#something possessed me for 4 hours

[washingtonwhitemarkiplier]

REARRANGE THEIR WIRES!!!

(+alt and another doodle)

[crystallizsch]

the idea of being soulmates~

[ part 2 EVENTUALLY.... ]

[yasminawayne]

PART I. 100 Object Boyfriends vs One Ex-Boyfriend

SYNOPSIS: Your ex is coming at 7:00 AM to pick up his stuff. Your object boyfriends have other plans.

TAGS: GN!Reader, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Protective everyone, Hurt/Comfort if you squint, Mild Angst, Fluff with Feelings

W.C: 6.8k | CHARACTERS: Dorian, Dirk, Hanks, Johnny Splash, Barry Styles, Daisuke, Timothy/Timmy!

A/N: Ignore the Dateviators plot hole 😍 Pretend it’s surgically injected into your retinas

PART II HERE

AO3: yasminwayne Ko-Fi: buy me a coffee!

"…Can we still hit him?" "No," you said firmly, not slowing your pace as you walked toward the closet door, the box steady in your grip. "Throw something at him?" Hank 4 asked, hopeful as ever. "..." You paused. "We’ll talk about it." "Fuck yeah!"

IT HAD STARTED AS A QUIET MORNING, just you, the sink full of dishes, and the hum of the house stretching itself awake.

"Daisuke," you giggled, squirming as a cold hand brushed the exposed skin just beneath your shirt hem. "Stooop—I’m trying to give the dishes a bath."

You were elbow-deep in suds, fighting a hardened chunk of rice that refused to let go of the ceramic plate. The faucet hissed, warm steam curling around your face. But even through that, through the clatter of dishes and the citrus scent of dish soap, you felt him before you heard him. He pressed in behind you, quiet as always, but present. The faint scent of warm porcelain and stainless steel polish clung to him like cologne.

"And yet," he murmured, voice low and smooth like ceramic, "you neglect me."

His breath was cool against your nape, sending goosebumps scattering across your spine.

You laughed as you squirted soap onto a plate. "You are not one of the dishes."

"Is that so?" he replied softly. 

One hand slid past your waist, plucking a mug from the drying rack. His fingers, pale and long, traced the rim as if it were a sacred object. "A forgotten favorite. Used, scrubbed, and left to dry without affection."

"Oh my god," you muttered, trying and failing to hide your smile. "You are so dramatic."

He said nothing, but you could feel the ripple of amusement beneath his stillness. A moment later, both hands returned to settle at your waist.

"You’ve been standing for too long."

You blinked. "I’m fine?"

"Your back will ache. Again." He paused, gaze dropping deliberately down the line of your spine, as though mentally cataloging every knot of tension waiting to bloom. "Sit. I’ll handle the rest."

You turned to face him, suds clinging to your forearms, a soft frown tugging at your brow. "You’re such a worrywart."

Daisuke’s expression barely shifted, but you caught it. That tiny pull at the corner of his mouth. 

"You exhaust yourself," he said, voice low and clipped. "Running about this house, tending to everyone but yourself. It has been less than twenty-four hours since your last injury, and already you are moving."

Your breath caught at the softness buried beneath his deadpan delivery.

"…You’re such a dork," you whispered.

He leaned in, tapping his forehead gently to yours.

"And you are a menace to dishware. The plate you’re holding is from my spring collection. Irreplaceable."

"Then don’t leave it where I can touch it," you challenged, even as you let him pluck it gently from your hands.

"Exactly my point."

You rolled your eyes and huffed, but didn’t protest when he dried your hands with a towel, fingers brushing yours with infuriating tenderness. He guided you away from the sink with a hand at the small of your back, leading you toward the dining table.

When he pulled out a chair and sat down, you didn’t bother with the other seat. Instead, you just flopped sideways across his lap, limbs loose, arms slung around his neck like it was your throne by birthright. Daisuke let out a quiet, almost exasperated sigh, but his hand came up without hesitation to steady you, palm resting warm and certain against your back.

You tilted your head toward the other end of the dining table, where Timothy sat primly on one of the chairs. Legs crossed, clipboard angled just-so, and his sleek golden timepiece cradled delicately in his gloved hand.

His ears twitched once. Tail flicked twice.

Without glancing up, he announced in his smooth, static-laced cadence, "Thirty minutes, thirty-nine seconds until the next schhhhedule."

You leaned over Daisuke’s arm to reach Timothy, your hand settling between his twitching ears. His fur bristled beneath your touch, but he let out a soft, involuntary purr as he leaned into your palm.

"Morning, baby," you cooed, scratching gently behind one velvety ear. "What schhhhedule?"

Timothy rolled his eyes at your teasing but didn’t dignify it with a response, not right away. He just exhaled, slow and pointed, then flipped the clipboard toward you with a flat glare.

"The one you instructed me to note." His ears twitched. "Precisely thirty minutes from now. A meeting schhhheduled to take place here, in your residence."

It hit you all at once, like a cold glass of water hurled in your face.

Your brain stalled. It completely locked up. You could practically hear the internal hard drive spinning, whirring uselessly in search of a backup you never bothered to make. The rest of the room blurred into background static. All you could see was the clipboard in Timothy’s hands… and the slip of paper pinned dead center like a death warrant.

Your handwriting. Your pink gel pen. That dumb, cheerful to-do list, scrawled.

Pick-up for clothes – 7:00 AM. Don’t let it get weird.

It was already weird.

Your chest tightened, and then you launched off Daisuke’s lap. The chair leg caught your ankle mid-motion, nearly sending you sprawling face-first into the hardwood. You caught yourself just in time, one hand gripping the back of another chair, breath coming fast and uneven.

The living room snapped into focus, and now that you were seeing it, really seeing it, every flaw screamed at you.

No vacuuming. Of course there wasn’t! Why would you think ahead like that? A fine layer of dust still clung to the side table, right where you’d been chatting with Dolly last night.

Three jackets were flung over the coat rack, thanks to Dirk. Sock ropes, actual tied-up sock ropes, dangled off the couch, remnants of the "couch climbing" the Hanks did two nights ago.

The coffee table was a disaster zone from your last drink experiments with Kopi and Beverly. Powdered creamer clung to the surface like a dusting of snow, several half-empty cocktail glasses were scattered across limp napkins, and one mug of oat milk sat forgotten, slowly spoiling, still bearing a lipstick stain on the rim.

No coaster, of course.

And worst of all, you hadn’t told anyone your ex was coming over.

"Tim!" you finally choked out. "Why didn’t you remind me earlier?!"

Timothy, unfazed by your panic, tilted his head and reached calmly into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small black cube, thumbed the side, and clicked it once. Your own voice crackled out in tinny audio:

"If I forget, that’s a sign from the universe that I wasn’t meant to remember."

You stared at him, jaw open. "You’re supposed to override me when I’m being stupid!"

Timothy sniffed, flipping the clipboard closed with a tidy little snap. "Beloved, if I overrode you every time you were being stupid, I wouldn’t have time to wind myself."

You nearly screamed.

Behind you, Daisuke shifted in his chair. You heard the quiet rustle of fabric, followed by the soft clink of a plate being set down on the counter with care.

"Who’s coming?" Daisuke’s voice came from behind you, but you couldn’t get a word out. Just stood there like an idiot, mouth working uselessly, opening and closing like a fish pulled out of water.

Timothy, sensing the spike in tension like a radar ping, clicked his stopwatch again. The sound was sharper this time, more clipped.

"Twenty-nine minutes, seventeen seconds," Timothy murmured. His ears flattened, and unease flickered in his eyes as he shot you a quick glance from the corner of his vision. "You’re unraveling? You are never this worried over your schhhedules."

You let out a shaky, half-laugh of a breath and dug your fingers into your hair, close to spiraling.

"Oh my god," you rasped. "Oh my god, I gotta—I have to shower. I have to get ready. My ex is coming over here!"

The silence that followed hit like a dropped weight.

Timothy froze, every line of his body drawn tight and still. Similarly, Daisuke’s hand slipped slightly, fingers curling hard around the edge of the chair like he’d just remembered it was there. Neither said a word, but something bristled in the air.

You didn’t stick around to explain. Your heart was already thundering in your chest as you turned on your heel and bolted up the stairs, two at a time.

As your footsteps faded up the stairs, Timothy’s expression soured. He stared down at his clipboard, ears still flat against his skull. The pen in his hand clicked once, twice, three times. Each press sharper than the last until he slashed angry lines of ink across the scheduled meeting on the page.

Daisuke glanced over, brow raised, but said nothing. 

Timothy’s tail gave a single flick behind him. 

"Well," he muttered, voice clipped and cool, almost mechanical in its precision, "perhaps I ought to have let them forget."

You burst into the laundry room mid-strip, breath coming fast, one arm still jammed halfway through your shirt sleeve. A towel dangled from your teeth, and your socks made a pitiful slap-slap against the tile as you skidded to a halt. 

"Hey," Dirk said casually, without even glancing up. He had a hip propped up against Drysdale, folding a towel one-handed.

You made a sound that was meant to be words but came out closer to a dying goose. Then, in your frantic tangle of limbs and laundry, one of your socks decided to fling itself from your foot and strike Dirk squarely in the chest.

"Wow," Dirk said flatly, holding the sock between two fingers. He held it between two fingers, arm fully extended as if the thing might bite him. His nose wrinkled ever so slightly in mock disgust, and he gave you a look. "Bold choice. Weaponizing laundry."

"Emergency," you wheezed, still halfway trapped in your shirt like it was trying to strangle you. "Defcon Five. Incoming Ex-Situation. Shower critical."

Dirk quirked a brow. "Oh, so we’re panicking."

"I’m not panicking!" You finally yanked the shirt off, hair sticking up like static. You flung the shirt towards Harper. It missed. Badly.

With a frustrated groan, you started unzipping your pants with one hand while rummaging through a pile of your towels with the other. "Okay, I didn’t plan for this. Obviously. I forgot. I forgot on purpose. And now I have to de-gremlin myself in under twenty minutes before they walk in and think I’ve been living in a hoarder den slash emotional bunker!"

Dirk raised both hands in a slow, exaggerated shrug. "So... Thursday."

"Dirk."

"I’m just saying, baby," he said, completely unbothered, swinging one leg over the edge of Drysdale. "You keep describing your normal day and calling it an emergency."

Before you could throw a quip back, you tripped over your half-peeled jeans and slammed shoulder-first into the open dryer door with a loud thunk.

Dirk cringed. He straightened immediately, legs dropping to the floor as his relaxed posture vanished in an instant. 

"Okay," he said slowly, "let’s not concuss ourselves in a towel. That’s a very unsexy way to die."

You groaned, wincing as you pressed a hand to your shoulder and used the washer to keep from sliding straight to the floor. "Fantastic. Just kill me. Honestly. I’d prefer that to facing my ex."

"Don’t say that." His voice cut in fast, sharper than he meant it to be. He paused, then sighed through his nose, arms folding. "You know I hate it when you make jokes like that."

There was a beat of silence. Then, like flipping a switch, he looked away and rolled his eyes.

"Anyway," he muttered, "if you do keel over, I’m not dragging your corpse upstairs. I’ll throw a blanket over you and call Farya. Let her deal with it."

"I’m fine," you groaned, "Look. If they get here before I’m out of the shower… stall them, okay?"

"Define stall," Dirk said blandly. "I’m literally a pile of clothes."

You let out a strangled noise and buried your face in your hands, palms digging hard into your eyes. "Oh my god. This is such a mess!"

Dirk’s smirk cracked just slightly. He crossed the room and slung an arm around your waist, draping himself over your barely-toweled form. He pressed a kiss to your cheek. Then another, soft and slow on your jaw. Then lower, trailing warm across your neck.

"Does he really have to come get those clothes?" Dirk murmured, low and careful, like he didn’t want to startle the moment. "I mean… we could throw them in Cam. Or leave them in the front yard. Let him fetch. Like the dog he is."

You turned to glare at him, but your breath hitched before you could speak because his lips brushed under your ear again.

"You could stay," he said, quieter now, fingers tightening at your waist. "Forget the damn guy. Stay here. With me."

Then his mouth dragged slowly along your jaw, the scrape of his teeth light. His next kiss landed just below your ear, then lower. He sucked a mark into the soft skin at the curve of your neck, and the sound that left your throat wasn’t voluntary.

Your hand shot out to grip the edge of the dryer, knuckles white. Your knees barely held.

