Don’t look away. You haven’t looked at me in a week.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I know. I’m not mad. I’m not here to fight you. I’m just—” he exhales, “I’m scared. Because I see you disappearing and I can’t get to you. I’m on nights. I sleep while you work. And I keep hoping we’ll meet in the middle but you’re getting harder to find.”

The words hit harder than you expect. Right in the ribcage. You press your fingers to your eyes. “I just want it to be good, Jack.”

“It is.”

“But it needs to be perfect.”

“It already is.”

You let your hand fall. Look at him.

“I’m not perfect,” you whisper.

Jack reaches for your hand. Laces your fingers together. Holds them there, like they matter. “You are the most perfectly perfect person I have ever loved,” he says, with a kind of quiet conviction that shatters you.

And then his voice softens again. “I made a cake tasting appointment.”

You blink. “What?”

“Late slot. Guy said we could come in right before close. I figured you might need sugar and something dumb to make fun of.”

You stare at him.

“It’s not about the wedding,” he adds quickly. “I mean... okay. It is. But it’s really just an excuse. To get you in my car. To get you out of this building. To sit across from you and watch your eyes do that thing when you taste something you don’t expect to like.”

You let out a quiet laugh. It breaks on the edges. Jack stands slowly, careful with his leg, and offers you a hand.

You take it.

And when he tugs you up, when he wraps his arms around you and holds you close, when he presses a kiss into your temple and whispers, “Come home,” you finally let yourself lean.

Not because the work is done. But because you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.

Not tonight.

17 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 9:03 PM | Wedding Reception, Oakmont Country Club ✧ Lesson Two: Love Is Not Looking for a Mirror

You’ve lost track of how many chandeliers are in this tent.

Three? Four? A dozen? All you know is that they’re casting this impossibly soft glow over everything. Over polished cutlery and thousand dollar centerpieces and sequins and pressed tuxedos. The whole place looks like the inside of a champagne flute.

And somewhere in the middle of it all is Jack.

Your fiancé. Your problem. Your person. Leaning against a cocktail table like he didn’t just spend fifteen minutes pretending to care about someone’s hedge fund. He’s already ditched the tie. His shirt sleeves are rolled up. His boots... yes, his boots, because Jack Abbot will die before he wears dress shoes (unless it's for something that involves you), are planted wide, stance loose, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

He looks like the only real thing in the room.

“You realize we are the only people here not wearing pastels,” you murmur.

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just raises his glass in mock salute. “We’re a bold contrast.”

“We’re the problem.”

He grins. “And yet here we are. Still invited.”

“For now.”

“Until someone’s mother tries to seat us closer to the photobooth.”

“You were mean to the photobooth guy.”

Jack shrugs. “He asked me to smile with props. That’s a crime.”

You laugh and sip your drink. Jack watches you over the rim of his glass. His gaze flicks down, from your eyes to your lips to the skin just visible beneath the off-shoulder neckline of your dress. The look is slow. Possessive, but not in a showy way. Just… anchored. Like he needs to keep reminding himself you’re here. That this is real.

“I like this dress,” he says, like it’s a secret.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Even though it’s…” You gesture vaguely. “Wedding-y?”

“Especially because it’s wedding-y.”

You study him for a moment. His jaw’s clean-shaven. He wore the suit you laid out without complaint, but only because you didn’t try to get him into something double breasted or God forbid velvet. And even now, stripped of the tie and already sweating under the lights, he hasn’t taken off the jacket. You know he’s doing it for you.

“You look good too,” you say, quieter this time.

Jack doesn’t respond. Just slides his hand around your waist, fingers brushing the zipper at the small of your back. “I feel like a security risk,” he murmurs.

“You look like you want to start a bar fight with the DJ.”

“I do want to start a bar fight with the DJ.”

You grin. “Too many Ed Sheeran remixes?”

“One is too many.”

You lean in, your voice dropping conspiratorially. “We’re gonna have to pick a first dance song at some point.”

Jack groans into his drink.

“I’m just saying,” you tease. “This could be us.”

“I’d rather deploy again.”

“Jack.”

“No, really. Give me a Kevlar vest and a sandstorm over choreographed dancing any day.”

You’re still laughing when a hand taps your shoulder. It’s Charles, the bride’s dad. All broad smiles and cologne. A little too tipsy. A little too charming. You don’t even remember shaking his hand during the ceremony, but suddenly he’s there.

“Mind if I steal her?” he asks, already offering his arm.

You glance at Jack. His entire expression changes in a heartbeat. His smile doesn't falter. But the warmth drops. Just slightly. “Go ahead,” he says, voice even. “Just don’t drop her.”

Charles chuckles like it’s a joke. You press your fingers lightly to Jack’s hand and let yourself be led onto the dance floor. The lights are even warmer here. The music soft and nostalgic. You sway politely, smiling when you’re supposed to, nodding through a conversation about how much everyone’s grown, how wild it is to see college girls getting married now.

You feel Jack watching you the entire time.

When you return, he’s already standing, glass abandoned, jacket unbuttoned now. His eyes cut through the crowd to you like a spotlight. “You let him spin you,” he says the moment you reach him.

“It was one spin.”

“He dipped you.”

“I dipped myself.”

He gives you a look.

You grin. “Jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” Jack mutters. “I just have eyes. And a pulse. And an extremely vivid imagination when I see someone else touching you.”

You let that hang for a beat longer than you need to.

Then, “Would you dance with me if I asked?”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “No one else,” he says. “But yeah. You? Always.”

You blink. Then slide your hand into his. His palm is warm. Dry. Familiar. You lead him out. The music’s slow again. Nothing formal. Nothing choreographed. Just something you can move to without thinking. Jack pulls you close. One hand at your waist. The other curled loosely around your hand.

“This is nice,” you say.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“You’re so romantic.”

“Keep saying nice things,” he whispers. “I’ll put the tie back on.”

You laugh against his chest. You’re silent for a few moments. Just the music. His heartbeat. His breath against your temple. Then quietly, you say: “Would you wear it?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

You tilt your head to look up at him. “The mess uniform. At our wedding.”

His body tenses almost subtle. His hand at your back stops moving. You’re careful not to fill the silence too fast.

“You don’t have to,” you add quickly. “I just... thought about it. I didn’t know if you’d already decided. Or if you didn’t want to. I mean... God, forget I said anything—”

Jack shakes his head, voice low. “You don’t have to walk it back.”

You look up.

His expression is faint. But not cold. “I haven’t put that thing on in years,” he says. “Didn’t think I’d ever have a reason to again.”

You squeeze his hand. “I’m not asking because of the photos. Or the guests. Or the aesthetics.”

“I know.”

“I’m asking because it’s yours. And I love all of it. Even the parts that still scare you.”

Jack’s jaw tightens. Not defensive. Just... moved. After a long moment, he nods. “If you want me in it, I’ll wear it.”

You stare at him. Then, because it’s Jack, you whisper, “Only if I get to unbutton it later.”

Jack groans.

You grin.

The song changes again. He leans in, nose brushing your temple. “You’re dangerous,” he mutters.

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“Undeniably.”

He kisses you. Not for the tent. Not for the guests. For you. And you think, this isn’t the wedding I pictured growing up.

But it’s ours.

It’s real.

And it’s so much better.

16 Months Until the Wedding — Sunday, 10:24 AM | Their House, Kitchen ✧ Lesson Three: Love Is Letting It Be Ugly Sometimes

The skillet is smoking. Your eyes are stinging. And for some godforsaken reason, the fire alarm is going off like you’ve just staged a small domestic war.

You’re barefoot on cold tile, wearing Jack’s ripped-at-the-hem Purdue sweatshirt and no bra. There's flour on your cheekbone, batter on your forearm, and the only thing more scorched than the eggs is your patience. You reach for the dish towel. Swat at the smoke alarm. Miss. Swear. Swat again.

It screams louder.

Of course it does.

You drop the towel, slam the pan on the back burner, and curse under your breath so hard it echoes. From upstairs, a voice:

“Hey... what the hell—?”

And then: footsteps. Jack appears a second later at the landing, shirtless, drawstring of his sweatpants trailing loose. He stops cold in the doorway, taking in the scene: the haze of burnt oil, the crusted pan, the smoke alarm, your arms mid-air like you’re about to start round two with the ceiling.

You look at him. He blinks at you. “…Are we under siege?” he asks.

You point the spatula at him. “Not now.”

Jack squints. “Is this… an emotional spiral or a kitchen fire?”

“Pick one.”

He walks in, quiet, slow, like you’re both in a hostage situation. Then casually grabs a chair, drags it under the smoke alarm, climbs up, and yanks the battery out. The beeping dies mid-wail.

Silence.

You close your eyes.

Jack steps down. Sets the chair back. Then gestures vaguely around the kitchen. “You wanna walk me through the crime scene?”

“I was making breakfast.”

“That’s a strong word for what’s in that pan.”

You glare.

He holds up his hands. “Hey. Just trying to understand the chain of events that led us to DEFCON 3 at ten in the morning.”

You turn your back on him and run cold water over the edge of the skillet. Steam hisses up like it’s offended. Jack leans against the counter. Watches you. “You’re not mad about the eggs,” he says.

“No,” you mutter.

“So what is it?”

You don’t answer. He waits. Not pushing. Just there. You scrub at the pan like it wronged you personally. “I just wanted to do something nice,” you say finally. “Something simple. Something domestic and… normal.”

Jack lifts a brow. “You chose a frittata.”

“I chose trying.” Your voice cracks, and you hate that it does. “Because everything’s been work and logistics and checklists, and I thought... maybe if I got it right today, I could feel human again.”

Jack’s face softens. But you keep going. The words start pouring before you can stop them. “And you’re off, for once, and we’re here, in this house we actually get to live in, and I thought, if I made something that didn’t come in a takeout container, maybe I’d stop feeling like a failure.”

His eyes flick over you, the sleeves rolled to your elbows, the flour in your hair, the exhaustion smudged beneath your eyes.

“You’re not a failure,” he says.

“You didn’t see the frittata.”

“I saw a woman I love trying too hard not to fall apart.”

You freeze. Jack steps in. Takes the ruined spatula from your hand. Sets it down. “Babe,” he says, voice low. “You don’t need to impress me.”

“It’s not just you,” you say. “It’s the wedding. The planner. The project. The group chat with your family that has seven unread messages about linen swatches. And I—Jack, I don’t want to be the girl who fakes it through her own engagement. I want to be ready. I want to be good.”

Jack cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing behind your ear. Not possessive, anchoring. “You are good,” he says. “You’re so fucking good, I forget sometimes that you’re human.”

You exhale. Your eyes are wet now. Not crying. Just on the edge. Jack leans his forehead against yours.

“You burn things sometimes. You forget coffee filters. You start spiral-cleaning the second you get overwhelmed.... you alphabetize canned goods.”

You crack a smile. “You told me to.”

“Look,” he says, thumb tracing your jaw. “I love the girl who color codes our budget. I love the one who triple checks the emergency contacts. I love the one who’s already mapped the guest list like it’s a war plan.”

“That’s not—”

“But I also love this,” he says, eyes on you. “Right here. The mess. The smoke. The ruined pan. All of it.”

You bite your lip.

“I don’t need a picture perfect fiancée,” Jack adds, softer now. “I need you. The one who’s in this with me. Even when it sucks.”

You look at him. And it clicks, how he’s always known how to let you be messy without flinching. That he doesn’t need the Pinterest version of your love. Just the one standing in front of him. You throw your arms around his neck and bury your face in his chest. He wraps around you instantly, warm and solid and sure.

“So,” Jack says, voice muffled against your hair. “You still want eggs?”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “You’re not gonna try and make a second frittata, are you?”

Jack grins. “God, no. We’re ordering bagels and pretending none of this ever happened.”

You smile, even as you swipe flour from your cheek. “I love you,” you say, quietly.

He kisses you. Fast, firm, forehead to yours.

“I know.”

Then he pauses.

Tilts his head.

“Do we still have any of that fancy jam?”

You laugh. “You mean the one you said tasted like ‘fruit that went to private school’?”

Jack lifts both hands in mock defense. “It grew on me.”

You shake your head, grinning now.

The house still smells like smoke. The kitchen’s still a disaster. But it feels lighter. Like you can breathe again.

Like love doesn’t need to look good to be right.

15 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 6:41 AM | Their House ✧ Lesson Four: Love Is Knowing When to Knock Softly

You’re not supposed to be awake. But the buzz on your nightstand has weight. You reach without thinking, already expecting the worst. The screen lights up.

ROBBY (6:41 AM)

Hey Jack’s okay. Just wanted to tell you before you hear from anyone else... He was on the roof after the crash but it was different this time, He was past the railing

You sit up too fast. Everything blurs. Your throat tightens, stomach dropping straight through the mattress. The room is too quiet. Your heart fills all the space.

Past the railing.

Not the usual. Not just air. Not just darkness and coping.

You try calling him.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

You’re already out of bed. Hoodie. Keys. Phone in hand. You don’t remember putting on socks. Don’t remember how the floor got so cold. Just that your hands won’t stop shaking. You get as far as the front door when you see it. Headlights, slow, pulling into the drive.

You pause. Your hand’s already on the knob.

The door opens before you touch it.

Jack steps in.

The porch light hits him in pieces. Boots, scrubs, jaw, eyes. His face is flushed from the cold, but something in him is too still. He stops when he sees you. His mouth opens like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. Not at first.

“I was gonna shower first,” he says finally, voice low. Hoarse. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You don’t speak.

You just walk straight to him and wrap your arms around his chest, burying your face in the fabric of his scrubs. You don’t care that he smells like sweat and disinfectant. You don’t care that your knees go weak halfway into the hug. He doesn't resist. He just stands there, breathing you in.

Your hand fists into his back. You press your forehead to his shoulder. “Don’t do that,” you whisper. “Don’t not come home.”

He exhales slowly. Doesn’t answer. You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are rimmed in red. Not crying, past crying. The hollow, end-of-the-line kind of tired.

“How bad?” you ask, voice barely above a breath.

Jack blinks slowly, like answering costs him something.

“Bad enough,” he says. “Bus crash. Kids. No warning, no prep. Half the bay was still flipping rooms. One of the boys was—” His jaw locks. “He was wearing a little league jersey. I thought about what I’d say to his parents, but the mom was already there. She knew.”

You don’t realize you’ve moved until your fingers are in his hair, carding slowly. He leans into the touch like it’s the first real thing he’s felt all night.

“I went upstairs,” he says, voice breaking in the middle. “Didn’t mean to. Just ended up there.”

You nod slowly.

“I know.”

“I wasn't going to jump,” he says. “But I didn’t not want to.”

That’s when your breath catches. His voice is low and steady, like he’s reciting numbers, charting vitals. Like if he says it clinical enough, it won’t count as a confession.

You lift your hand to his face. His skin is cold. Your thumb brushes the space beneath his eye. “I’m here,” you whisper. “You’re not alone. You never were.”

Jack’s eyes close, and for the first time, he doesn’t look like a doctor or a soldier or a man trying to hold the whole world in his chest. He just looks tired.

“I kept thinking about how this house has your name on the lease,” he murmurs, like it’s some unholy secret. “That you’ll come down the stairs and find out I left you with that.”

You swallow hard.

“I’d burn the house down if it meant keeping you in it.”

That gets him. His throat bobs. He drops his forehead to yours and exhales. You wrap your arms tighter. “I didn’t know how to call you,” he admits. “Didn’t know what I’d say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur. “You just have to let me in.”

He nods once. Then again, slower. The silence shifts. Not heavier. Just more shared. You guide him to the couch. Don’t ask. Just pull him down beside you. You curl into him the way he always curls into the dark. Quiet, without demand.

You press a kiss to his jaw. To his temple. To the place behind his ear where he’s warmest. “I need you to promise me something,” you say.

Jack glances sideways. “Okay.”

“If it ever gets too loud, if it gets bad like that again... call me.”

He starts to shake his head. You stop him with a hand on his cheek. “I mean it. Even if you’re just sitting there thinking about it. Especially then. You call.”

Jack doesn’t nod. He just presses his face to your shoulder, hand clutching the back of your top like it’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

And you let him.

You stay until the sky lightens further. Until the birds start. Until his breathing slows.

Later, when he finally falls asleep with his head on your lap and your fingers in his hair, you reach for the blanket on the back of the couch and drape it over both of you.

You don’t sleep. You don’t move.

You just stay.

Because this, this moment, is what the love lesson is: Not saving. Not fixing. Just being there when the roof stops feeling safe.

And showing up again in the morning.

12 Months Until the Wedding — Sunday, 1:12 PM | Highland Park — Back Room of a Florist-Wine Bar Hybrid ✧ Lesson Five: Love Is Reading the Fine Print

The upstairs room smells like citrus and eucalyptus. Not overpowering, just enough to remind you the space doubles as a wedding florist during the week and a sensory friendly poetry venue every third Thursday. Rain beads against the windows, soaking the outside world in silver. You and Jack sit at a mismatched table of reclaimed wood, surrounded by dried flower bundles, stacks of linen bound vow books, and a pot of herbal tea that tastes faintly like pine.

Your officiant, Ramona, wears wire rimmed glasses and Doc Martens. She’s in her fifties, has a doctorate in philosophy, and once paused a funeral for a rainbow. You trust her almost instantly.

“I like to get a feel for the texture of a couple before I start writing their ceremony,” she says, flipping open a folio. “Not just your origin story. The actual feel of you. Your voice, your contradictions, your shared language. I want the ceremony to sound like something you’d say to each other in the car.”

Jack smiles faintly. “In that case, I hope you like petty arguments about traffic and why she won’t use Google Maps.”

“Because Google Maps tried to kill me once,” you mutter.

Ramona grins, pen poised. “Let’s start.”

She glances down, then back up. “This won’t be formal. Just real. Answer however you want.”

You both nod.

“What surprised you the most about falling in love with each other?”

Jack speaks first, after a beat.

He doesn’t look up right away, just rubs the pad of his thumb over his lower lip like he’s turning the words over in his mouth before committing to them. “I think what surprised me most was… how quiet it felt,” Jack says, voice low but steady. “Not in a dull way. Just... safe."

He glances over at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She didn’t storm in. She just… walked in with a ledger and started pulling the wires out of the bomb like it was her job.”

A pause. Then, a little softer:

“I’m not easy. I know that. And I’ve had a lot of people… love me in theory. Love the idea of what I survived, or what I do. But not a lot of people have stayed long enough to love the parts of me that aren’t so noble. The sharp stuff. The quiet.”

He exhales through his nose. “But she did. She just stayed. And I kept expecting it to feel terrifying, but it didn’t. It is just easy”

You shift slightly in your seat before answering.

“I didn’t think I was someone who could be surprised,” you say. “Not in relationships. I’ve seen enough messes, enough ruined budgets, enough imploded dynamics, enough emotional disaster zones with overdue invoices... to assume most things unravel exactly on schedule.”

You glance at Jack. He meets your eyes without flinching.