"Maybe bring the Hanks in," Dirk added, his breath hot where it ghosted across your skin. "Make it a whole event. Let them watch while I remind you how his name hasn’t come out of your mouth once while you were under me."

You swallowed hard, mind blanking. The tension between your bodies was molten, heavy. The towel was barely staying on.

"Are you—" you tried, throat dry, "—are you seriously seducing me out of taking a shower?"

Dirk just smiled. That crooked, lazy smirk of his that always spelled danger. His thigh slid between yours, hand still low on your towel, thumb brushing the dip of your spine.

"Wouldn’t be the first time," he said smoothly, tilting your chin so you met his eyes. They were dark now, full of unspoken things. "And honestly? If it keeps him from seeing you like this… I’ll do a hell of a lot more than kiss your neck."

Your breath stuttered. Every nerve in your body seemed tuned to his touch.

Dirk leaned in, mouth brushing just below your collarbone now. "Why should he get a version of you I have to live without?"

You exhaled hard, arms crossing over your towel. 

"Dirk…"

"I know," he snapped. "I know. You’re not going back to him. You’re just... doing the responsible thing. Tying up loose ends."

You nodded, barely.

Dirk’s jaw clenched. "Still feels like hell."

You reached up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the skin just beneath his eye. "It’s not about him," you murmured. "You know that, right?"

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you a moment longer, then finally stepped back.

"Fine. Whatever. Go on," he said, voice flatter now, retreating into something colder. "Get cleaned up."

You hesitated. Then kissed him on the corner of his mouth. "No loose ends."

And then you turned and disappeared down the hall. Behind you, Dirk stayed rooted in place. He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a low, shaky breath.

"Don’t take too long."

The shower was already running, the room thick with steam and the scent of soap clinging to the air like a second skin. You barely managed to close the door behind you before the heat kissed your cheeks, curling the edges of your hair and drawing sweat from your skin. You tossed the towel aside and stepped in without ceremony, urgency buzzing under your skin.

"Well, well," came that slow, familiar drawl. Slick as honey over warm porcelain. "Ain’t you just the prettiest little storm I ever did see?"

Johnny stood inside, already half-formed from mist and heat, one hip propped against the fogged glass wall like he’d been expecting you. His eyes swept over your naked form with zero shame.

"Thought maybe you were ignorin’ me today, darlin’," he went on, voice slow and syrup-thick. "But here you are. Lookin’ like heaven and hell got together and made a mess just for me."

"Johnny," you groaned, stepping in and letting the spray slam against your shoulders. You tipped your head forward, water tracing down your spine. "This is not the time. I am officially spiraling."

"Mm," he hummed, unconcerned. "And you spiral so pretty. Plus, that’s cruel, baby. Walkin’ in here all glistening and flushed and expectin’ me to act like a gentleman."

"My ex is on the way," you hissed, yanking open the shampoo. "I forgot. I literally blocked it out. And now I have—" You stopped mid-sentence, scrambling through your mental schedule with wild-eyed dread. "—Five minutes. Maybe."

Johnny let out a low whistle, folding his arms across his chest. "Mmm. Sounds like you need a deep soak and a whole lotta Johnny love." 

Then, stepping in a little closer, eyes gleaming with mischief. "But I s’pose I can work with five."

You gave him a flat look. "Johnny. I am naked. In you. That does not mean this is a flirt window."

He raised both hands in mock surrender. "What? You always look like you got it together, sweetheart."

Johnny’s voice dropped, warm and low like the water wrapping around your shoulders. "Even when you’re fallin’ apart, you shine. Makes me wanna hold you ’til the world forgets how to hurt ya."

You blinked up at him, just for a second. Just long enough to feel your pulse slow beneath the heat and the quiet care in his gaze.

"Johnny…"

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Ain’t gonna stop ya from washin’, baby," he murmured. "But don’t you go thinkin’ you gotta face that fool out there without knowin’ there’s a whole mess’a people in this house who already worship the ground you trip over."

You sighed, letting your shoulders relax. "Thanks, Johnny."

He hummed softly, then slipped into one of his off-key tunes—just for you. The melody wobbled all over the place, a half-sung mess, but it made everything feel a little less frantic.

A few minutes later, you stepped out of the shower, towel cinched tight around your body. Your hair dripped steadily onto the tile, and water still clung to your arms and shoulders. You were halfway to the sink, reaching for your toothbrush, when Johnny’s fingers brushed across your collarbone.

"Hold up, sugar," he said, stepping into your space. "You got somethin’ right here…"

He tapped just below your neck with the back of his knuckle, casual as anything. "Little love bite, bloomin’ like spring."

You froze. Then turned sharply on your heel, bare feet squeaking slightly on the tiled floor as you leaned in toward the mirror. The glass was fogged up, but not enough to hide the purpling splotch on the side of your neck. It was front and center, impossible to miss.

Your jaw dropped. "DIRK!" you shrieked, voice bouncing off the walls. "I swear to God!"

Right on cue, Barry’s voice drifted in, light and sing-song. "Darling, breathe. Stress gives you texture."

You spun toward him, panicking. "Barry, I have four minutes and a full-on hickey on my neck!"

"Four minutes? Four? Hun, that is nothing. Right, then! Let's start moving. We are focused and we’re fabulous under pressure!" He was already hovering near the vanity, makeup brushes orbiting his shoulders like tiny satellites. 

"Brush... where’s your brush? No, not that one, that one—!" He snatched a toothbrush from the cup, passed it to you, then shoved a bottle of foundation into your palm in one seamless motion. "Toothpaste. Yes. Open—mouth, not complaints."

You blinked. Then sighed through your nose and obeyed as he popped the toothbrush between your lips.

Mouth full of foam, you grumbled around the bristles, "I hate this."

"Oh, I know, darling, and I cherish you for it," he said breezily, already rearranging his brush set. "Hate gives you an edge. Very retro."

After brushing, you leaned over the sink and spat, then wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. When you looked up, your eyes went straight to the blotchy mark blooming across your neck.

You jabbed a finger at your reflection. "When this is over," you said flatly, "I’m slapping Dirk’s smug little grin clean off his face."

Barry didn’t even blink. "He’ll love that. Start with the left cheek. It’s his better side. You’ll get a cleaner echo on the second slap."

You just shook your head and started fumbling with the bottle of foundation, the cap already halfway off, ready to slap some dignity back onto your neck. But before you could even squeeze a drop, the weight disappeared from your hand.

You blinked. "Huh?"

Your eyes darted to the counter just in time to catch Barry sliding the bottle back into the drawer. The soft click of it closing felt louder than it should have. His fingers lingered on the handle, but his gaze was fixed on Amir.

"…Did you just take that away from me?"

He didn’t flinch. "Mm. Yep."

"Why?!"

"I changed my mind, darling."

"I need that."

"No, no, no—no," Barry said, swatting the air like your argument was a mosquito. "You want that, but what you actually need, boo boo bear, is to strut out that door in the next sixty seconds with your chin high, your energy radiant, and that bite on full, glorious display."

You pointed wildly at your own reflection. "My ex is going to see the mark!"

Barry turned, squinted at your neck, and made a thoughtful noise. "Mmm… yes! Bold placement. Strong colour story. Bit messy around the edges, but honestly? I’ve seen worse lining."

"You’ve lost your mind," you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. "New plan! After I slap Dirk, I’m slapping you."

"Ooh, spicy," he chirped, already spinning you toward the door by the shoulders. "Just use the wrist, not the elbow. Now go! Shoo! Time is ticking!"

With a groan and a muttered curse, you bolted from the room, towel flapping around your legs, damp footprints chasing behind you.

The moment the door clicked shut, Johnny let out a low whistle, his grin already stretching ear to ear.

"Damn thing’s redder’n a fox in a henhouse," he drawled, arms folded across his chest. "Plain as day. Lookin’ like it was hand-delivered. Hoo—their ex’s gon’ take one look and forget his damn name."

Barry didn’t even glance up. He just gave a hum of satisfaction as he tidied the counter. "Good. I hope he chokes on it. I hope it’s the first thing he sees, and I hope it haunts him in every mirror for the rest of his sad little life."

He reached for a lipstick tube, uncapped it with a satisfying click, and held it up to the light, eyeing the color. "Mm. Should’ve outlined it. Crimson would’ve been stunning. Maybe a little shimmer. No... black. Black with a gloss finish. Or! Oooh! Ombre. Scarlet fading to wine. Very femme fatale, very sexy, very fabulous. Honestly, missed opportunity."

Johnny let out a low whistle, amused. "You’re cold, sugar. Still. Gotta admit. I like the bite. Looks real fine on them. Real fine."

You trudged up the stairs, one hand gripping your towel, the other clutching the banister. Your fingers were damp, still a little pruny from the shower, but it wasn’t the water making them shake.

The railing slipped a little under your palm. Your breath caught.

"Get it together," you muttered under your breath.

At the top landing, you slipped into your room and shut the door behind you, careful not to let the knob click too loudly. Then you just stood there, forehead resting against the wood, letting the silence wrap around you.

Your hair clung to the back of your neck, still wet. Your skin, warm from the steam, prickled in the sudden cool. The air in your room felt sharper than it should have. Colder.

It was stupid. You knew that. Just a box of clothes. Just a simple, civil drop-off. He was coming to get the last of his things. Some stuff you’d forgotten was even his. A hoodie, maybe a book. Socks. Nothing that should’ve been heavy. Nothing that should’ve made you feel like your spine was caving in.

And yet, the thought of hearing his voice again. Of opening the door and seeing him standing there, same face, same tone, that awful familiar pause before he said your name, tightened your throat like a noose. 

You didn’t notice the shift in front of you until your balance tilted just slightly. The door didn’t feel like a door anymore. It was warmer now. Solid in a different way.

You blinked and looked up to see Dorian.

"Hey, love," he murmured, arm already wrapped securely around your waist. And then, gently, the fingers of his other hand slipped into your damp hair, slow and careful, and pressed to the back of your head in the lightest cradle. His thumb moved once behind your ear, and for some reason, that was the thing that unspooled your chest.

"You don’t have to open the door," he said simply. Like he was stating a fact. 

"He’s just coming to pick up his stuff," you said, the words small in your mouth.

Dorian was quiet for a moment. Like he was weighing something he didn’t want to press you with. Then, without shifting his grip, he drew his palm slowly down your back, letting it settle against the middle of your spine. His touch was warm. Centering.

"He’s not coming in," he said finally, like he'd already decided it, and the world would bend to that decision.

You swallowed hard. Your hands were still gripping the towel too tight.

"I can handle it," you said, barely louder than before.

He sighed and just raised one hand and brushed your hair back behind your ear, knuckles trailing lightly along your temple, then let his fingers rest for half a second more before they dropped.

"Fine. Get dressed," he said gently. "You know where I’ll be, love."

With a final kiss to your forehead, Dorian vanished out through the door.

You stood there for a moment, the ghost of his touch still lingering. Then, smiling faintly to yourself, you crossed the room and reached for the closet handle.

But when you opened the door, instead of seeing your closet, you blinked against a sudden change in light.

The soft creak of the door gave way to a humid wave of warm air, thick with the scent of eucalyptus muscle balm, energy drinks, and the faint tang of sweat. The floor beneath your bare feet was no longer the cool wood of your bedroom, but the familiar give of rubber matting. A thunk-thunk of someone hitting a punching bag echoed from somewhere deeper in the room.

"HOUSE BABE!"

A blur shot out from behind the squat rack. Hank 4 practically flung himself across the floor like a golden retriever let off leash. His curls were an unruly tangle of sweat, his tank top clinging to his muscles like second skin, and his grin stretched so wide it nearly split his face.

"You’re in a towel!"

You didn’t break stride. You stepped into the converted closet gym like it was any other day. "Closet gym day again?"

"EVERY day is gym day," Hank 4 declared, sweeping his arms wide. "But now it’s the best gym day! Because you—" He gestured up and down at the towel. "—are here. In that!"

Hank 2 raised a brow from the pull-up bar. "Please tell me they’re not still dripping wet. You’re gonna catch a cold, babe. Seriously. Where are your socks? Did you at least dry your hair a little?"

"Oh, they’re dripping," Hank 3 purred, already sprawled out sideways across the weight bench. His shirt was off and he was grinning wide at you. "Drippin’ like they’ve been marinating in sin. Babe, you step in here glistening like that again, I’m gonna start conducting research."