“But he didn’t unravel. He endured. And more than that, he met me where I was. Not just the good parts. Not just the organized, always-has-an-answer parts. He saw the panic underneath the planning. The anxiety under the armor.”

You smile faintly.

“And he didn’t flinch. He just asked what color highlighter to use.”

“Tell me about a time you misunderstood each other... and what you learned from it.”

You go first this time.

You sit forward a little, folding your hands in your lap, searching for the right entry point.

“There was a week early on… maybe four, five months in. Jack had back-to-back trauma shifts. I was in the middle of a government bid audit that was leaking data requests like a pipe. We barely saw each other. I think we passed like ships. He’d get home just as I left for work. It wasn’t… dramatic. Just silent.”

Your voice softens.

“And I took that silence personally. I thought he was pulling back. That maybe I’d asked for too much without realizing it. Or—God—forgiven too easily. That maybe I’d read into it wrong.”

Jack looks over at you, brow tense, but you’re not crying. You’re just being honest.

“So I did what I do,” you go on. “I built walls. Quietly. Strategically. Tried to get ahead of the hurt by preparing for it. I told myself if I just didn’t need him, then it wouldn’t matter. And he... he noticed. But he didn’t push. Not right away.”

A beat.

“And then one morning, I came downstairs and he’d made coffee. He was sitting on the floor in yesterday’s hoodie with a post-it on the mug that said I’m sorry I haven’t had words lately. I still love you, even when I’m empty.”

You pause, blinking once.

“It wasn’t the silence that was the problem. It was the assumptions we each made about it.”

Jack nods slowly before answering.

“I thought if I just kept showing up, if I kept the ship running, she’d know. That she’d feel it. That I didn’t need to explain I was drowning a little because explaining it felt like another form of work.”

He rubs the back of his neck.

“But she’s not a mind reader. And I’m not made of stone. And somewhere in the middle of that week, I realized… she’d rather hear messy truth than be left filling in blanks I’m too tired to name.”

He looks at you.

“I’m learning how to name things.”

“When do you feel the most loved by each other? Not the big moments. The small, almost invisible ones.”

Jack answers. He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking toward the window like he's watching the answer unfold in the back of his mind before bringing it forward.

“When she packs my bag,” he says eventually. “I never ask her to. She plays it off like it’s just practical. Habit. But it’s more than that.”

A beat. He shifts forward, voice lower now, rough at the edges.

“There’s always something in there that says, I love you. A folded note in the side pocket. A packet of ibuprofen. One of those overpriced protein bars she claims she only bought for the office. My phone charger wrapped up right, because she knows I won’t do it right myself.”

He taps a finger against his thigh, thoughtful.

“It’s her way of saying I can’t be in the trauma bay with you, but I can make sure you're okay when you get out. And that… that’s love. The kind you feel before you name it. The kind that doesn’t need a witness.”

He turns to you, something soft pulling at the corners of his expression.

“She takes care of me in ways I didn’t know I needed.”

You answer without taking your eyes off him.

“When he comes home and doesn’t make noise.”

You pause, let that hang there for a second.

“It’s gonna sound weird, but... he comes in soft. After twelve hours of blood and adrenaline and chaos, he doesn’t slam the door or crash into the fridge or announce that he’s back. He just… re-enters quietly. Takes his boots off by the door. Showers without waking me. Leaves his pager in the kitchen. Like he’s trying not to break the spell.”

You smile faintly.

“And then he’ll climb into bed and just rest his forehead against mine. Not to wake me. Just to check that I’m breathing okay. That I’m there. That he’s home. And sometimes I’ll pretend to still be asleep because the moment is too good to interrupt.”

A breath.

“That’s when I feel it most. The care that doesn’t need to be loud.”

“What’s one completely ridiculous thing about your partner that you find weirdly endearing?”

You jump in first, already grinning.

“He can’t whisper,” you say, and Jack immediately groans.

“I can whisper,” he protests.

You raise a brow. “Jack. You stage whisper like a man doing bad improv.”

Ramona laughs. Jack mutters something under his breath, but he’s smiling.

“It’s not just that it’s loud,” you go on. “It’s the urgency. Like he thinks if he says it fast enough, it’ll count as subtle. He’ll lean over during a formal event. Like, say, the staff Christmas dinner where my boss is ten feet away, and be like: ‘That guy’s absolutely embezzling.’” You mimic the hoarse, rushed tone. “‘Look at his shoes. No one buys those on a public salary.’”

“And I was right,” Jack says.

You point at him. “You always think you’re right. And somehow, even when you are, I’m still the one doing damage control.”

“You got engaged to a trauma doc with a forensic brain and a God complex,” Jack says, palms up like he’s pleading the fifth. “At a certain point, that’s on you.”

Jack answers next, looking far too smug.

“She makes her bed like she’s preparing for a hotel inspection,” he says, deadpan.

“That is not ridiculous,” you interject.

“She fluffs the pillows. Under the decorative pillows. There are sub pillows. There’s a throw blanket with diagonal angles measured like it’s a geometry quiz. I watched her adjust the fringe once because it looked ‘unsettled.’”

You try not to laugh. “Fringe can have a mood.”

“It can’t,” Jack replies. “And here’s the thing, I ruined the whole bed three hours later. And she still makes it like it’s a sacred ritual.”

He shrugs, softer now.

“I don’t know. It’s her way of making order out of chaos. And maybe I’ve had enough chaos that the order feels like a love letter.”

“What’s your most controversial opinion about your partner’s habits or routines?”

Jack answers first. He sighs like he’s been waiting to get this one off his chest for months.

“She thinks spreadsheets are a coping mechanism.”

He looks at you, then at Ramona. “And not just in the ‘I’m organized’ way. I mean she builds full-scale tactical battle plans in Excel. I once walked into the kitchen and she had a spreadsheet open titled ‘Contingency Plan – Worst Case Guest Seating.’”

You shrug. “That was responsible.”

“That was psychotic,” Jack replies, deadpan. “There were color coded tabs for in-law arguments, dietary restrictions, and what to do if someone dies on the dance floor. She had a section labeled ‘emotional fallout’ with subcategories.”

He looks at the officiant again. “And, she once made a pie chart of our arguments.”

“It was an illustrative tool,” you mutter.

“It had a legend!” Jack says. “She gave our passive-aggressive silences colors!”

Then he softens. “But the part that gets me is that it’s not an act. It’s how she steadies herself. How she makes sense of the world. When things start to spiral, she opens up Excel and starts building structure. Order. Exit plans.”

A breath.

“And I used to think it was funny... or neurotic. But now I think it’s the bravest thing in the world in a way. She tries to organize the storm because she wants to make sure everyone makes it through it alive.”

He smiles, crooked and quiet. “I get it now. I just… wish she’d let the pie charts go.”

You answer next, slow and steady.

“Jack eats like the fridge might explode if he opens it too fast,” you say. “Like he’s afraid it’ll startle.”

Jack groans. “It’s called moving with intention.”

“No, it’s called closing the door with your foot while holding a spoon in your teeth like you're stealing fire from the gods.”

Ramona laughs. You go on.

“He doesn’t meal prep. He meal guesses. He gets home at 7AM after twelve hours of pure hell and just stands there, staring into the fridge like it’s a patient he’s trying to diagnose.”

Jack shrugs. You smile, fond, but exasperated. “One time, he made an entire dinner out of half a lemon, three olives, and a protein bar.”

Jack raises a finger. “It worked.”

“You were starving two hours later.”

“Then it mostly worked.”

You pause, then look at him more softly.

“But here’s the thing. He doesn’t ask for much. He’s not high maintenance. He’d eat cereal and call it a meal. But when I bring him something, when I actually cook, he eats it like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Like it’s church. Like someone made the world quiet for a second.”

You glance down, voice gentler now.

“That’s what gets me. The way he treats care like it’s rare. And sacred. Like it’s a surprise every time someone chooses him.”

Ramona smiles gently. “Well,” she says. “That’s more than enough to work with.”

She closes the folio.

“Y’all are going to ruin me, you know that?”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “We try.”

And as the rain thickens outside and the air inside settles into a quiet warmth, you realize that somehow, even with opposite schedules, opposite coping styles, and two wildly different calendars, you’ve built a kind of rhythm neither of you saw coming.

A new kind of fluency.

A love that speaks in fine print and late-night texts and hand touches under the table.

And right now?

It speaks just fine.

13 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 9:16 AM | Target Superstore ✧ Lesson Six: Love Is Not Dividing the Closet

You’ve been here for forty-six minutes and Jack Abbot has scanned:

one neon green NERF blaster

a velvet throw blanket that you told him would attract lint like a graveyard attracts ghosts

and a plastic skull-shaped candy bowl from the Halloween clearance bin.

“Essential,” he says now, holding it aloft like Hamlet’s skull. “Picture it. Movie night. Swedish Fish. Macabre ambiance.”

You stare at him. “Honey... we are building a wedding registry.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging the registry scanner like it’s a sidearm. “A registry should reflect the soul of the couple.”

“Which part of the skull screams us?”

Jack gives you a beat of mock-thoughtful silence, then, “Probably the part where it looks normal until you look closer and realize something deeply unhinged is going on beneath the surface.”

You snort, try to fight it, fail miserably. “Put it back.”

He sighs, dramatic and long suffering, and places it in the nearest red cart as if he's someone laying a hero to rest. You don’t remember who suggested doing the registry in person. Probably you. Jack’s always game for an errand, especially on his post shift high. The weird adrenaline laced exhaustion that turns into mischief if left unchecked.

He met you in the parking lot after you ran a few errands, holding a coffee you hadn’t asked for but probably needed. You were still cloudy from spreadsheet hell, and he looked like a man whose entire shift smelled like antiseptic and sorrow. And yet, he grinned. That sharp, sideways Jack grin, all teeth and unslept eyes and: “Let’s go argue about towels.”

You said yes because you loved him. And because, if you’re being honest, you wanted to see what kind of towels he’d fight for.

Spoiler: Jack doesn’t care about towels.

“I just think it’s weird they’re labeled ‘quick dry,’” he says now, poking one. “Like that’s not the basic expectation of a towel.”

“They dry the person quickly,” you argue. “Not themselves.”

“Then the marketing is a lie.”

He holds one up to his face, rubs his cheek against it like a cat. “Too scratchy,” he declares. “This one feels like the trauma sheets after a code.”

“That is the most horrifying comparison you could’ve made.”

“You brought me here,” Jack says. “This is on you.”

You sigh, rub your temples. “Can we just pick something practical? One brand, one set, good reviews, nothing red or teal or embroidered with ‘his’ and ‘hers.’”

Jack frowns. “What about ‘hers’ and ‘also hers’?”

You pause. “That’s kind of funny.”

“Or,” he says, lifting a grey towel, “we each pick one. Yours is practical. Mine’s wildly impractical but emotionally satisfying.”

“Like you?”

He grins. “Exactly.”

You find yourselves standing in front of a display of Dutch ovens, and something about the look of them makes you both go quiet. Jack nudges one of them. “Do you actually want this stuff?”

You glance at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He shrugs, scans the floor. “I know you. I know you’d be just as happy cooking pasta in a scratched up pan if it meant we could put the rest toward something practical. You’re not here for the aesthetic.”

You smile. “I want our house to feel lived in. Not staged.”

Jack hums.

“Then why do it?” he asks. “Why the registry? Why drag me to aisle forty seven of hell?”

You look at him.

“I want things we choose together,” you say finally. “Not just things that end up in our house because someone handed them down or because I panicked during a flash sale.”

You gesture to the rows of over designed bakeware.

“This isn’t about what we own. It’s about what we build.”

Jack is quiet for a moment. Then, in that way he does, the way he softens without warning, he says, “Okay. Let’s build something.”

You leave the store with a registry that includes:

a beautiful, neutral-toned towel set

one aggressively orange mixing bowl, Jack’s justification being, This feels like something I would’ve stolen from your college apartment if I’d known you back then.

a Dutch oven you didn’t think you’d care about but kind of love

…and, yes, the goddamn skull candy bowl... which Jack, apparently, couldn’t wait to add to a registry and just bought outright.

“Compromise,” Jack says, loading it into the car.

You shake your head. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He leans across the console before starting the engine, presses a kiss to your temple, and murmurs, “I’d register for that, too.”

You roll your eyes. But you’re smiling.

And somewhere, between aisle forty seven and the trunk of Jack’s ancient car, you realize: You’re not building a registry.

You’re building a home.

And you’re doing it with him.

10 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 11:22 AM | Solstice Bridal Studio ✧ Lesson Seven: Love Is Letting Yourself Be Seen

The mirrors catch you before you’re ready. Three angles. Soft lighting. The kind of dress that doesn’t just lay on your body, but convinces you that you need to stand still and see yourself.

It’s not even the first one you’ve tried on. It’s not the most dramatic, or the most expensive. But something about this one, the way the neckline settles against your collarbone, makes everyone go quiet. And that’s what gets you. Not the price. Not the lace. The silence.

“Holy shit,” Kennedy breathes, mouth half covered by her prosecco flute.

“She’s gonna make me cry,” Mara mutters from the couch, already dabbing at her mascara.

Bri grins like she’s known this was the one since you walked in the door. “Jack's gonna pass out.”

You blink fast and try to laugh, but it catches halfway. You can't cry, not yet, but your hand curls slightly at your side. A quiet tic Jack would recognize. A holdover from stress.

Heather sees it too.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just leans forward, elbows to knees, that steady, unreadable look you’ve only ever seen in the trauma bay. Like she’s assessing the wound before calling it what it is.

You remember the first time Jack told you about her. Heather Collins, resident, terrifyingly competent. Back then she was just a name. A force of ER nature. But then came the double dates, you and Jack meeting Robby and Heather at trivia nights, or that one ill-fated bowling night where Robby showed up in scrubs and Heather casually demolished everyone with perfect form and no trash talk.

The friendship wasn’t immediate. Heather’s not the kind of person who gives herself away. But slowly, with each shared plate of dumplings, each side glance during a rant from Jack or Robby, it started to shift. She started sitting closer. Started texting you outside of plans. Started staying after for one more glass of wine.

Then one night, she invited you out. Just you. No boys. No buffer. You sat at the bar until closing, talking about work, womanhood, the unspoken heaviness of holding yourself together for everyone else. She told you, without flourish, about her miscarriage. About how she’d gone back to work two days later. Now she’s here, sitting among the champagne glasses and velvet armchairs, and her voice is the one that cuts through the noise.

“It’s a good dress,” she says softly. “But that’s not why you’re freaking out.”

You flinch. Not visibly, but enough that Heather raises an eyebrow.

You glance at your reflection. Then away. “It’s just—” You swallow. “I didn’t expect it to feel like this. So... much.”

Mara pipes up from the couch. “That’s because it’s working.”

“It’s not just the dress,” you say. You’re talking to the room, but really you’re looking at Heather. “It’s the moment. Like… this is the part where everything starts to count. Like if I let myself be excited, I have to admit that it’s real. And if it’s real... what if I mess it up?”

Heather doesn’t answer right away. She stands. Crosses the room quietly and stands beside you at the mirror. “You won’t,” she says.

You huff a laugh. “You can’t know that.”

“No,” she agrees. “But I’ve seen you love him. And I’ve seen him love you. And I’ve worked in trauma for years. Trust me, that kind of loyalty? It’s not common.”

You blink again. Your throat’s starting to close.

“Also,” Heather adds lightly, “I’ve watched that man wince every time he leaves your house in the morning. Like he’s being separated from a lung.”

That makes you laugh. Shaky and wet but real. Your friends start chattering again behind you. The stylist murmurs something about bustle options. But Heather stays quiet beside you, like she knows what it’s like to be surrounded and still feel alone.

You glance over at her. “I’m glad you came.”

She gives you a look that isn’t quite a smile, but close. “Me too. For what it’s worth… you’re allowed to feel overwhelmed. And you’re allowed to be the bride.”

You nod. “Even if I don’t know how?”

Heather’s voice softens. “Especially then.”

You step down from the pedestal and turn toward the group. Kennedy’s already waving her phone around. Bri’s asking for champagne refills. Heather stands with her arms crossed, watching it all unfold. She meets your eyes, and in that steady gaze is a kind of permission you didn’t know you needed.

You don’t know if this is the dress. You don’t know if there’s a right one.

But you do know, this is the first time it hasn’t felt like you were pretending.

And that counts for something.

9 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 12:03 PM | West End Bridal Co. ✧ Lesson Eight: Love Is Allowing The Unexpected

You’re thirty two minutes into your planning meeting with Tessa, your wedding coordinator, and Jack has already declared open hostility toward the word “tablescape.”

“You know what that sounds like?” he says, shifting in the antique French armchair that’s clearly not built for him. “Some kind of military op. Like we’re storming the beach... but with dinnerware.”

Tessa, unfazed, makes a note on her tablet without looking up. “Noted. Groom prefers classic, not coastal.”

He shoots you a look. “She didn’t even flinch.”

You mouth, be nice.

Jack doesn’t look particularly bridal. He’s in scrubs under a hoodie under a jacket, hair still damp from a too fast shower. He came straight from The Pitt, where he worked a fifteen hour overnight shift and left his name tag in the trauma bay. Again. His prosthetic leg creaks every time he shifts in the dainty chair, but he hasn't complained. Not once.

You’re in your work blazer, still wearing the same lipstick from this morning’s conference, and you’re trying not to over highlight anything in your wedding binder.

Tessa taps her stylus. “So. Let’s go through tone. Theme. The aesthetic of the day.”

You glance at Jack, who gives a shrug that somehow says, Don’t look at me. I still think we should’ve eloped.

“I want it to feel like us,” you say slowly. “Not too formal. But still intentional.”

Jack leans back, stretching his bad leg out to the side. “She means she wants people to cry. But in an elevated way.”

“Jack.”

“I’m being supportive.”

He is. In his own dry, night shift warped way. Tessa looks between you like she’s taking notes for a relationship case study.

“What about colors?” she asks.

“No sage green,” you say instantly. “Or beige.”

“No dusty anything,” Jack adds. “If the name sounds like a 19th century disease, we don’t want it.”

You glance at him. “You really did not sleep.”

“I’m choosing to channel that into productive critique.”

The next few questions blur. Venue confirmations, vendor scheduling, cake flavors. Jack starts quietly doodling in the margin of your to-do list with your pen. He draws a tiny anatomical heart, then another, then writes: you’re here in one ventricle, in all caps.

Tessa asks, “What kind of ceremony are you envisioning?”

You go quiet. Jack tilts his head slightly, watching you. “I think we want something honest,” you say. “Not too rehearsed. Something that feels grounded. Real.”

“She means I’m not allowed to quote Star Wars,” Jack says, “which is a shame, because Yoda had a lot to say about commitment.”

Tessa smiles. “And vows? Writing your own?”

Jack’s voice softens. “Yeah. We are.”

He doesn’t say more than that. But you feel it in your chest. The way he says we. Not I. Not her. We.