You raised an eyebrow. "Research?"

"Yeah," he said with a wicked grin. "Wanna come here and find out my methodology, baby? Real handy stuff."

"You’re so cringe bro," groaned Hank 2, letting go of the pull-up bar and dropping to the floor. "You need a muzzle."

Hank 4 cackled, clutching his side. "Lowkey embarrassing, bro! But let him cook! He’s spittin’ truth, no cap!"

From the back of the room, Hank 5 stepped into view with a roll of wrist wraps. "Ignore him," he said simply. His gaze swept over you. "You walk in like that, the whole room tilts, babe."

"All right," came Hank 1’s voice. He clapped once, loud enough to snap everyone’s attention back to center. "Five-minute timeout. Let our baby breathe. Hydrate. Focus up."

Across the room, Hank 3 purred, "Hydrate them, maybe."

"Bro!" Hank 2 hissed, scandalized. "Stop talking!"

You couldn’t help but laugh as you shook your head. "Thanks for the group thirst. That’s… very affirming. Really. But I’m just here for clothes."

You padded barefoot toward the corner of the room, past tangled resistance bands and tubs of protein powder stacked like bricks. A pair of laundry baskets waited near the wall. You crouched beside them, fingers curling around familiar fabric. Your voice dropped, quieter now. 

"My ex is here."

Hank 1’s posture straightened. "Wait. Here here?"

You nodded, trying to make it casual and failing. "Just to pick up some stuff. It’s not a big deal. I just need to change. And maybe not cry. Or puke. But mostly get dressed."

Silence settled, the weighty kind that only falls when a room full of idiots collectively decides they’re about to become dangerous.

"Or," Hank 3 said suddenly, voice smooth as ever but with something darker under it, "you cry, puke, and get dressed. At the same time, we go out there and break every bone in his body. Alphabetically."

"Yup," Hank 2 said.

"Sounds fair," added Hank 5, who had already begun rolling up his sleeves. "Honestly. I’ve been itching to hit something."

"These muscles ain’t for nothing, baby!" Hank 4 shouted, flexing both arms. "Let me at him! I’ll fold that man like a gym towel and wring him out!"

"Guys," you started, but your voice cracked halfway through, and you swallowed hard before trying again. "Guys, no fighting. I don’t think he’s here for a brawl. I just… I need to change. Please."

You turned back to the laundry basket, but your hands didn’t quite work right. You reached for a hoodie and dropped it. Picked it up again, fumbled the sleeve. Your fingers were shaking.

Hank 1 crossed the room without a word and knelt behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. His chin came to rest gently on the top of your head, and for a long, quiet moment, there was nothing but the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his body pressed against your back, shielding you from the rest of the world like a wall.

"We got you, baby," he murmured into your hair, his voice low and sure. "You’re safe."

"Yeah!" Hank 4 chimed in, softer than usual but still bright. "Like, for real. Why’d he even come back after fumbling a ten outta ten? Peak dumbass behavior."

You let out a shaky breath, the corners of your mouth twitching. "I just feel stupid."

"Hey," Hank 1 said, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "Nah. Don’t. Don’t ever feel dumb for caring. That’s not weakness, babe! That’s heart. And you’ve got the biggest one in this whole damn house. Fo’ real."

He gave your arms a little squeeze. "Dude was just too mid to handle it."

"Certified goober," Hank 3 muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes like he couldn’t bear to witness the stupidity of it all.

"No, seriously," Hank 2 said, spinning in a short frustrated circle before planting his hands on his hips. "I straight-up can’t even believe the guy. Who fumbles someone like that? You break up with us and I’d like… stop going out Hank gliding, brah."

Hank 4 reeled back, hands in his hair. "Not the Hank-gliding!"

"You know I only glide when I’m at peace, brah," Hank 2 said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. "That’s sacred."

A wet snort slipped out before you could stop it, and you wiped your eyes with the edge of your towel. "God. You guys are the worst," you mumbled. "But seriously... thanks. I should get dressed."

"You got it, baby!" Hank 1 said, already backing up with a grin.

And just like that, the room broke back into chaos. Foam rollers hit the floor. Someone stubbed their toe on a kettlebell. Hank 3 tripped over Hank 4, who was trying to dive behind the bench like it was cover fire.

"Go! Go! They need pants!" Hank 4 shouted.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help your smile as you slipped past them toward the back of the gym where your actual clothes, mercifully, were still neatly folded on the shelf.

You dropped the towel and stepped into your pants, pulling them up quick. You grabbed a tank top next and pulled it over your head, smoothing it down over your ribs. As you bent to adjust the hem, you heard the soft shuffle of movement behind you.

You turned, instinctively bracing for another Hank being Hank, but stopped short when you saw Hank 5 standing quietly in the doorway. One hand rested against the frame, light and hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step further in.

"Hey, babe," he said, his voice quiet and easy in that way only he ever managed.

"Hey," you breathed, surprised but not startled. You offered a small smile, a tilt of your head. "Wanna come here?"

He didn’t answer right away, just stepped forward, slow and steady. Like he was checking in with every step, making sure you were still okay with it. You stayed put, arms loose at your sides, breath coming a little too fast for no clear reason.

A few more steps and he was in front of you, a crooked smile tugging at his lips before he leaned in and kissed you.

His hand hovered for a moment, like he was still giving you the chance to say no, then settled gently at your hip. The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, and when you gasped softly against his mouth, he chuckled, tilting his head to press in a little more.

You hadn’t even realized how tense your shoulders were until they started to drop, your body slowly remembering how to breathe.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far, just enough to speak near your face, his breath still warm against your cheek.

"Thought you might wanna wear this," he murmured, and lifted a familiar jacket between you.

It was his letterman jacket. Green and white, worn at the sleeves, soft in the places where it had been handled a hundred times. The stitched H on the breast was unmistakable, and your stomach did that stupid swoop it always did.

Without saying a word, you stepped into the space between you and let him guide the jacket onto your shoulders. His hands were gentle as he helped you into the sleeves, tugging them down and smoothing the fabric. His fingers hovered for a second longer at the back of your neck, brushing lightly at the edge of your damp hair.

"It looks better on you," he said, barely above a whisper. "No cap."

You huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, the jacket already warm against your skin. "You’re such a dork."

He leaned in again, voice dropping low near your ear, the words brushing over you like static. "Still better than your ex."

You snorted, shaking your head, but the smile that curled your mouth was real this time. "Not exactly a high bar."

His grin curved in reply, but he didn’t press it.

It was already past the time you were supposed to meet your ex, but he hadn’t shown up yet. So instead of waiting around like a chump, you holed up in the gym closet with the Hanks, letting the himbo hive distract you with whatever nonsense they were on about now. 

"You’re wrong," Hank 4 was saying. "Protein powder totally counts as soup."

"It’s not soup!" Hank 2 snapped. "It’s not liquid. It’s dust. You’re drinking wet dust."

"Wet dust in water," Hank 4 argued, throwing his hands up like that settled it. "What the hell do you think soup is, bro? Broth is just seasoned water, brah."

"That’s not—" Hank 2 made a strangled sound and pointed to Hank 3. "Back me up. You meal-prep for us. Is protein powder soup?"

Hank 3 didn’t even bother to open his eyes. He was laid out across your lap like a cat, your fingers moving absently through his hair as his arms curled tighter around your waist. 

"Soup’s a state of mind," he mumbled, voice lazy and content. "’S long as you can chew it, brah."

"You’re not supposed to chew soup!" Hank 2 barked. "If you have to chew it, it’s stew!"

"You’re just scared to think outside the bowl," Hank 4 shot back. "Soup can be thick. Soup can be chunky. Soup can have macros, bro."

Before Hank 2 could explode again, the doorbell rang.

Your chest clenched instantly, and before your brain could catch up, your body had already gone still. Hank 3 stopped drawing absent circles on your thigh. Hank 1 looked up from where he’d been sorting weights, head tilted like he was already listening for movement down the hall. 

You inhaled and slid out from Hank 3’s arms, pushing yourself upright with careful hands as you moved toward the back shelf where you’d stashed his box. 

The worn cardboard felt lighter than it should’ve when you picked it up, like the contents had evaporated into meaninglessness but still managed to drag at your chest all the same. Just a few leftovers: his hoodie, still clinging to that cologne he always overused; the beanie he never washed, soft from wear; socks rolled the way he liked them, even though he probably wouldn’t notice. You’d folded everything too carefully, like maybe if it looked clean and orderly, it wouldn’t sting so much. Like presentation could make any of it easier.

Behind you, the silence stretched like the whole room was holding its breath right alongside you.

Then, after a beat too long, Hank 3 muttered, "…Can we still hit him?"

"No," you said firmly, not slowing your pace as you walked toward the closet door, the box steady in your grip.

"Throw something at him?" Hank 4 asked, hopeful as ever.

"..." You paused. "We’ll talk about it."

"Fuck yeah!" someone whispered, triumphant.

You tugged Hank 5’s jacket a little tighter around your shoulders and turned just enough to flash them a crooked smile. "I’ll see you guys later."

Without saying much, you stepped out of the closet and headed down the stairs. The wooden floor was cool under your bare feet, the letterman jacket heavy around your shoulders. Each step echoed down the hall, louder than it needed to be.

But just before you reached the corner, Dorian stepped clean into your path.

You nearly walked straight into him at the foot of the stairs. "Tryin’ to stop me again?" you muttered, already bracing for whatever speech he had locked and loaded.

He didn’t move. Just looked at you, one brow arched slowly like it was doing all the talking for him.

"Not tryin’, love," he said, dry as old stone. "Just thought I’d head off the trainwreck before it makes it to the bloody doorstep."

You grimaced. "Again. He’s just here to pick up his things. He's been asking for it all week."

"Mm," Dorian hummed, unimpressed. "I liked Dirk’s plan better. Chuck it all on the lawn, let the twat fetch it. Bit of exercise might do him good."

You rolled your eyes, but the box in your arms suddenly felt heavier. "I just want it over with."

His gaze dropped to the box, then up to your face. He let out a slow breath through his nose, then stepped aside.

"You’re stronger than ’im on your worst day, yeah?" he said, voice low, almost a murmur now. "Just don’t let the bastard see you flinch."

You gave a small, wobbly breath and nodded once.

As you walked past, Dorian added. light, but not joking, "I’ll be nearby. Just in case he gets clever. Been dyin’ to see if this umbrella can crack a skull."

You huffed a laugh, and the box in your arms shifted slightly as you adjusted your grip. The doorknob was cold under your fingers. You took one last breath, steadied yourself, and turned it.

The front door opened with a soft creak.

NOTE: suggest characters for the next chapters!

PART II HERE

[yogirl-willow]

The Crimson Pact | Part 3

Characterizations | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, romantic psychological tension, mentions of implied past death / reincarnation, intense emotional fixation, yearning, dark romance, comfort and control, hurt/comfort (if you squint)

A/N: Reading all your comments and reblogs always makes me smile! This part is a bit longer than the rest. I wanted to focus on building her trust and relationship with the boys, so there will be much more interactions and intimacy than the previous parts. I hope you all enjoy!

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Part 3:

If You Stay

You don’t remember falling asleep. But you remember waking up.

The guest room is dim, wrapped in soft shadows, the silk sheets pulled up to your chin. The faint scent of rain and cedar lingers in the air—Jinu, you think distantly. It clings to your skin like a memory. One you shouldn’t have.

You must’ve fallen asleep after your talk with the boys in the afternoon. You’d admit, that did take a toll on you, and you were still feeling quite unwell from yesterday’s events. Hangovers don't just go away in a few hours. One of the boys must’ve carried you in here.

You sit up slowly. Your headache from earlier is gone. But something inside still hums. A weight behind your ribs. A tugging sensation that pulses faintly… toward them.

You still had too many questions you needed answers to. They said they were demons, so why are they here? They didn’t look like demons. They were sinfully beautiful, so you assume that definitely plays a part in it. Why did they sell their souls to Gwi Ma? Who was this Gwi Ma? Who were you to each of them in your past life? Just how many past lives have you had exactly? 

And most importantly, if they were demons hundreds of years old, why in the flying fuck are they in a K-pop idol group?

There’s a knock at the door, ceasing your thoughts. You freeze. But it doesn’t open.

“Y/N?” It’s Romance’s voice, low and careful. “Dinner’s ready. If you’re hungry.”