Tessa scrolls. “Let’s talk must haves.”

“Food,” you both say in unison.

Jack grins. “Specifically, food that will not insult the working class palate. No foam. No flowers. No dishes that look like they would appear out of 'The Bear.'’”

Tessa nods seriously. “Comfort food, elevated. Got it.”

“Also, no DJ who talks like he runs a podcast.”

“And no cover bands who turn every song into a ballad.”

“No slideshow of us as babies set to an Ed Sheeran remix.”

You both keep going, rapid fire, in perfect sync. The list is ridiculous. You’re laughing. Tessa is trying to keep up. And for a moment, it feels less like planning and more so something that has you and Jack at the very center of it.

Eventually, the meeting winds down. Tessa gives you a revised checklist, a follow up email promise, and a very stern warning not to book any new vendors without looping her in. You stand. Jack rises slower, like the shift just hit him all at once. He picks up your binder before you can and slides it under his arm.

Outside, the afternoon sun makes the city haze look almost gold. Jack stops just before you reach the car. “Hey,” he says.

You turn. His face is tired, unshaven, his eyes still a little red from the night. But he’s looking at you like he remembers why he does all of it. Every shift. Every sunrise.

“You did good in there,” he says quietly.

You blink. “I didn’t say anything that important.”

“You didn’t have to,” Jack replies. “You were you.”

He steps forward, brushes your hair behind your ear, like he’s done a hundred times, but somehow it still feels brand new. “I’ve been in rooms where people don’t show up for each other,” he says. “You always do. Even when you’re exhausted. Even when you’re scared.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m really glad it’s you,” you whisper.

He leans in and kisses you. Tired, slow, sure.

In the middle of a busy sidewalk, in front of a studio, with traffic groaning in the distance and the wind catching your coat hem, it feels like the world pauses just long enough to let you breathe.

Nine months to go.

8 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 11:38 AM | East End Convention Center ✧ Lesson Nine: Love Is Knowing When to Bail

You knew it was going to be a disaster the second someone handed Jack a glitter coated swag bag that said Bride Vibes Only in pink script.

He looked at it like it might explode.

“I think it’s cursed,” he said flatly. “Like, if I open this, I get possessed by the ghost of a bridezilla.”

You didn’t even bother to hide your grin. “Don’t open it, then. You’re already a lot.”

Jack gave you a look. “I’m exactly enough. You knew what you were signing up for.”

What you were signing up for, apparently, was a wedding expo with three indoor fountains, nine signature cocktail stations, a ring light photo booth, and a host named Sebastian who referred to himself as your “love concierge.”

The harpist in the corner was playing a slowed down version of Beyoncé’s “Love On Top.” Someone offered you champagne at 11:40 in the morning. Jack’s eye twitched. He was wearing blue jeans, a button-down you’d only seen twice before, and that wary, bracing for impact look that meant he was trying not to be rude. Trying very hard.

“We’ve been here twelve minutes,” he said, deadpan. “And I’m one cake pop away from declaring war on the string quartet.”

You patted his chest. “Deep breaths, Dr. Abbot.”

He muttered something about this being worse than the time he had to disimpact a bowel during a mass casualty event.

You tried. You really did. You tasted a sample of fig compote. You listened to a sales pitch on laser engraved chair signs. You nodded solemnly while a woman named Lisa explained the spiritual benefits of biodegradable confetti. Jack trailed behind you, loyal and suffering, occasionally squeezing your hand like he was making sure you still existed. But his eyes were starting to glaze over. Somewhere around the personalized ice sculpture booth, he stopped pretending.

He looked at you and said, very gently, “Babe, I love you. So much. So very much. But I think I’ve developed wedding themed vertigo.”

You burst out laughing. “Okay. That’s it. We’re pulling the plug.”

And just like that, you were gone. No excuses, no apologies. Just a shared glance, a silent agreement. You ditched the expo, Jack’s cursed swag bag still in hand, and made your way three blocks over to a dingy little diner with sticky menus and laminate tables. It smelled like maple syrup and something fried in oil that had been alive during the Bush administration. Jack held the door open for you like it was the Ritz.

“This,” he said, sliding into a booth, “is my version of a sacred space.”

You joined him, already feeling the tension bleed out of your shoulders. He looked so much more himself here, relaxed, hair still a little messy from sleep, prosthetic leg stretched out under the table like it had a right to exist there. Which it did. Which he did.

You took his hand across the table. “Thank you for trying. Really.”

He shrugged. “Hey. I’ll wade through ten thousand cupcakes on sticks if it means I get to marry you.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was disgustingly sweet.”

“I’m trying to keep you off balance,” he said, grinning as he reached for his coffee. “Gotta maintain the upper hand before you add another color to the pie chart argument. What are we at now, eight slices of doom?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not doom. It’s detail.”

The waitress brought you coffee. Jack took his black, always. You drowned yours in cream and sugar. He made fun of you for it every time, but this time, he just smiled and watched the way your hands cradled the mug like it was anchoring you.

Then quietly, you say, “Do you think you want kids?”

Jack didn’t move for a moment. Didn’t flinch. Just blinked, like he was adjusting to sudden sunlight.

“That’s not a trap question, by the way,” you added quickly. “I just realized we’ve never really talked about it. Not seriously.”

He was quiet for a while. Not with fear, but with thought. “I think… there was a time I couldn’t picture it,” he said, voice low. “Not because I didn’t want it. But because it didn’t feel real. Like I wasn’t allowed to imagine that kind of softness. I spent so long being the guy who works nights, eats leftovers cold in the staff lounge at 3AM, and comes home covered in other people’s blood.”

You reached out, gently brushing your thumb along his knuckles.

“But then you,” he continued, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “And suddenly, I’m thinking about things like first steps and reading bedtime stories with terrible voices. I think—I think I’d like to be the kind of man who makes space for that. For them.”

You were already blinking back tears. “Don’t cry,” he said, soft but teasing. “We haven’t even ordered pancakes yet.”

You smiled wetly. “I’m just trying to picture you with a baby strapped to your chest in one of those wrap things.”

Jack looked genuinely alarmed. “You mean the infant burrito slings?”

“Yes. That.”

He grinned. “Only if I get to wear the kid to Costco.”

“I’d marry you tomorrow.”

His face went still, open and serious. “Good. Because I’m already yours. For whatever kind of life we end up choosing. Whether we get three kids or ten dogs or just the weird skull bowl.”

You laughed then. Loud. Unfiltered. And he looked at you like he never wanted to look away.

They didn’t have champagne towers or harpists at the diner. The lighting was bad and the toast was cold. But sitting there with Jack, talking about maybe somedays and what ifs and little half formed dreams neither of you had dared name until now.

It felt like a life.

7 Months Until the Wedding — Friday, 9:09 AM | Their House ✧ Lesson Ten: Love Is Letting Go of Control

You’re not vacuuming anymore. You’re just standing in the center of the living room. You took the day off from work, burned a precious PTO day you couldn’t really afford, just to make sure every corner of the house looked untouched by stress. The rug has been vacuumed three times. The couch cushions have been rotated, reshaped, and fluffed to showroom precision. There are fresh flowers in three different vases, one strategically tucked behind a framed photo so your mother won’t accuse you of trying too hard. Or worse, trying to impress her.

When Jack walks in, still wearing his scrubs and the exhaustion of a long night shift, he clocks everything at once. The third round of vacuuming and the arrangement of coasters. And then he finds you. He leans against the doorway, watching you in that way he does sometimes. Quiet, concerned, like he’s mentally noting which version of you he’s walking into. Then he speaks.

“Okay,” he says softly, tipping his head. “Just checking in, is this a cry for help?”

You don’t laugh, though you want to. You just shake your head and lower the vacuum handle.

“She gets in at noon,” you say. “I still need to re-steam the curtains. And I don’t think the towels are—”

“Baby,” Jack interrupts softly. “She’s not bringing a clipboard.”

You meet his eyes. “No, but she’ll make one.”

He walks over, gently plucks the cord from your fingers. His hands linger at your wrists.

“I know this isn’t easy for you,” he says.

You look away. “It’s not about her. It’s just... she’s never seen this house. Or… this life. And part of me feels like if it’s not flawless, she’s going to decide I’m a failure.”

Jack doesn’t speak immediately. He waits. Always lets you come to your own senses.

“She got harder after my dad died,” you finally say. “It was like… she had to control something. And I was what was left.”

His hands move to your shoulders. “You’ve never told me that.”

You shrug. “There was never a good time. And I didn’t want to make it your burden. You already hold so much.”

Jack shakes his head. “You’re not a burden. Your grief isn’t a burden.”

You press the heel of your hand to your forehead. “I keep thinking, if I just get every part of this wedding right, then maybe she’ll relax. Maybe she’ll think I turned out okay.”

Jack steps closer. “Hey. You didn’t turn out okay. You turned out brilliant. And if she can’t see that, it’s not because you’re not enough. It’s because she never figured out how to deal with losing the person who made you both softer.”

You inhale. It shudders. “I miss him.”

“I know,” he says, voice low. “I know you do.”

There’s a beat of silence. Just the two of you, standing in the middle of your over cleaned house with the weight of grief buzzing low between your ribs. Then, quietly, you say, “When we talked about kids…”

Jack stills, but he doesn’t flinch. “…I don’t know if I can be her,” you finish. “I don’t want to pass down everything she made me afraid of. I don’t want to love someone in a way that makes them small just because I’m scared.”

Jack’s hand slides down to yours. “You won’t be her.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” he says simply. “I’ve seen how you love. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re scared. You make space. You give people air.”