You don’t answer right away.

Not because you don’t want to. But because you’re afraid of what it means that you do. Still—you follow the sound.

The dining room is too elegant for six people. The table could seat twelve, But only one side is set—six seats arranged close together. The lighting is warm, soft. As if they’d planned for comfort. For your nerves.

The boys are already seated. But they all rise the moment they see you. Romance is the first to move, pulling out your chair with a slow, exaggerated flourish. “Right here, angel.”

You meet his eyes and you feel the pull again. He’s looking at you with the most tender expression. Like you’re the most precious thing in the world to him. 

And you were.

Plates are filled before you can ask. Abby gently sets a bowl of soup in front of you—your favorite kind. You don’t remember telling them that. You’re not even sure you remember liking it until the smell hits you. Baby places a glass of water before you and you suck in a nervous breath as you feel a light kiss on the crown of your head. 

You’d never been treated like this before. Cherished. Not even by your own family. It was so foreign, you doubted it could be real. 

But as you gazed at each and every one of them, you could see it in their faces. The quiet relief. The tenderness. Their want to do these things for you. It was a feeling you had to get used to.

You didn’t touch the food right away. You just stared down at the dark wooden table, the linen napkin folded too neatly on your lap, and the spoon resting next to a bowl that smelled like home. If home had five soul-bound demons who watched you breathe.

Jinu watches carefully from across the table. He hasn’t touched his food.

“Eat,” he says quietly. “You’ll need your strength.”

You hesitate.

Romance spoke next. “If you’re waiting for poison, don’t worry. We only do that to each other.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. It was too much. All of it. You took a small sip. And then another. And the warmth spread to places in you that hadn’t been warm in months. You sighed, strangely feeling so much more at ease.

Romance leans closer. His voice is honey and hooks. “You’re still not feeling well during the day, right?”

You nod. Slowly. 

“That’s the bond,” Jinu says. “It’s active. But unstable.”

“The further you are from us,” Abby adds, “the worse it’ll get.”

“I’ve been alone for years,” you mutter, fingers tightening around your spoon. “I’ll be fine.”

“No,” Baby says from the end of the table. Quiet. Sharp. “You won’t.” You flinch at his tone. But it doesn’t feel cruel—just true.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Romance sets his fork down and places his chin in his palm, eyes glittering in the candlelight. “You’re not a prisoner, you know.”

Your brow furrows.

He smiles. “We’re not keeping you here. But…we did have this place built for you.”

Your eyes snapped to him. "What do you mean you had it built for me?"

Romance’s smile was soft. Too soft. "Darling, this whole place was bought and designed for you. For when we found you. We just live in it."

You blink.

Had they been waiting for you that long? You hadn’t really thought about it before. The logistics of their story hadn’t fully registered. 

“You’d have your own space,” Jinu says softly, ever the diplomat. “A guest room. With a lock, if that makes you feel safer.”

Abby immediately frowns. “Why can’t she just stay in her room-room?” he grumbles, arms crossed. “It’s closer to mine.”

Your brows knit together. “Wait. My room?”

Romance’s smile is slow and feline, like he’s been waiting for that moment. “Of course. We had it ready since… well. A while.”

You blink. That didn’t answer your question.

Jinu doesn’t flinch. “Because that room doesn’t have a lock.”

Abby scowls, muttering something under his breath. Romance hums beside you. “Wouldn’t want one anyway.”

You whirl on him. “What was that?”

He holds up both hands in mock surrender, grinning like the devil. “Just saying. But okay, okay—guest room with a lock. For now.”

There’s a silence. Then Mystery murmurs almost too quietly: “…We’d break it if we had to.”

Your stomach twists. They’re joking. You hope they’re joking.

“You wouldn’t be alone,” Mystery pipes again. He’s seated closest to you, his plate untouched. His eyes never leave your hands. He wanted to grasp them. Feel your warmth. Feel your hands massage his hair just as you used to in your past life. He swallowed.

You press your lips together. It’s not that you don’t believe them. It’s that you do. And that terrifies you.

Romance watches the doubt dance across your face. He leans forward, just enough that you’re forced to look at him.

“You don’t have to say yes forever,” he says, voice low and intimate. “Just… stay. For now. Let your body heal. Let the bond stabilize. You don’t even have to talk to us. We’ll keep our distance if that’s what you want.”

At least that’s what she’ll think. Romance thinks to himself. With these guys? Yeah right.

You don’t speak. His voice softens. “You’ve been carrying this alone for so long, haven’t you? You’re getting sick. Dizzy. Faint.”

Your throat tightens.

“You’re tired. You’re having headaches. And we’re the only ones who can ease it. You feel that. So why are you still punishing yourself?”

You try to deny it. To push the tears back. But his words hit something raw. And real.

“I’m not trying to punish myself,” you whisper. “I just… I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “But that doesn’t mean we’ll let you suffer for it.”

"You’ll be safe," Abby added gruffly. "No one touches you here. No one even gets close."

The silence that follows is thick. Your breathing is shallow. Their words registering. Was it really so bad? Letting them care for you? Being here with them. Having them treat you like you’ve never been treated before? 

Why were you still fighting it? There was so much you didn’t know, but as of this moment, you did know one thing. That they loved you in your past life. And love you still. Did that count? They yearn for you, and have been for lifetimes. And you knew deep in your heart you were starting to feel the same. Was that really so bad? 

To let them in? 

They were strangers, but they weren’t. They claim to be yours, so why do you keep questioning it? 

Then, slowly—almost in spite of yourself—you nod. “Just… a little while,” you say. “Until I feel better.”

You don’t see the look they share. The way Jinu’s shoulders finally lower. The flicker of possessive triumph behind Romance’s lashes. Or the way Mystery exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment you left him last.

You don’t see any of it. But you feel it. The shift. The settling. Something ancient and invisible clicks into place behind your ribs. And you don’t fight it anymore.

The bond sighs.

They insist on collecting your things that night. “We’ll go,” Abby says immediately. “You stay. Rest.”

“No, I—” You start, but Jinu raises a hand. “You’re still weak. If the bond flares while you’re alone, it could be dangerous. Let us.”

You glance between them—five men who could tear the world apart for you—and for once, it feels less like a threat and more like a promise.

“…Okay,” you say quietly. “Just—don’t touch my underwear drawer.”

Romance smirks. “No promises.”

“Romance,” Jinu snaps.

Mystery growls.

You sigh. I guess you did need underwear. “Fine. Just… don’t be creepy.”

Abby winks. “We’ll be fast. Promise.”

As they move, as doors open and shoes slip on, you stay behind with Baby, the silent protector watching your every move. But for some reason, it doesn’t scare you now. 

He approaches you, eyes intense and never as wary as the others. Like he’d never be sorry for having you and taking what’s rightfully his. He was silent, but intentional. 

He walks you to your room and you shiver as you feel his large hand on your lower back. He holds the door open for you before briefly muttering a faint “Goodnight, sweetheart” and closing the door shut. And for the first time in weeks… You don’t feel sick.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You sit on the same dining table for breakfast. Jinu had made you some toast sandwiches. The boys looked chirpy. Looks like someone’s in a good mood…

It was still so surreal to them how you were here- having breakfast with them. The very thought of this domestic life with you, caring for you, providing for you like partners almost made them purr in ecstasy. 

You were still in Jinu’s hoodie despite all your clothes laying in messy duffle bags, sleeves swallowing your hands, hair slightly damp from a quick shower. It took much restraint from Jinu to not pull you in his arms the moment you walked out of your room.

His hoodie looked right on you. Like it had always belonged there—like you had always belonged there. You didn’t realize it, but every thread of that oversized fabric clung to you like a memory, like a claim. It smelled like him, and that alone made something feral claw beneath his skin.

His jaw tightened as you crossed the room, bare legs brushing against soft fabric. You moved so carelessly, so trusting, not realizing you were walking a tightrope over a thousand years of obsession. Of agony. Of aching need.

You didn’t know he used to dream about this. That centuries ago, he’d wake from nightmares of you slipping through his fingers only to whisper your name into the night. He had waited lifetimes to see you like this again.

And now? Now, you were right there—wrapped in his scent, in his clothes, in his world—but still unsure if you belonged.

He smiled softly as you reached for a mug, but his hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to cage you to his chest, press his lips to your neck, and whisper, “This time, I’ll never let you die.”

He would never let you go again.

They were all quiet around you, letting you eat in peace. It should’ve been normal. It wasn’t.

"Are you going to work today?" Mystery asked, tilting his head.

"...Yes?"

"We don’t think you should go," Jinu said plainly.

You nearly choked on your toast. Say what now? "I have bills."

"You could quit," Romance offered. "Stay here. Rest. Sketch. Paint. Sleep."

You looked at him like he’d grown a second head. Sure, the offer sounded nice—dreamy, even. But it was the kind of nice that belonged in fairytales. People didn’t just quit their jobs and live off vibes and good intentions. In this economy?

You waited for the punchline… but it never came. They were all staring at you—completely serious. Like quitting your job was the obvious solution. Like it was the answer to every problem you’d ever had.

"What would I even do? Just exist as your little house pet?"

Mystery looked hopeful. Abby smiled. You sighed. "No way. I’m not freeloading."

"You could be our assistant," Abby grinned. "Take notes. Carry snacks. Pet Mystery when he gets upset."

"Not happening."

They let it go.

But Romance’s eyes gleamed. Like he was already planning a way to make it so. 

After breakfast, you went to your room to change into your work clothes. Stepping out and closing the door firmly, you make your way to the kitchen where Jinu hands you another toast claiming you needed another ‘energy boost’ for the day. You take it in thanks and drown out his last ditch effort to convince you to quit, waving him off with a cute smile that shut him up. You make your way to the entrance and stop in your tracks. Abby, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself for 8:30 in the morning. His sweatshirt hung loose over his frame, hood drawn up, but there was no hiding that build. Or that face. Or the smirk that crept up the moment he saw you in your work clothes.

"Hello there, sweetheart," he drawled.

You froze, mid-bite, a piece of toast tragically dangling from your mouth. "...If this is another attempt to get me to quit my job, you can turn right back around."

Abby grinned like the smug menace he was. “Sadly, no. I’ve accepted your tragic refusal of our generous sugar-demon lifestyle.”

He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his hoodie pocket like this was totally normal. “So instead, I’ll be escorting my darling little starshine to work today.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry—your what now?”

“My darling. Little. Starshine,” he repeated, grinning wider with each word.

You deadpan, a blush of pink rising to your cheeks. “Try that again and I’ll call HR.”

He laughed. “Okay, okay. I’m walking you to work. Orders from the Bond Gods. Or Jinu. Same thing, really.”

“You all really expect me to be escorted to work?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “You’re still weak. The bond’s healing you, but slowly. We won’t let you go alone again. Not when you’re like this.”

You hesitate. He steps closer, but not too close. “Let us keep you safe. Just for today.”

“…Fine,” you mutter.

“And tomorrow…”

“Really?”

“And the day after that…”

“Okay, I get it. Fine. But you have to hide.”

He blinks. “Hide?”

“I’m not walking next to Abby from the Saja boys. I’ll be the talk of the entire district. They’ll probably think I’m kidnapped.”

He snorts. “Technically…”

“Abby.”

“Fine, fine.” He pulls his hood lower. “But I draw the line at hiding my abs.”

You roll your eyes. “Just… be normal. Please.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Even in a hoodie and mask, he doesn’t look normal. He looks like a movie star trying not to be recognized—and failing. Your coworkers notice him immediately.

“Y/N…” one of the baristas whispers as you clock in. “Who. Is. That.” 

You pretend not to hear.

Another coworker giggles. “Is he your boyfriend? Oh my god, did you meet him at the club?”

“No!” you say too quickly.

“But he didn’t come inside with us… where did you meet him then?”

You force a laugh. “He’s just a friend. He’s helping me out since I’ve been sick.” 

They seem to buy it—until someone brings up the guy from the other night.

“Hey, what happened to Jae? He said he’d walk you home, but we never heard from him. Did he ghost or something?”

You freeze.

“I, um… ran into someone else before he could. Didn’t see him after that.”

You stare hard at the pastry tray, pretending to adjust the layout. But inside, your stomach twists. What did happen to him?

You’d ask the boys later. …If you wanted the truth. Though, you’re not quite sure if you really do. 

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Your shift drags on longer than usual. Not because of work.

Because of him.

Baby sits at the back corner, hoodie pulled low, sipping a black coffee he hasn’t touched in twenty minutes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. Your coworkers whisper, asking if he was an idol or something because he looked too handsome to be just a normal customer. You cringed at that.

It hasn’t really registered until now just how insane it was, really. You were now co-living with one of the rising pop-groups in the country. You almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. 

You try to focus. But you can feel his eyes. Not just looking—possessing. Guarding. Burning. Everytime you talked to a customer (particularly male) you could feel his eyes harden, glaring holes into whoever it was that talked to you. 

One of them tapped you on the shoulder to get your attention, asking with an “excuse me” if he could get some hot sauce with his order. Baby nearly jumped out of his seat if it weren’t for your warning glare. 

You approach the brooding demon, flipping open your notepad. “You’re not subtle, you know.”

He doesn’t smile. “They shouldn’t look at you.”

Your heart thumps. “It’s a customer’s job to look…and order…and ask...”

“They shouldn’t talk, either. Nor should they ever touch.”

You try not to smile. “You’re terrifying.”

His eyes flick up. Dark. Hungry. “Good.”

You bring him a refill anyway. “Behave.”

He doesn’t.

He waits outside when your shift ends, hands in pockets. Doesn’t say a word as you fall into step beside him. The air between you buzzes. You glance over. “Why do you look like someone kicked your favorite pet?”

He doesn’t answer. You poke him in the side. “Baby.”

His jaw flexes. Fighting his control to pull you in closer as people walked by. “I don’t like them talking to you.”

You sigh. “We’ve been over this. It’s my job.”

“You don’t need it.”

“I do.”

“You have us.”

“That’s not a job.”

“You could quit. Let us take care of you.”

“No.”

He frowns, lips twitching down.

“You’re pouting.”

He looks at you, expression unreadable. You reach out, amused, and gently press his cheek. Something shifts. He grabs your hand—fast but gentle—and kisses your knuckles. 

The world slows.

“You’re mine,” he whispers. “Even if you don’t remember. Even if you never say it.” His eyes hold you in place. Burning. Certain. There’s no hesitation in his voice. No tremble. Just absolute conviction—like he wasn’t stating a hope, but a law of the universe. 

Baby steps closer, the streetlights casting silver on his sharp features. His gaze drops to your lips like he’s already imagining how they’d feel crushed beneath his.

“You don’t have to love me back yet,” he says, voice low and velvet-dark. “But don’t ever think I’ll stop. Even if you don’t want us to take care of you. I’ll keep pushing.”

Your stomach flips. You hate how warm your skin feels. How part of you leans toward him without meaning to. How his scent—like storm-wet pine and danger—makes your fingers twitch with a need you can’t name. His hand lifts to your face, gentle despite the fire in his eyes, knuckles brushing your cheek like you might vanish if he touched too hard.

“If anyone else touches you again,” he adds softly, “I don’t care if they’re your customer. They won’t have hands left to touch with.”

You don’t answer.

But your heart races all the way home.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

After dinner, the boys were gathered on the second floor of the apartment. They had turned it into a studio to practice their choreo for performances. You could hear their music and their footsteps as they danced to the beat. 

You padded around the apartment to explore in the meantime. The apartment was massive. You didn’t realize how massive until you started walking. Every hallway turned into a gallery. Every room had windows tall enough to drown in. You passed a music room, a library, a room full of costumes and stage lights. You had no idea such penthouses existed in the city. But then again, they were demons who’d been in existence for hundreds of years. Who knows how much money they got.

On the kitchen counter, you found a sketchbook. Yours. But filled with things you didn’t remember drawing. Five faces. A moonlit shrine. A shattered sword. You still hadn’t gotten used to drawing what you figured were memories from your past lives. This was evidence in itself that they were telling the truth. You decide not to fight it anymore.

On the dresser, you find an earring. No pair. You picked it up and your chest twisted, it felt a bit familiar.

In the lounge, a scarf folded neatly on a velvet chair. You held it to your face and inhaled. A scent you couldn’t name, but the fabric felt soft. Again, familiar. 

You didn’t know whether to scream or cry. It was like finding single pieces of a gigantic puzzle. You were sure these things meant something to one of them. You’d ask, in time. 

After their practice was over, the boys found you sat in the livingroom. You were reading the book Romance had given you which made him smile. They greeted you one by one, some went off to shower, some to the kitchen for a snack. 

It was Jinu who sat next to you. 

“How’s the choreo going?” you ask, eyes never leaving the page. 

“Good. How’s the book?” He nodded. He knew how badly Romance had wanted to give that to you. 

“Good.” You looked up to softly smile at him. You were halfway through the story. The characters blurred together—tragic lovers separated by fate, drawn to one another through time. A story too close to your own.

Jinu looked at the book title with a gaze you couldn’t recognize. Like he was debating on something he wanted to say. 

“Did you want to hear another story?” 

That piqued your interest. You slowly shut the book, placing it down on the couch as a sign for him to continue. Jinu didn’t look at you. His gaze remained downcast. There was a moment of silence before he spoke. 

“I wasn’t always someone people bowed to.”

You looked up at him. The air around him seemed to change—heavier, stiller. Like his shadow was longer than it had been a second ago.

“I was born in a fishing village by the bay,” he said. “Back when the tides still carried salt and prayers.” 

“My mother was a seamstress. My sister was eight years younger. We were poor. Poor enough to boil weeds and pretend it was soup.”

Your breath caught. His eyes seemed distant. Far away as he recalled his life four hundred years ago. 

“The only thing we owned of value was a bipa. My mother’s. She taught me how to play it before her hands got too swollen to hold the strings.” His eyes went distant, haunted. “I played in the markets for coins. It was never enough.”

He paused, jaw tight. “Then one night, I heard a voice.”

“Gwi Ma offered me everything. Fame. Gold. Silk sheets and stages carved from jade. And I said yes.”

You stared at him. He finally met your eyes—and this time, the pain there was real.

“I left,” he whispered. “Without a word. My mother. My sister. I never even turned around. I don’t know if they lived another week.”

You released a breath as you felt your heart fracture at his words.

“I just… ran. Into the palace. Into adoration. And never looked back.”

He exhaled, eyes heavy with guilt. “The crowds worshipped me. I performed for kings and their consorts. They called me divine. The courtiers fought for my smile. And it still wasn’t enough.”

“I didn’t deserve peace,” he said, voice brittle. “But then I saw you.” His voice softened—fragile like old silk.

“You were a maid. You had ink on your fingers and a habit of humming while sweeping the floors. You didn’t bow. You didn’t flatter. You rolled your eyes at me.”

Your chest tightened. So that’s who you were in your past life when you first met him.

“And when I asked you why… you said I looked lonely.”

A pause.

“I fell in love with you the moment you looked at me like I was a boy. Not a god.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But I made you weak. I brought you too close. It was impossible for someone like you, so pure of heart, to exist in that palace. I should’ve known there would be vipers waiting to strike.”

You didn’t interrupt. You couldn’t.

“There was a concubine who used to love watching me play. She’d call upon me to her chambers for performances. Pay a hefty sum for an appearance in her parties. She saw you and I in one of the pavilions and she didn’t like it.” A look of anguish flashed on Jinu’s face. “I knew it was only a matter of time before someone found out. I wasn’t a fool. I knew the women of the palace liked me for more than just my voice.” His fists tightened on his lap. 

“She poisoned your tea. I found you in the gardens…you…you were still smiling.”

He blinked once. Just once. “You died in my arms. And I didn’t even know how to mourn.”

You stared at him, tears pricking your eyes. You wished so hard to remember. To recall who he was back then. Something, anything, so you could share a memory with him.

“I went back to Gwi Ma. I begged. I offered everything again.” He swallowed. “That’s when the pact began. He told me… if I could bind other demons to your soul, tether you tightly enough, you’d return.” His eyes flicked to yours. He was trembling.

“So I did. I found them. One by one. I gave up pieces of myself to forge the bond. Even if I had to share you, I- I was willing to do anything to have you back. I waited lifetimes. We all did.”

He reached out now, slowly, like you might disappear. “And now you’re here.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But your body leaned toward his—drawn like a string was being pulled behind your ribs. He exhaled shakily. “I still don’t know what happened to them. My mother. My sister. I never went back.”

You reached for his hand. Fingers brushing his wrist. It was the gentlest thing you’d ever done. Jinu held onto your touch like a lifeline as the pain of his memories came rushing back.

“I think… they’d forgive you,” you whispered. He laughed softly. Bitter. Grateful. “I don’t.”

And somehow that made you want to forgive him more. You let him pull you closer. Let your head fall beneath his chin, chest pressed lightly to his side. He held you like you might break. Like he didn’t deserve to hold you at all. This was the closest he’s ever been to you since first seeing you in that square. His heart constricted. 

“I won’t make the same mistake again,” he murmured. You felt the words against your scalp. “I will never leave you. Even if it kills me.”

You tilted your head up—slow, searching. His lips hovered a breath away. The look in his eyes was agonizing: pure want, reverence, restraint. He was begging without words.

And maybe you wanted to say yes. Maybe you wanted to close that distance.

But something in you hesitated. The memory of danger still ghosting your ribs. The smell of blood. The crackle of old fire. You shouldn’t want this. He was a demon.

But then again—

He was yours.

Jinu didn’t move. Not really. But his eyes…God, his eyes were starving.

Like a man who hadn’t eaten in centuries and now sat trembling before the one thing he was never allowed to touch. His fingers flexed once on his thigh, like he was holding himself back from grabbing you. From yanking you into his arms and claiming what had always been his.

His lips parted—his breath shallow. “I shouldn’t,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Not yet.”

That almost did it.

Not yet.

Not no.

He wasn’t denying that he wanted to. Only that he was trying—failing—not to. You felt something pulse low in your spine. The bond again. Soft and hot, like a wire coiling tighter. Tighter.

You leaned closer. Not much. Just enough for your shoulder to brush his chest. His breath hitched.

“Y/N…” he warned. Or maybe it was a plea. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

But you did. You knew exactly.

Your hand grazed his chest—over fabric, over his heart. It beat like a war drum under your palm. And he—this ancient thing with a voice like honey and a soul soaked in sin—shook under your touch.

“You waited for me,” you said softly. “Across lifetimes.”

He gave a shaky laugh. “Every night. Every fucking century.”

“And now I’m here,” you whispered.

“And now you’re here.”

He reached up—finally—like a man about to touch something sacred. Fingers grazing your cheek so gently it made you ache. You didn’t flinch this time. You leaned into it. And when he cradled your face in his hands, it wasn’t just touch.

It was claim.

The bond lit up like a match to kerosene—searing, seeping through every crack in your soul like molten gold. You gasped. So did he. His forehead pressed against yours, and for a moment, the whole world narrowed to this.

Him. You. Breath tangled. Thread pulled tight. Two hearts beating like one. 

His voice broke against your mouth.

“I loved you. Before I even knew what love meant. I loved you in that garden. In that palace. In every life you bled through. I loved you while you died in my arms. And I love you now.”

Tears slowly gathered in the corner of your eyes at his confession. Your chest tightening with every word he uttered. Let all reason be damned. Nothing in the world could be more true right now, more real, than this.

Your lips brushed his when you exhaled. You didn’t mean to. You were just breathing—but it was enough.

It shattered him.

He kissed you like he was starving. Like this was his first meal in centuries. Like his immortality had meant nothing without this.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was ruinous. Possessive. His mouth moved against yours like he’d memorized it across time—hungry, reverent, desperate. Like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

And you…

You kissed him back.

Because some part of you remembered. The garden. The incense. The ache of his name in your mouth before it was ever spoken.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer. His hand slid to your waist. He groaned low in his throat when you pressed into him, fire threading under your skin, a live wire finally connected.

The kiss slowed. Deepened.

When he finally pulled back, barely an inch, his eyes were wild.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “You always were.”

And in that moment, you didn’t deny it.

Not this time.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The kiss hadn’t been loud.

Barely a sigh. A whisper of fabric. The faint rustle of limbs and emotion finally giving in.

But they felt it.

From different corners of the apartment, the bond trembled like a shared heartbeat. A hush fell over the rooms like snowfall. Every boy froze.

Abby paused in the hallway with his forehead pressed to the doorframe, eyes shut.

Romance stood motionless in the kitchen, hands tight around the edge of the marble counter, breath held like a confession.