You blink hard, trying not to cry. “But what if I mess it up? What if I don’t know how to be soft?”

He leans in until his forehead rests against yours. “Then we learn,” he whispers. “We learn together. And if we get it wrong, we try again. We don’t weaponize the love. We don’t use silence as punishment. And we never let fear win. Not in this house.”

You’re quiet for a long time, breathing through it. Jack waits. Always. Not pushing, not pulling. Just holding steady like he always does.

Finally, you nod. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” you murmur.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk about how I’m going to be the buffer when she inevitably asks why we don’t have a cheese course.”

You snort, softly. “You think she’ll wait that long?”

Jack grins. “I give it twenty minutes. Tops.”

You finally move toward him, tuck your head against his chest. He holds you like it’s instinct.

Later, when your mother arrives and critiques the driveway lighting before even stepping inside, Jack only smiles. He helps with her bags, offers her coffee, listens to her dissect your color palette without blinking. And when you look at him, you realize this is what it means to be loved in a way that lets you lay your weapons down.

Jack catches your eye across the kitchen later and winks.

You don’t need to impress your mother. You just need to be you.

6 Months Until the Wedding — Friday, 9:14 PM | Their House ✧ Lesson Eleven: Love Is Remembering

The wine glasses are still half full.

The record player is still spinning.

You’re barefoot in the kitchen in that navy button down from Jack’s side of the closet. The same one he wore on your first date, sleeves now rolled to your elbows, hem grazing the tops of your thighs. Your hair is a little undone. Your makeup is mostly gone. The house smells like rosemary and lemon and something human. Skin warmed cotton. Cologne, maybe. Him.

Jack’s standing in front of you, backlit by the soft kitchen light, shirtless and half smiling. Not cocky. Not confident. Just blissful.

He steps closer. “I remember the second you got out of that Uber,” he murmurs. “You looked at me like you already knew what would happen.”

“And you looked at me like you hoped I was right.”

Jack huffs a laugh, low and hot. “I was fucked from the second I saw you.”

His hand finds your waist. The other cups your cheek, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. He kisses you slowly like he has time. And you melt. Because this is the same man who once looked across a candlelit table and said, “I’ve never been afraid of blood. But I’ve always been afraid of this.”

And still, he stayed.

You pull him closer, fingers curling into his shoulder, the press of your bodies so familiar it’s muscle memory. He kisses you again, open mouthed and low sighing, like he’s trying to say something without words.

“Bedroom,” you whisper against his mouth. Jack lifts you before you finish the sentence. Your bedroom is dark, the only light coming from the hallway, honey warm and soft across the sheets. He lays you down like you’re something precious. Like you’re a promise he’s keeping.

“This feels like that night,” he murmurs.

Your voice catches. “It is that night.”

But not rushed. Not new. Not unknown.

This time, he knows your body. He knows how your breath hitches when he kisses the spot below your ear. He knows how you sound when you try to keep quiet. He knows where to touch, where to slow down, where to ruin you just right. Jack pulls your his shirt over your head with quiet precision, mouth following the trail he uncovers, throat, collarbone, the soft dip at your sternum. His hands settle on your hips. His grip is firm. Grounding.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he says, voice low, like he’s afraid saying it too loud will break the spell.

“You always say that when you’re about to wreck me,” you whisper, breathless.

He smirks.

Then wrecks you anyway.

Slow. Intentional. Every movement like a memory. Every kiss a callback. Every shift of his hips like a vow. When he sinks into you, it’s with a sound that feels like a prayer. You gasp, hands curling against his back, body arching to meet him. He stills for a moment. Just looks down at you. “You good?”

“Jack,” you whisper, “move.”

He does.

The rhythm builds. Steady at first, then deeper, more urgent. Like the years between that first night and this one has only made him hungrier. His hand laces with yours, fingers gripping tight.

And you remember—god, you remember—the way he looked that night when you offered your hand. The look of disbelief. Of awe. Of the first time he let himself hope. You pull him closer now. Mouth to his ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jack groans. Half laugh, half sound of someone holding on too tight. You both fall apart like that. Like two people who stopped being afraid of what this could become. When it’s over, neither of you move right away. Jack stays above you, chest heaving. Then slowly lowers himself, rolling to the side but keeping one hand anchored at your waist.

Later, your head on his chest, your fingers tracing a line down his sternum, he murmurs, “Three years.”

You hum, lazy and warm. “And?”

“I still remember the color of your dress. The way your eyes looked in candlelight.”

You smile. “What color was the dress?”

“Midnight blue. Just barely clinging to your shoulders.” His hand drags softly along your bare spine. “I almost didn't want to touch you that night.”

You tilt your head up. “Why not?”

“Because I knew,” he says. “If I touched you… I’d never want to stop.”

You kiss him slow.

He doesn’t stop.

Not for a long time.

And somewhere, in the soft haze of lamplight and breathless laughter, with his body warm against yours and the echo of that first night lingering like a heartbeat, Jack Abbot falls in love again.

He didn't think that was possible.

5 Months Until the Wedding — Friday, 2:04 PM | Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center ✧ Lesson Twelve: Love Is Letting Yourself Be Taken Care Of

It doesn’t happen in the way anyone expects. No warning. No graceful fade. Just... collapse.

You’re at the office copier. Fluorescent lights humming above you, screen blaring a “paper jam” message you can barely read. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept. You’ve had a fever for days. Ignored it. Took DayQuil. Drank tea. Told yourself it’d pass.

It doesn’t.

Instead, your knees give out. Your coffee spills across the floor. And then the world tilts hard and fast.

You crumple like paper.

The only sound is your body hitting the tile. Then a scream. Then running footsteps. Then everything blurs.

Jack is halfway through his shift at The Pitt when the trauma alert comes through. Female, syncopal episode at a downtown office. Fever. Hypoxic. Unresponsive en route. He’s barely listening. Just another Friday.

Until the EMT’s voice crackles over the intercom and says your name. Jack stops moving. Stops breathing. The world narrows like a camera lens. He doesn’t remember barking for a room or snapping at Dana. All he knows is that when the stretcher rounds the corner,

It’s you.

Soaked in sweat. Eyes half-lidded. Fever warming every inch of your skin. IV started. And still, still, you’re shaking.

“No. Move. Let me in.”

“Jack—”

“She’s my fiancée,” he growls. “I’m not standing behind the glass.”

They don’t argue. He’s already at your side.

“Hey. Sweetheart.” His voice fractures. “It’s me. I’ve got you, okay?”

You blink slowly. Your lips move. But no sound comes out. Then your oxygen monitor starts to plummet.

“Sat’s dropping. 86. 82. 77—”

“Get me heated high flow and the crash cart,” Jack snaps. “Get cultures. Ice bath, now, not when you get around to it. Go.”

“Jack, maybe we should assign this to—?”

“She’s my patient. She’s mine.” He doesn’t yell it. He doesn’t need to. The words come out low and final, grounded in panic and something older than fear. Someone peels off your shirt, which is soaked through. Jack doesn’t flinch. He’s already pressing his palm to your clavicle, counting your heartbeats with practiced fingers.

“God, you’re burning up,” he whispers. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You can’t answer. You’re too far gone. The team lifts you. The ice packs and cooling blanket is placed. Your body seizes. Jack catches you before you arch off the bed. Holds your face between both hands. Anchors you there with his voice alone.

“I know, I know, I’m here. You’re okay. I’ve got you, baby, stay with me. Just... stay.”

Your teeth chatter. You moan softly, in pain, confused, slipping in and out. Someone says something about intubation if your O2 doesn’t rise. Jack growls a curse under his breath, brushing hair out of your face.

“She hates the cold,” he tells them.

A nurse stares. “How do you...”

“She’s my fiancée,” Jack says again, quieter now. “I know everything.”

You wake up in a hospital bed, hours later.

The fever’s broken. Your head pounds. There’s an oxygen line under your nose and the soft hum of a monitor nearby. And Jack is there. Sitting in a chair beside your bed, elbows on his knees, hands knotted tight in front of his mouth like he’s praying.

“Jack,” you croak.

He’s up in an instant. At your side. His hand goes to your cheek, trembling. His voice drops to something hoarse and hollow: “Oh, thank God.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

“You’re not.” It comes out too fast, too sharp. His eyes close. He steadies himself. “You weren’t. You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to be dramatic,” you mumble. “I thought it was just a cold. You’d picked up a double. I didn’t want to interrupt your night.”

Jack pulls back like he’s been struck.

“Interrupt?” he says, almost stunned. “You don’t interrupt my life. You are my life.”

The silence crackles.

“We practically had to put you in an ice bath,” he whispers. “You weren’t breathing right. You had a fever of 105. I didn’t know if—” He swallows. “I didn’t know if I was going to lose you before we made it to the altar.”

You blink hard, eyes stinging. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I just, I thought I could power through it. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Jack’s eyes flash. He leans forward, voice breaking open. “If I’m supposed to call you when I’m on the roof,” he says, “then you are supposed to call me when you can’t stand up. That’s the deal.”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Yeah,” you say. “That’s the deal.”

He leans in slowly. Forehead to yours. His hand wrapped around your wrist like a tether. “I need you to stop pretending you don’t matter,” he murmurs. “You do. To me. To everyone. But mostly me.”

You nod again, smaller this time. Jack brushes a kiss to your temple, slow and steady. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“You’re here,” he breathes.

And for the first time in days, your chest feels lighter.

Because Jack is here. Still worried. Still angry. Still your doctor, your fiancé, your home.

4 Months Until the Wedding — Sunday, 3:12 PM | Their House ✧ Lesson Thirteen: Love Is Remembering the Yes

The dining table looks like it’s been through a minor catastrophe.