Mystery curled beneath his bedsheets, face half-buried in the sleeve of your old hoodie, his claws twitching against the mattress.

Baby sat in the far window seat of the lounge, unmoving, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable—except for the slight twitch of his jaw.

They knew. They didn’t need to see it. They felt it through the bond—the hum, the spark, the slow unfurling of something sacred.

You kissed Jinu.

And something ancient and knotted in all of them unclenched. Not jealousy. Not really. It wasn’t rage or bitterness that stirred in their chests.

It was relief.

Because Jinu deserved this.

He had waited the longest. He had suffered the most. He had built the very foundation of the Crimson Pact with trembling hands and bloodied knees, driven by the memory of your lifeless body in his arms. He had found them. Bound them. Led them.

And now…He had finally been given a sliver of what he lost.

Abby exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. His hand closed into a fist against the doorframe. “Good for you, hyung,” he whispered.

Romance closed his eyes and tilted his head to the ceiling, the corner of his mouth lifting into a quiet, almost reverent smile. “Took him fucking long enough.”

Mystery blinked slowly, purring low in his throat. “She’s starting to remember,” he murmured into the blankets. “She’s letting herself feel it.”

And Baby… Baby didn’t move. But in his eyes, a hunger lit up. Not the kind that devoured. The kind that waited. That watched from the shadows with claws pressed to his ribs.

It would be his turn soon. He could wait. He’d waited before. But not much longer.

Across the apartment, the bond shimmered—warmer now. Alive in a way it hadn’t been in lifetimes. Each of them felt it. Not just the connection, but the hope.

She’s letting us in. She’s starting to fall again. Their hands twitched. Hearts pounded. Mouths parted with breathless need. And beneath it all, one singular thought pulsed through the Crimson Pact:

Soon, it’ll be me.

Not out of competition. Not to steal the moment. But because you belonged to all of them. And in every life, one by one… you had.

Jinu had always kissed you first.

But he would not be the last. TO BE CONTINUED

───────── ༺🜃༻ ───────── A/N: Huaaah I died inside writing this chapter! I hope you guys enjoyed this one. The next chapter follows the same theme of relationship building and we'll get to see more intimate moments and backstories of the other boys! Let me know your thoughts in the comments and feel free to Reblog and Like this chapter if you enjoyed it! Till next time! Willa x.

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[syncaleb]

-> soft yandere caleb hcs:

1. “you’re mine. you said so.” you get busy—miss a call, forget a text—and when you finally answer, his voice is calm, too calm. “i waited. for hours.” you apologize, sweetly, teasingly even, but he doesn’t laugh. “you promised you’d always be there, remember? don’t break your promises. i… don’t handle that well.” and later, when he holds you close, you feel the way his hands tremble slightly against your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

2. his name in your phone has a lock emoji. -> he changed it himself. he also disabled the option to delete his contact. “just in case someone thinks they can slide into your messages,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, “they’ll know who you belong to.”

3. he tracks you. -> not in a creepy way (okay maybe a little), but he has your location always. and when he sees you’re somewhere unexpected, he texts immediately: “what are you doing there?” ……you ask how he knew. “because you’re mine pipsqueak, and i need to know you’re safe. that’s not too much to ask, is it?” and the look in his eyes? he’d burn the whole galaxy just to get you back home.

4. he doesn’t like you being friends with your ex-> at all. he doesn’t raise his voice. doesn’t tell you not to. he just shuts down emotionally, turns icy and unreadable. it’s bound with his actions though… he would probably still do everything acts of service wise. but he wants you to understand something is wrong, wants you to probe… and when you confront him, he finally murmurs, “i don’t want to be second choice to anyone. i want to be your only. and if that’s too much—” you cut him off with a kiss. you have to. because his voice was starting to sound a little unhinged and a little too honest.

5. he locks the door when you argue.-> not to trap you essentially (which he thinks he isn’t doing…) just to make sure you don’t leave. “we’re not going to sleep angry pips,” he says, softly. “you don’t walk away from me. not when we love each other this much baby.” and when you calm down, he pulls you into his lap, arms like iron around you, and whispers again and again, “mine. mine. mine.”

6. he doesn’t like you dressing up for anyone but him.-> you put on a new outfit, stunning, radiant—and his jaw clenches. why are you so breath-taking my gorgeous he thinks… no wonder he wants a world with just the two of you. “who’s that for?” / “me,” you say, innocent. but he steps closer, cups your jaw gently, possessively. “next time, wear it only when we’re alone. i don’t want anyone else seeing what’s mine. or~ you’d hate how i become and say something like i killed your old caleb.”

7. his anger is unpredictable.->when someone flirts with you in front of him, he doesn’t start a fight. but sometimes the look in his eyes speaks more than words ever could. maybe he will break their bones when you leave, maybe he will let it slide. who knows what caleb’s mood dictates him to do. sometimes, he just smiles. and later, when you’re home, he pins you softly to the bed, hands on either side of your head.“do you want them?” he asks, voice flat. “because i can make sure they never speak to you again.” and you— you tell him it’s just him. it’s always been him. like a prayer, like a chanting to balm his rage. and he finally kisses you like a starved man, whispering “good girl.”

8. he deletes numbers from your phone.->you’ll never notice. he’s too smooth. but people you used to talk to? stop replying. and when you ask caleb, he just shrugs with a soft smirk, “maybe they realized they could never compete with me.” and then changes the subject with a kiss and that dangerous look in his eyes again…. this isn’t out of sheer possessiveness though its just out of trust issues.

9. he doesn’t like letting you sleep mad at him.-> you try to turn away in bed, still upset. away from him… back on his face like an iron wall. but he slides his arms around you from behind, strong and unyielding.“no. you don’t get to walk away from me in your sleep, either.” and you can feel how serious he is. “we fix this now, angel. i’ll do anything. but you don’t leave.”

10. he has nightmares about losing you.-> he never tells you the full details either. just that he wakes up shaking, pale, and pulls you into his lap, holding you so tightly it almost hurts. “i saw you leaving me,” he whispers into your neck. “don’t ever do that. i wouldn’t survive it.”

[charles-leclerizz]

WRONG ROOM - LN 4

on the runway : lando norris x fem!reader

inspiration ( warnings ) : Smut !!! (male receiving!oral sex, (un??) protected p in v sex , light dominance, Lando being a little possessive, mutual pining, soft dom!Lando energy, swearing, teasing, light voyeuristic vibes (friends nearby), mild praise kink, overstimulation), and lots of suggestive jokes.

VIP's in the front row ( taglist ) : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @ksthegreat, @ccupcakqs]

before the show begins ( synopsis ) : What starts as a summer getaway at a friend’s villa turns into something a lot hotter when Lando walks into the wrong room - and finds you in his old hoodie, watching F1 replays. You’ve always been friendly, never close. But maybe the hoodie wasn’t the only thing you’ve been holding onto.

designer notes : well, hopefully it was worth the wait <33 . would ya'll be mad at me if I told you I haven't started chapter 3 yet? nah, cause I'm feeding you guys so well?? ok anyway, remember to wear your seatbelts. love you

The villa is carved into the hills of Côte d'Azur like a dream - terracotta tiles, arched windows, the sea glittering just beyond a blur of lemon trees and white parasols. It smells like salt, sunscreen, and freshly crushed mint. Laughter carries from somewhere deeper inside the house, floating up and over the vines crawling across the exterior walls. 

You shift your bag higher onto your shoulder and knock on the already - slightly - open door. It creaks as it swings wider. 

“Hello?” 

No answer - just music thumping softly from an unseen speaker, and the echo of distant conversation. 

You step inside. 

The marble beneath your sandals is cool. Someone’s kicked off flip - flops by the stairs. There’s a bikini drying over the back of a chair. You already know this isn’t going to be some luxury hotel - style getaway. It’s a shared house. A friend - of - a - friend kind of trip. Half of you doesn’t even remember who invited you - just that you needed the break, and this was close enough to what you craved so you said yes 

“Hey! You made it!” 

A voice - familiar - cuts through the quiet. You turn just in time to see your friend Luca come down the stairs in a pair of swim shorts and sunglasses pushed back into his curls. 

“Finally,” he grins. “You’re the last one here. Thought you bailed.” 

“I almost did.” You lift your bag with a huff. “Traffic was disgusting.” 

He helps you with your things, leads you into the living room where it smells like watermelon and something vaguely alcoholic. A few people are sprawled out on couches or clustered around the pool deck visible through the wide - open French doors. 

And then - of course - he’s there. 

Lando. 

He’s leaning back in one of the lounge chairs, a beer dangling from his fingers, legs stretched out in lazy confidence. Tan lines on his thighs, sunglasses pushed low on his nose, jaw still sharp even in the golden hour haze. He looks over when he hears your name. 

You haven’t seen him in maybe six months. You’ve never really been friends, but you’ve always hovered in the same social circle. Occasionally at the same parties, invited to the same post - race get - togethers, orbiting each other without ever really connecting. 

But now he’s looking at you like he recognizes something new. 

He nods, subtle. Gives you a half - smile. “Didn’t know you were coming.” 

You shrug. “Didn’t know you were either.” 

“Good surprise, then.” 

You’re not sure how to respond to that - so you just smile, polite, and follow Luca further inside. 

Your room’s upstairs, small but bright. There’s a ceiling fan and a tiny ensuite and just enough room to dump your suitcase across the bed without tripping over it. You unpack slowly, letting the noise of everyone else filter up through the open window. Somewhere below, Lando laughs - low and lazy - and you feel it like a fingertip dragged down your spine. 

You should be immune to him by now. He’s Lando Norris. A walking thirst trap with dimples and the most unserious sense of humour known to man. But there’s something about here - the off - duty version, the sun - drenched version, the one who isn’t surrounded by engineers or cameras - that makes it feel… different. 

Less like a boy on posters, more like a man below your window, dipping his feet into the pool. 

You shake your head and change into something breezy: cotton shorts, a crop top. When you finally go back downstairs, the sun’s just beginning to dip below the treeline, casting long shadows across the pool deck. 

People are already drinking. Someone’s pulled the Bluetooth speaker out again. There are half a dozen towels draped across every surface. 

Lando’s still by the pool. This time, he’s in the water, arms resting on the ledge, talking to someone. His wet hair curls a little at the ends. His back is freckled from the sun. You shouldn’t be looking. You are. 

He glances up just as you sit down. 

You pretend not to notice. 

Later, when you’re carrying two Aperol's back to your lounge chair, someone bumps your arm on purpose - gently, just enough to make the glasses slosh. 

“Careful.” 

You turn. 

Lando again. 

He takes one of the drinks from you before you can say anything. 

“That was for me,” you lie. 

“Too slow,” he grins, and sips. 

You narrow your eyes. “Are you always this annoying, or is it just the heat?” 

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.” He takes another sip, gaze drifting over your legs where you’re standing in the late - day sun. 

You cross your arms over your chest, aware of how the top you're wearing hugs tighter now that it’s clung to your sun - warmed skin. 

“Is this your game? Steal drinks and flirt with every girl who makes eye contact?” 

“Only the ones who used to ignore me at parties.” 

You blink. 

“I didn’t ignore you.” 

“You never said more than two words to me.” 

“I didn’t know you,” you protest weakly. 

He smirks. “You still don’t.” 

There’s something in the way he says it - open - ended, inviting. Like he’s offering a chance. 

You roll your eyes and sit down, forcing the tension in your jaw to loosen. “You’re trouble.” 

“I try.” 

He settles into the lounge chair next to yours, shoulder brushing yours briefly before he tilts his head back to the sun again. 

The rest of the evening blurs into the kind of contented, alcohol - soft haze you only get on the second night of a trip like this - just enough comfort to start relaxing, not yet enough routine to feel bored. 

Dinner’s grilled and eaten outside. Someone plays bartender and makes the drinks far too strong. You laugh more than you expect. Lando doesn’t hover, but every time you glance over, he’s already looking. 

You should go to bed early. 

You don’t. 

You stay long enough to watch him light sparklers with a lighter he shouldn’t have, teeth catching on the cap of another beer. Stay long enough to feel the way his laugh drags across your skin from halfway across the patio. Stay long enough to admit - to yourself, at least - that maybe this time, you do want to know him. 

By the time you’re back in your room, showered and curled up on the bed with your phone in one hand and your sleep playlist in the other, you’re warm from more than just the heat. 

The last thing you see before you shut your eyes is the faint blue light of a replay clip of Lando’s onboard from Monaco. You didn’t even mean to open it. But your vague connection the world of driving means that you, just like the drivers, are addicted to watching race replays like a lullaby. You let it loop anyway - quiet, steady - as you fall asleep in a hoodie you stole from a driver party two years ago. 

You barely remember that it’s his hoodie. 

It’s hotter the next day. The kind of heat that makes everything feel heavy - time, clothes, thoughts. 

You wake up in the late afternoon, the bed tangled with your sheets and limbs, your skin still warm from the residual heat of the day before. The villa is quieter now. Most people must already be outside, and when you crack your window open, you catch the sound of a speaker playing something bassy and upbeat, mixed with the distant splash of pool water and a few hollered laughs. 

You take your time getting ready, pulling on the only clean swimsuit you packed without thinking. It’s cute, functional enough - but maybe a little revealing. Maybe not what you’d wear if you didn’t know who else would be outside. Maybe it’s stupid how long you spend in front of the mirror tugging the straps into place. 

When you finally head downstairs, the sun hits you like a wall - too much too fast, and all of it golden. The pool glimmers. Someone’s set out snacks, there’s a melting bowl of fruit beside a stack of half - read paperback books, and a cooler full of drinks wedged under the shade. 

And of course - he’s there. 

Lando. 

Lying on a towel just at the edge of the pool. Board shorts low on his hips, eyes squinting up from behind his sunglasses. He’s propped up on one arm, lazily sipping something bright orange through a paper straw. He’s laughing at something someone’s saying off to the side, curls stuck to his forehead, skin flushed just enough to tell you he’s been out here a while. 

You try not to look. You fail. 

He notices. Doesn’t say anything - just tips his chin up in a sort of wordless greeting. 

You set your towel down two chairs away. Not beside him. Not directly across. Just… within view. 

“Someone’s late to the pool party,” he calls after a moment, voice lazy from the heat. 

“I needed sleep.” 

“You needed to make a dramatic entrance, you mean.” 

You roll your eyes but smile. “You think everything’s about you.” 

“Everything is about me,” he says, deadpan. 

You stretch out on your towel, trying not to notice the way his eyes drift down your legs, then flick quickly away again when you catch him. The air feels thicker than before - or maybe it’s just your skin, suddenly too aware of every inch of exposed surface. 

Fifteen minutes later, you’re already sweating. The sun beats down mercilessly, and you sit up, digging through your bag for your sunscreen. You squirt some into your palm and reach for your shoulder - and that’s when his shadow falls across you. 

“You’ll never reach your back,” he says casually. 

One minute Lily and Kika where beside you, the next they weren’t.  

You blink up at him, “Thanks for the concern.” 

He holds out a hand. “Give it here.” 

You hesitate. Then place the bottle in his hand, trying not to think about how broad his shoulders look from this angle. He kneels behind you on the towel, the lotion cools against your overheated skin. 

His touch is… careful. Gentle at first. He smooths the sunscreen between your shoulder blades with slow, deliberate strokes, his thumbs brushing the curve of your spine before dragging back up again, just before the thin tie of your bottoms. His hands are warm and wide, fingers pressing slightly harder with each pass, until you're leaning into the sensation without even realising. 

“This, okay?” he asks, voice low - not teasing anymore, just… close. 

You nod, barely trusting your voice. 

He doesn’t stop. Works the lotion into your shoulders, your neck, fingertips grazing the strap of your swimsuit before pulling back just shy of scandal. You feel your whole - body hum, strung tight like a wire. 

And then - just as suddenly - it’s over. 

“All good,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. 

You exhale. Try to swallow. 

“Thanks.” 

He shrugs, tossing the bottle back toward your bag. “Don’t want your burning. Would ruin your dramatic entrances.” 

You laugh, light but shaky. “Wouldn’t want that.” 

You stay in the shade for most of the afternoon, half - reading a book you can’t focus on. Every time Lando walks past - dripping wet from a dive, towel slung around his shoulders, alcohol bottle in one hand - your eyes follow him before you can stop them. 

You don’t talk again. Not properly. But there’s something shifting now. You feel it in the way he looks at you longer than he should. In the way your fingers brushed his wrist earlier when he handed you a strong cocktail and didn’t pull away. In the way you can still feel his hands on your skin, hours later. 

Something’s changed. 

And you’re not sure which one of you is going to do something about it first. 

You can’t sleep. 

The villa’s quiet now - except for the creak of floorboards, the occasional pipe knocking in the wall, and the soft echo of wind sliding through open windows. Everyone else is either passed out drunk or tangled up in someone else’s sheets. The hallways feel like a lull, soaked in summer and moonlight. 

You’re curled up in bed, too warm to get under the covers, wearing nothing but the old, oversized hoodie and a faint sunburn still blooming across your thighs. You didn’t mean to put this one on - it was just at the top of your bag. Familiar, soft, slightly too big. 

Lando’s hoodie. 

You don’t even think he knows you kept it. One of those late - night party things - he tossed it to you on a balcony and never asked for it back. 

You’re not planning to see him tonight. Not thinking about the way he touched your back earlier. Not thinking about how he looked at you like he wanted to touch more. 

Your phone’s propped up on a pillow, volume low, screen lit with one of his old Silverstone onboard replays. There’s something soothing about it. The smooth rhythm of the track, the flick of the steering wheel in his gloved hands. He’s in control. Sharp. Focused.  You wonder what it’s like to make him lose that focus. 

The door creaks open. 

You sit up fast, yanking your blanket over the bottom hem of your hoodie. “What the - ” 

“Shit - ” a familiar voice mutters. “Sorry. Fuck.” 

Lando. 

He’s shirtless, in just sweats, hair a little damp like he showered but didn’t bother to dry it. His eyes are slightly wide as he sees you, as if his brain’s still catching up with what he just walked into. 

“I thought this was - ” He looks over his shoulder. “That’s not - yeah, this is definitely not my room.” 

You should say something - ask why he’s even trying to come in when most people are already knocked out for the night. 

But his eyes are stuck on your hoodie.  His hoodie.  You’re half - curled up, one leg bare up to the thigh, the hem bunched at the top of them, collar slipped low enough to show your collarbones and just a hint of skin underneath. 

“You wear that often?” he asks, voice a little hoarse. 

Your heart kicks up, fast. 

“You gave it to me.” 

“Didn’t think you kept it.” 

You shrug, hoping your face doesn’t give too much away. “Didn’t think you wanted it back.” 

He steps further into the room - slow, quiet - until he’s leaning against the inside of your door and shutting it softly behind him. 

You look at him.  He looks at you. 

Then, finally, he speaks - quiet, but direct. 

“You’re not telling me to leave.” 

You swallow. 

“Do you want me to?” you ask. 

His voice is lower now. “No.” 

You shift on the bed, pulse starting to hammer in your ears. “Then don’t.” 

He stands there for a second longer, like he’s giving you a moment to change your mind. And then he’s walking forward. 

He stands at the edge of the bed, eyes dark in the low light. One hand lift - slow, deliberate - and pulls at the blanket until he brushes your knee from where it peeks from under the hoodie. 

“You look good in that,” Lando says, voice soft, hoarse. 

You smile, lips parted. “Thought you said it wasn’t yours.” 

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Was trying to stay sane.” 

“Why?” 

He leans in, fingers tracing up your thigh, grazing higher until your breath catches. “Because if I thought about you in this hoodie too long, I’d do something stupid.” 

Your hands fist into the sheets. “Like what?” 

“Like this.” 

He kisses you hard - not rushed, but urgent. Like he’s been waiting, wanting, and now that he has you, he’s not wasting a second. You meet him halfway, fingers threading through his damp curls, hoodie riding up over your hips as he shifts between your knees and deepens the kiss. 

His hands slide up your bare thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs dragging soft circles. You gasp into his mouth when one hand cups the back of your thigh, spreading you further apart so he can settle between them. 

“Still not telling me to leave,” he murmurs against your skin, lips trailing along your jaw. 

“I’d kick your ass if you tried.” 

The room is barely lit by the faint glow of the bedside lamp. Shadows drape the corners, but the air is thick with heat - your heat, his heat - heavy enough to make every breath feel sticky and urgent. 

Lando’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bare chest rising and falling slowly, muscles tense as he watches you. The oversized hoodie you’re wearing - his hoodie - hangs loosely, but every inch of skin you show feels like a dare. 

You flip over his lap to kneel in front of him, heart hammering hard against your ribs. His cock is already hard, proud and aching beneath the loose sweats he’s left hanging low on his hips. His breath catches when you reach out, your fingers warm as they close around him over the fabric. 

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice low and rough, eyes dark and hooded with want. 

You smile, cheeks flushed and lean in closer, tugging down his waistband, “You’re the one who walked into the wrong room.” 

His hands find your hair before you can even move - gentle but insistent, threading through your curls as you lean forward, mouth parting to tease the tip of him. He groans softly, air escaping through his clenched teeth, and you know this is going to be slow, deliberate. 

You take him into your mouth, starting light - teasing with your tongue, lips barely brushing the sensitive head. His fingers tighten in your hair, nails grazing your scalp, holding you in place even as you pull back, just enough to make him desperate. 

“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy,” he rasps, his hips pressing forward instinctively. 

You hum around him, licking a slow stripe from base to tip, sucking just enough to pull a deep moan from his throat. His hands tighten, gripping the sheets as you bob your head slowly, tasting him, swallowing every hitch of breath he makes. 

When you take him deeper, your throat tightens, the stretch delicious and thrilling. He gasps, hips jerking up just a little, and you feel it - the pulse of his arousal, steady and strong. You slow down, using your tongue to circle the head, flicking the underside with precision that sends shivers through him. 

“God, you’re so good,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. 

His free hand slips to your waist, pulling you up close, and you wrap your arms around his thighs, holding him steady. You want to hear everything - every ragged breath, every curse falling from his lips. 

The way his hips start to grind forward against your mouth, desperate for more. 

His fingers dig into your hair, tugging lightly, and you take it as permission to go deeper - slow, steady, careful. You feel his body tense, muscles flexing as he rides the wave you’re building, his breath hitching in ragged bursts. 

When his hips jerk sharply and he releases a low growl, you swallow him down fully, holding him there as long as you can. He curses your name, gripping your hair harder, and when he pulls away, his lips are swollen, breathless. 

You look up, cheeks flushed, and meet his eyes - glazed, heavy with want and need. 

Without a word, he reaches out and pulls you to your feet, hands on your waist firm and sure. His mouth is back on yours instantly, a kiss that’s both desperate and possessive, teeth grazing your lower lip as he pulls you backward onto the bed. 

His hands roam your body with purpose, sliding beneath the hem of the hoodie, fingers finding bare skin with reverent curiosity. You arch into his touch, heart pounding as he trails kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, whispering soft promises between each press of his lips. 

He moves with slow, sure confidence, pushing the hoodie up over your head and tossing it aside like it’s been burning him all night. 

“You’re all mine,” he breathes, voice thick. 

You shiver, overwhelmed by the warmth of his hands, the heat radiating off his body as he trails down your stomach, palms flat and sure. His fingers brush the waistband of your shorts, hesitating just a second before sliding beneath. 

Every nerve ending in your body sings as he removes your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, exposing you completely. 

He kisses the inside of your thigh, lips soft and warm, fingers tracing lazy circles around your hip bones. 

When he finally parts your legs, his eyes darken, focused, hungry. 

He leans in and presses a kiss to your clit, teasing with his tongue in long, slow flicks that make you bite back a moan. 

His mouth wraps around you, warm and wet and demanding, and you clutch his hair, hips rocking forward into him without thinking. 

“Shh,” he murmurs against you, voice low and serious. “Gotta keep it down.” 

You bite your lip, nodding, desperate to keep quiet but drowning in the sensation of his tongue and mouth working magic. He hums, flicks his tongue faster, and you feel the coil tightening deep inside you. 

His hand slides between your legs, fingers teasing your entrance, brushing just the tip before pulling back to focus on your clit again. 

You’re trembling, breath coming in short, desperate gasps, hands grasping at his shoulders as he pulls you closer. 

When you come, it’s a shattered, stifled cry buried in his neck, fingers digging into his scalp as your body clenches around his mouth. 

He holds you through it, slow and steady, until you’re shuddering and soft again. 