There are RSVP cards in chaotic stacks that no longer correspond to any known system. A rogue envelope lies open and abandoned, its flap torn. Wax seals, once delicately arranged in a tin, have spilled across the oak surface. A roll of postage stamps is unraveling off the edge close to your mug of half-cold tea.

The scent of teakwood hangs in the air burned low from the candle you lit nearly two hours ago when this still felt exciting. Fun, even. Jack is hunched at the far end of the table, brow furrowed in surgical concentration, the exact posture he wears when threading a central line or building a cabinet without instructions. His sleeves are rolled up. His penmanship has started to slant. There’s a smear of dark ink along his thumb joint.

You’re on the hardwood floor with your back against a dining chair, legs stretched long in front of you, an envelope balanced on your thighs. Your hair is twisted up with the same pen you used to address the last twenty five envelopes. It doesn’t feel particularly secure.

Jack exhales, not dramatically, just a long slow drag of air. “I’d rather do a thoracotomy than figure out if your Aunt Cynthia counts as plus one material.”

“She does,” you mutter. “Unless you want to trigger another text chain where she threatens to rent a llama”

Jack winces. “She still says that like it’s a metaphor.”

“It’s not. She tried to get one for my cousin's baby shower.’”

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment. You can tell he’s trying not to smile. Jack glances at you sideways, amused. “You sure you don’t want to elope?”

His voice is dry but there’s that softness underneath it. That Jack softness that sounds like teasing but scans like an offer. His hair is a little wild from running his hand through it too many times. His shirt is slightly rumpled from leaning too far across the table to double check addresses. His face is tired but glowing in the way it gets when he’s fully immersed in something. Even this.

Even you.

“I do want to elope,” you say, voice light. “Right after we lick seventy six more envelopes and threaten each other over the font size on the return address.”

Jack gives a quiet, exaggerated shudder. “You adjusted the kerning again, didn’t you?”

“I like even spacing!”

“You are chaos incarnate,” he mutters fondly, sealing another envelope with the wax stamp you bought off Etsy at 2:00 a.m. on a whim. There’s something special in the way he handles it. Not just careful, but intentional. Like every invitation is a promise. Not just to your guests, but to each other. It’s such a small thing. But Jack’s always understood the weight of small things. You stare for a moment longer, chest tight with something unspoken.

“Hey,” you murmur, setting down your envelope. “Can I ask you something?”

He looks up immediately, eyes alert, not worried, just open in that way he only is with you. It still makes your heart ache, how freely he listens. “Always.”

“When’s the last time you RSVP’d to something?”

It’s a question born of nothing. A whim. Or maybe not.

But Jack stills.

Not dramatically. Just entirely. His hands still, the seal halfway lifted. His shoulders freeze in place. His eyes go somewhere else for a long moment. Then, finally, he sets the seal down and says, quietly, “My friend Caleb’s funeral.”

You don’t move.

Jack doesn’t either.

“He was in my unit,” he adds, voice lower now. “Didn’t make it home. The funeral was back in Boston. They sent the invite in an envelope like this. Heavy paper. Formal. Starched. With his name misspelled on the return address.”

You reach for his hand before you think it through. You just move. He lets you. Doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t look at you, either. His eyes stay on the stack of finished invitations, like they’re keeping him tethered.

“I didn’t go,” he says after a while.

Your voice is soft. “Why not?”

He draws a breath. Holds it. Lets it go slowly, through his nose.

“Because then it would have been real.”

Your throat catches. Jack’s eyes flick toward you then, like he’s checking your reaction even though he doesn’t want to. Or maybe because he needs to. You squeeze his hand. You don’t speak. You just hold him steady.

“It felt like... if I went, if I said yes to that... that would be the shape of my future,” he continues. “Loss. Grief. Empty chairs. I wasn’t ready to make that kind of peace.”

There’s a pause. His grip tightens around yours. “It’s not that I didn’t care. I just couldn’t...”

You’re quiet for a long moment.

Then you shift toward him, still sitting on the floor, knees brushing his. “Jack,” you whisper. “You’ve said yes to so many things since then.”

“I know,” he says. “But this one, this whole wedding thing, it’s the first time in years where I feel like I’m not waiting for something to go wrong. I’m not just surviving. I’m—” He breaks off. Starts again. “It means something different now.”

“What does?”

“Saying yes. To this. To you. To us.” He swallows. “It doesn’t feel like the end of anything.”

“It’s not,” you say, fierce and low. “It’s the opposite.”

Jack shifts off his chair and sinks down to the floor beside you, knees pulled up, hands laced in yours. “You know how we said we’d call each other when we’re 'stuck on the roof'?” he asks suddenly.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“Well...” he squeezes your hand. “I think I also need to call you when I get stuck on the floor. Inside my head. Inside some old envelope that showed up eight years too late.”

You nod. Your voice is rough. “Deal.”

He kisses you. Slowly. The envelopes dwindle. The light shifts across the kitchen. Outside, a neighbor’s lawn mower hums. A dog barks at nothing in particular. Somewhere far off, the city goes on, unaware.

You sit there in the middle of it. Legs tangled. Tea gone cold. Surrounded by stacks of hand-written names and tiny declarations of presence.

Later, just before the sun sets, you gather the last of the invitations and slide them into the box. Jack walks beside you down the driveway, the early evening sun casting long shadows across the sidewalk. His fingers brush yours the whole way.

You pause at the mailbox. It feels... ceremonial.

Jack looks at you. “Ready?”

You look back at him. “Yeah. You?”

His nod is slow. Steady. “Yeah.”

3 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 4:02 PM | Downtown Pittsburgh ✧ Lesson Fourteen: Love Is Sharing the Blueprint

The office is warmer than you expect. Not by temperature, but by tone. There’s golden afternoon light catching on the glass table, a faint smell of espresso drifting from a side counter, and a little dish of peppermint bark sitting like a dare beside a crystal coaster. Outside, the city hums. You can see the tops of yellow bridges cutting across the Monongahela, traffic crawling like toy cars.

Jack sits beside you, relaxed but alert, still wearing his scrubs beneath a quarter zip. Badge clipped. It’s almost 4PM; he’ll be heading straight to the hospital after this meeting. He doesn’t say anything when he notices the bowl of peppermint bark on the table, just quietly nudges it toward you like an unspoken offering.

“I’m not getting roped into another Are Roth IRAs Romantic? podcast after this,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.

You nudge his ankle with yours under the table. “You liked that episode. You said the hosts had good banter.”

“I said they had predictable banter,” he corrects. “One of them mispronounced ‘fiduciary’ three times. I was physically in pain.”

Across the desk, Annette, your financial planner, late fourties, elegant sweater set, kind eyes, a well practiced brow raise, smiles without looking up. “You two always talk like this?”

“Only when money’s involved,” you say, and Jack makes a noise of quiet agreement.

Annette closes the folder she’s been reviewing. “Well, I’ll say this. You’re ahead of most couples I meet three months before a wedding. Joint checking, good credit scores, already fighting about the candy dish on your registry…”

Jack leans back. “It’s a skull. With fangs. It’s delightful.”

“It’s a Halloween decoration,” you say. “It's not even October."

“Which is exactly when one should prepare for spooky season and buy it early,” Jack replies.

Annette clears her throat gently, smiling. “Let’s get into it, then.”

She moves easily through the numbers. Earnings, benefits, deductions. The two of you answer questions about emergency funds, insurance, whose student loans still exist (yours). Jack answers most things with dry, grounded precision, occasionally passing you a sticky note or circling a detail he wants to revisit. You feel the rhythm of the thing between you. But the shift happens like it always does... with a question that you aren't prepared for.

Annette sets her pen down.

“And how are you both feeling about long-term planning?” she asks. “Five years out, ten?”

There’s a pause. Not the awkward kind... just the kind that asks you both to reach for something a little deeper. You glance at Jack. He’s already looking at you.

“I think,” you start, slowly, “we’re trying to take it one thing at a time. Wedding first. House projects. Then... see what we grow into.”

Jack’s quiet a moment longer. Then: “I want to start a savings account.”

Annette tilts her head. “For what specifically?”

Jack doesn’t look at her. He looks at you.

“For a kid,” he says simply.

You blink.

There’s no hesitation in the way he says it. No performance, no apology. “I mean—” he continues, eyes still on you, voice softer now. “Not tomorrow. Or even next year. I just... want to start planning like we believe we’ll get there. Like we’ll be ready.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs. You sit with it. With him. With the man who once admitted that for years, he didn’t RSVP to things because it felt like making a promise the world would take away. And now he’s sitting in an office with paperclips shaped like dollar signs and a coffee ring on his printout, saying he wants to open a savings account for your future child.

You clear your throat. “You really want to?”

Jack gives the smallest nod. “I do.”

And not the wedding kind of I do. The this is what I’m choosing, every day kind. “I know I talk about wanting control,” you admit. “Budgets. Plans. Lists. It’s how I survived for a long time. After my dad died... things stopped feeling stable. Money especially. So I overcompensated. I still do.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. He just slides his hand and brushes his thumb over yours. You keep going. “But with you... it’s different. It’s not about trying to protect myself anymore.”

He looks at you like you’re the most legible thing in the room. Annette clears her throat, but there’s a softness in her eyes. “Would you like to set up a short-term and long-term goal tracker? Just the basics: house, retirement, hypothetical mini-human?”

Jack grins faintly. “Throw in a new vacuum. Ours doesn't like the stairs.”

“I’ll make a note,” Annette says, flipping a tab on her binder.

The meeting wraps with warm handshakes and follow up dates. You leave with a slight ache in your throat, and a new joint account scheduled to open next month titled “Future Projects.”

In the parking garage, the air smells like cement and late summer. Jack walks with one hand in his pocket, the other brushing against yours. You stop by your car. “You really want to save for that?” you ask quietly. “Even if it’s still just a... maybe?”

Jack shrugs. “I don’t think it’s about certainty. I think it’s about faith.”

You lean into him, forehead against his shoulder.

“Maybe we can start small,” you murmur. “Like... every time we skip takeout or return something impulsive, we put twenty dollars in the account.”

Jack hums. “So far we’ve returned a decorative vase, an extra toaster, and sequined napkin rings.”

You grin. “So... sixty bucks and counting.”

He tilts his head and kisses your temple. “Look at us. Practically billionaires.”

You don’t say anything.

You just lean there, pressed into the warm beat of his chest, the folder with your blueprint tucked between you.

2 Months Until the Wedding — Thursday, 5:11 PM | Their Backyard ✧ Lesson Fifteen: Love Is Letting It Be Messy

There’s a suspicious gurgle from the corner of the yard.

You glance up from where you’re kneeling in the dirt. Gloves muddy and sweat dripping down your neck despite the breeze. Jack’s by the hose spigot, frowning down at the PVC pipes you both thought would make a perfectly straightforward raised bed irrigation system.

That gurgle? It turns into a hiss.

Then a pop.

Then a full pressure geyser.

You barely have time to yelp before it hits, an arc of cold water blasting Jack in the chest. He stands there, dripping. You don’t laugh. You shouldn’t laugh.

But you do. Helplessly. Loudly. The kind of laughter that curls your shoulders and steals your breath, muddy gloves pressed to your face. Jack just stares at you. Soaked. Hair plastered back. T-shirt transparent against the muscle of his chest. He blinks. Water drips from his nose. “You find this funny?”

You nod, gasping. “Oh my god, I think this is the best day of my life.”

He glances down at himself. “Well, whose idea was it to do ‘just a little weeding and measuring’ before dinner?” he asks, stepping carefully over the spray like he’s walking through landmines. “Whose grand plan was the backyard irrigation system?”

“Yours.”

Jack levels you with a look. “No. I said, ‘We should probably look into drip irrigation.’ You said, ‘We’re smart. We can DIY.’ And then you watched a TikTok and ordered pipe fittings.”

You blink. “You seemed excited.”

“I was tired. I was impressionable.”

You tug off your gloves and wipe your brow with your forearm, still grinning. “Do you regret saying yes yet?”

Jack tilts his head, water still running down his jawline. “To the irrigation system? Yes. To you? Never.”

That wipes the smirk off your face. Because even now, mud-streaked and sun-tired and definitely going to need a plumber... Jack Abbot still looks at you like there’s no place he’d rather be than ankle-deep in a mess you made together.

You drop the gloves. Walk toward him.

He meets you halfway.

“You’re soaking wet,” you murmur.

“You’re filthy,” he says, brushing a thumb against your cheekbone where dirt smudged.

You loop your arms around his neck. “Perfect match.”

He kisses you and it's warm despite the cold spray still misting around you. You taste water and earth and something sweeter, deeper. Home.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. “You know this means we’re showering before dinner, right?”

You smirk. “Together?”

Jack sighs dramatically. “For water conservation.”

“Sure,” you say, stepping closer. “For the environment.”

He kisses you again.

Somewhere behind you, the hose explodes off the connector with a comical pop. Neither of you move.

Eventually, you call a real plumber. But you keep the crooked garden bed just the way it is. Half-built, half-wrecked, and entirely yours.

Because the thing about building a life with someone like Jack Abbot is that it’s never going to be clean.

It’s going to be messy.

Imperfect.

Soaked to the bone, blistered hands, laugh until you cry kind of messy.

And if you’re lucky?

It’s the kind of mess you both keep choosing. Over and over again.

1 Month Until the Wedding — Friday, 7:12 PM | Their House ✧ Lesson Sixteen: Love Is in the Ordinary Hours

The dryer hums like a lullaby you don’t remember learning as a child.

You’re sitting on the hallway floor. Legs tucked under you, fingers combing absently through a basket of clean laundry that smells like cedar and soap and the detergent Jack picked out because it “smelled like something you’d like.”

The overhead light flickers once before settling. The sky outside is pinking at the edges, and the air feels like summer wanting to stay.

Jack is here.

Dressed in his scrubs—black, slightly wrinkled from where they sat at the bottom of the clean pile. He’s half-sitting, half-sprawled across from you, one socked foot nudging yours beneath the basket. He smells like mint and steam and the smallest trace of your shampoo.

He’s supposed to be at work in twenty minutes.

The towel in your hand goes unfolded for the third time.

Jack watches you with that half-smile... the one that starts in the corner of his mouth and makes you feel like you’re glowing even when you’re just folding bath towels and trying not to cry over how close it all is now. One month. Thirty days. Four Friday nights.

“You know,” he says, voice low, teasing, “if you keep folding the same towel over and over again, I’m going to start thinking you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you lie.

He tilts his head.

You groan and bury your face in the towel. “Fine. I’m nervous.”

Jack leans back. “Talk to me.”

You pull your knees up to your chest, still holding the towel. “I don’t even know what I’m nervous about. It’s not the getting married part. It’s not you. It’s—god, I don’t know. I think it’s just that everything’s about to... happen. And I keep thinking about how I want it to feel, and what if I mess it up?”

Jack exhales and reaches across the laundry pile to gently tug the towel from your hands. He folds it neatly. Of course he does, surgical corners, and sets it aside.

“You won’t mess it up,” he says simply.

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re you,” he says. “And you love me. And I know that like I know how to put pressure on a wound.”

You blink. “That’s your metaphor?”

“I’m not a poet,” he says. “I’m a trauma doctor. It’s the highest praise I’ve got.”

You laugh, breath catching. “Well, in that case.”

Jack grins and reaches for another towel. Folds it perfectly. Sets it aside.

You let yourself watch him for a moment. The ease of him. The steadiness. The way he anchors you without even meaning to. Then you sit up straighter. “Okay. But we still haven’t written our vows.”

Jack doesn’t look up. “I have.”

You stare. “What?”

“I mean—they’re messy. And they’re not done. And there’s definitely a metaphor about drywall I need to workshop. But yeah. I started.”

“You told me we’d write them together.”

“I know. I lied. I was lovesick and weak.”

You swat him with a pair of socks.

He just smirks.

You narrow your eyes. “Well, I’m writing mine in private.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Oh, we’re doing secret vows now?”

“I want them to be a surprise,” you say, firm. “I want you to hear them for the first time when I say them. On the day. With everything.”

Jack quiets. Something flickers in his eyes. “Okay,” he says, softer now. “Yeah. That’s... yeah. That’s good.”

“You sure?” you ask, suddenly nervous again.

He nods. “If that’s what you want.”

You study his face.

He’s quiet.

Then, still watching you, “I might cry.”

Your heart thumps.

You whisper, “Really?”

He shrugs a little, like it’s no big deal. “I almost did when you added me to the grocery list app when we started dating. That felt like commitment.”

You snort. “Jack.”

“I’m serious. I was seen.”

You’re laughing now, full on, and then you’re leaning forward and grabbing his face and kissing him hard enough to tip the laundry basket sideways.

He kisses you back with all the quiet passion you love about him. His hand at your jaw, his other arm sliding around your waist. The laundry shifts beneath you. You don’t care.

You pull back, breathless. “Okay. Then I have a surprise for you.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. “What kind of surprise?”

You grin. “Wedding night. But you have to wait.”

His voice drops. “You’re cruel.”

“You like it.”

He nods solemnly. “Desperately.”

You kiss his cheek. “You’re going to love it.”

“I already love you,” he says.

You pause.

He means it. You can feel it in your bones. You sit there on the floor, pressed together, surrounded by socks and half folded towels, and suddenly your eyes sting with the weight of how much this is.

You reach for his hand. “I can’t wait to marry you.”

He squeezes it. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Jack checks the time and sighs. “I really do have to go.”

You groan and flop onto the floor. “Nooooo.”

He stands, leans down, kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.

Just before he reaches the door, you call after him.

“Jack?”

He turns.

You give him the softest smile you’ve got.

“Promise me you won’t cry before I get through my whole vows. You have to make it through. I’m dramatic, structured and I need the audience.”

Jack grins. “I’ll try.”

“You have to.”

He opens the door.

“I’ll do my best,” he says. “But you have no idea what you sound like when you’re in love. It’s lethal.”

Then he disappears into the night shift air, the door shutting gently behind him. You’re still sitting on the floor. The laundry is still warm. And somewhere in the pile, half folded, slightly wrinkled, is the T-shirt you’re planning to wear while you get ready for your wedding.

You pick it up.

And tucked beneath it, where you’re positive you didn’t put it—is a sheet of paper. Folded twice. Your name is on the front. Jack’s handwriting.

You freeze.

Your fingers tremble.

Then—footsteps on the porch.

You look up.

The door opens again.

Jack’s head pokes back in through the door, one eyebrow raised, that familiar crooked smile already in place.

You blink, caught between the paper in your hand and the man in your doorway.

Jack grins.

“Whatever surprise you’re saving for our wedding night…” he pauses, voice dropping, eyes steady, teasing but real. “Just know I’ve been in love with you through every version of you. And I’m not surviving that night. I’m surrendering.”

Then he’s gone again.

And the wedding is suddenly, wildly, heartbreakingly close.

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