Then, gently, he pulls back and grins up at you - wild, messy, utterly undone. 

“You taste like everything I want.” 

You laugh breathlessly and push him down, straddling him as his hands settle on your hips. 

You take your time, rolling your hips, sinking down slowly, savouring every inch. 

His hands grip your waist tight as you ride him - slow, deep, unrelenting. 

The only sounds in the room are your gasps, his moans, and skin sliding against skin. 

You lean down, kissing him hard, teeth clashing, tongues tangling as you move together - a perfect, messy rhythm. 

When he’s close, you bite his shoulder, smile against his skin, and whisper, “Not so quiet now, huh?” 

He laughs low and growls, “I’m not gonna last much longer.” 

You pick up the pace, bouncing harder, nails gripping his chest as he buries his face in your neck, fingers clutching your hips. 

And when he comes, it’s explosive - deep, guttural, his body trembling beneath you as he spills inside you. 

You ride out the waves together, panting and slick, limbs tangled. 

When it’s over, he pulls you close, pressing kisses along your jaw and whispering, “That was worth walking into the wrong room.”

The morning spills into the room like warm honey. 

Golden light streaks across the sheets, catching on dust suspended in the still air. Outside the window, someone’s already put music on too loud - something distant and summery and muffled by the thick villa walls. But in here, it’s all quiet. 

You shift under the covers, muscles pleasantly sore, skin warm from where Lando’s body presses into yours. He’s still half - asleep, one arm flung over your stomach, curls mussed against the pillow. You breathe him in sunscreen and sweat, salt and something softer. Like linen and heat. 

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your hip bone. It’s the kind of touch that says he's still here, even in his sleep. 

You turn toward him, nose brushing his jaw. 

“Lando,” you whisper, low and quiet, just to see if he’s awake. 

Lando hums sleepily as you kiss his chin. “Mmm, you’re up early.” 

“Not really,” you mumble. “I think it’s nearly noon.” 

He groans. “We should hide. Stay in here all day.” 

You smile. “You drooled on my pillow.” 

He growls softly, burying his face in your neck. “Could be worse. Could’ve been your chest.” 

You laugh, legs tangling with his. “You’re disgusting.” 

“Last night you said I was talented.” 

“I said you were decent.” 

He grins sleepily against your skin, voice still thick. “You came twice. At least give me ‘skilled.’” 

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile too hard - but you’re glowing, skin flushed from more than just the heat. 

His hand slips lower, resting over the swell of your ass, fingers tracing lazy shapes again. You’re not doing anything, not going anywhere. It’s rare - to feel like this. Not just satisfied but settled. 

Until -  

“OH MY GOD.” 

The door slams open, and you flinch, instinctively yanking the blanket up to your chin. 

Lando groans so loudly it’s borderline feral. “No. Nope. Out.” 

Oscar is standing in the doorway, already in swim trunks and a bucket hat, holding a protein shake in one hand like a fucking trophy. Squinting into the light like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. 

“I KNEW IT,” he yells, pointing at you both. “Fifty bucks, bitches!” 

You blink, dazed. “What - ?” 

“I told Lily it would happen before the weekend was over,” Oscar continues, stepping just one inch further into the room like he’s inspecting evidence. “She said you’d pussy out. Guess who was right.” 

You blink. “Wait, you two - bet on us?” 

Oscar shrugs. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And then you started wearing that hoodie again. It was obvious.” 

Lando rolls over and shoves a pillow over his head. “Oscar I swear to God - ” 

“Hey, don’t blame me, you could’ve been subtle. But noooo, you had to be all hoodie and eye fucking by the pool.” 

You groan. “How long were people watching us?” 

Oscar snorts. “We have eyes.“ 

“Congrats, by the way,” he says, like he’s handing out a wedding gift. It’s when he sips at his gym bottle and hisses, you realise there’s probably tequila in there, “Try not to traumatize the maid staff.” 

And then he’s gone. 

The door clicks shut again. 

Silence. 

You both stare at the ceiling for a second before bursting into laughter. 

Lando turns toward you, dragging you under him again, smirking like an idiot. “We are never living this down” 

“I kinda don’t care” 

He hums, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You gonna wear that hoodie again?” 

You grin. “Only if I want everyone to know what I let you do to me last night.” 

He pauses. Smirks. 

“Bold of you to assume I’m not wearing it next.” 

You shove him lightly, laughing, as he tackles you back into the sheets, messy and warm and unbothered - a little wrecked, a little teased, and a whole lot in trouble. 

But somehow, it feels kind of perfect. 

meet the models after the show ( epilogue ) :

It’s the last morning at the villa. 

People are packing. Doors opening, zippers skimming across tile. Half - melted iced coffees line the kitchen counter, and someone’s already yelling about who stole their charger. 

You’re still in Lando’s bed. 

Still in his hoodie. 

Still not ready to move. 

He walks back into the room with two mugs in hand - both his. One is basic ceramic with your initials scratched in red nail polish. The other says World’s Fastest Slut in hideous bubble font. 

He doesn’t even flinch when he hands you that one. 

“You’re really still wearing that thing?” he says, nodding to the hoodie swallowing your frame. 

You raise an eyebrow and sip your coffee. “You say that like you weren’t staring every time I wore it.” 

He shrugs, dropping onto the bed beside you. “Just surprised you never took it off.” 

You smirk. “Why would I? It’s comfy. Smells good. Annoys Oscar.” 

“Ah,” he nods, mock serious. “You stayed in my hoodie out of spite.” 

You hum. “Mostly. Partially because it makes my legs look good.” 

His gaze drags down. “Can confirm.” 

You blink. “You gonna tell Oscar that ?” 

“Absolutely not. He’s been insufferable since he ‘won’ a bet that didn’t exist.” 

You laugh, and he leans forward, catching your chin gently with his fingers. You try not to smile, but he leans forward and nudges your knee with his. 

“You’re still coming back to mine after this, right?” he asks, casual, but his tone softens halfway through. 

You blink. “Did I say I was?” 

He gives you that look - head tilted, lashes low, mouth twitching like he’s holding back something cocky. “You didn’t have to.” 

You take another slow sip of coffee. “Hmm. That so?” 

He leans in closer, fingers brushing the hem of the hoodie as he murmurs, “Only condition is… if you keep stealing my clothes, I get to start stealing your time.” 

You snort. “That was corny as hell.” 

“Did it work?” 

You meet his eyes, and yeah - it did. 

You set the mug down and pull him toward you, letting him kiss you slow, like the world isn’t about to start moving again. His hand curls over your thigh, his smile warm against your lips. 

When he pulls back, you sigh into his shoulder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll come back with you.” 

“Knew it,” he says smugly. 

“On one condition,” you add. 

He raises a brow. 

“I keep the hoodie.” 

Lando grins, eyes half - lidded. “Deal.” 

You settle back into the bed, sun rising behind you, the sound of car engines and goodbyes faint in the background. But here, it’s just him. You. And the hoodie you’re never giving back. 

[nhmkhnh]

FRAT RULES, FUCK HARDER.

PAIRINGS: dom!frat girl!vi x sub!fem!reader

PREFACE: you’re the pretty girl she swore she wouldn’t fall for… and now she’s showing up to your 8am class in yesterday’s hoodie and a hickey the size of zaun.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: uhmmm i don’t even know what’s up with me lately, guess i’ve officially entered my smut era hahaaa 😭 like... who would've thought?? there was a time i literally didn’t know how to write smut at all—if past me saw what i’m writing now, she’d be absolutely shooketh 😭💀

WARNING(S): lowercase, explicit content (minors & men dni) TAGS: strap-on sex ;; hoodie kink (?) ;; possessive!vi ;; cocky!vi ;; party sex ;; mirror sex ;; jealousy sex ;; overstimulation ;; public teasing ;; pet names (r: baby/princess) ;; vi has a strap collection don't ask me why. navigation.

1. vi meets you at a mutual party and makes it her life mission to get your number by the end of the night. she’s obnoxious about it too—grabbing the aux, playing some sexy slow jam, leaning on the doorframe with a red solo cup like,

“this one’s dedicated to the girl in the corner with the skirt i’m tryna take off later.” you swear you’re not into her. and yet.

2. she’s the type to crash your sorority movie night just to sit beside you, smelling like weed, cheap perfume, and danger. she’ll whisper things like:

“this plot’s shit… bet i could give you a better night in twenty minutes.” and you hate how your legs press together every time she smirks.

3. she wears crop tops with her frat letters, loose sweats slung low, calvin’s peeking out, and a backwards cap. tongue piercing glinting. she chews gum like sin. she knows exactly what she looks like when she sprawls across the couch and says,

“c’mere, i’ll make you forget your gpa.”

4. she rizz texts at 2am like:

“u up?” “u want sum chaos or sum comfort?” “im outside. bring ass.” and when you open the door? she's shirtless under her zipped-down hoodie, biting her lip, eyes red-rimmed and so so needy.

5. frat girl!vi always smells like beer, cologne, and sweat—but like… in a way that makes you insanely feral. her room's a disaster, but her bed is soft and warm and always has a hoodie of yours she "accidentally" stole.

6. she calls you “princess” and “baby girl” in public, throws her arm around your shoulder at parties and growls in your ear,

“bet none of these fuckers know what you sound like when you’re begging.” you shove her but your face is burning.

7. vi fights anyone who flirts with you at a party. straight up pushes a guy back by the chest like,

“back off, bro. she’s not single—she’s mine.” you haven’t even officially dated yet. that doesn’t stop her from marking you up every damn weekend.

8. she drives you to 8am class in her beat-up bike, still in her boxers, still buzzed from last night. one hand on the throttle, the other on your bare thigh, saying,

“why don’t you skip today and let me fuck that pretty brain right outta your head?” ma’am. please.

9. her tattoos peek out of her tank top when she’s lifting weights in the frat basement gym, smirking when she catches you watching. she drops the barbell and says,

“wanna ride something heavier, sweetheart?” the girls' bathroom has never recovered.

10. she makes you sit in her lap at every frat bonfire. she’ll wrap her arms around you and kiss your neck in front of everyone like it’s a damn claiming ritual, while whispering,

“tell me who you belong to, baby. c’mon. say it.”

11. frat girl!vi has zero impulse control when she’s drunk. she’ll pull you into a closet during a party, lock the door, and say,

“seven minutes in heaven? nah, we’re staying until your knees give out.” you emerge half an hour later. hair a mess. nobody questions it.

12. vi loves taking you to parties just to show you off—hand on your waist, other hand low on your back. she tells everyone,

“y’all can look, but if anyone touches her? you’ll be drinkin’ outta a straw ‘til graduation.” and then she turns to you and grins like the devil.

13. when you're studying in the library, she slides in beside you, unzips your hoodie just to leave hickeys on your collarbone. says,

“you’re doing great, baby. just needed to leave my signature, y’know?” you’re late to lecture. again.

14. she gets banned from your dorm after sneaking in one too many nights, but she still climbs up your window with the dumbest grin.

“romeo who? let me in, babe. i brought snacks and strap.” and you always let her in.

15. she gets absolutely feral when you wear her frat hoodie and nothing else. throws you on the bed and growls,

“you’re reppin’ my name now, huh? let me show you what it means to wear those letters.” and babe… you don’t walk straight for two days.

ཐི❤︎ཋྀ smut bonus:

1. vi has a whole-ass drawer labeled “emergency strap kit.” no, seriously. it has lube, multiple harnesses, cute pastel-colored toys and an engraved one she calls “the finisher.” if you're ever alone in her room too long, she’ll lean in with that low rasp and go,

“pick your poison, sweetheart. we’re not stopping ‘til the sun’s up.” she means it too. you’ve cried on that mattress more times than you can count—always in the best way.

2. she’s obsessed with eating you out while you’re still wearing her clothes—especially those loose-ass sweatpants that hang off your hips. she’ll tug them down slow with her teeth, spread your thighs and groan,

“fuck, baby… always so wet for me. look at this mess. i haven’t even touched you yet.” and when she does? you’re shaking. she pins your hips down. makes you say her name over and over like a prayer.

3. she moans when you moan. vi’s a vocal dom—gritty growls, filthy praise, shamelessly unhinged. she’ll be balls-deep in you with her strap, sweat dripping down her chest, hair sticking to her forehead, and she’ll pant:

“you feel that? that’s all mine. you were fuckin’ made for me, princess.” then she’ll grab your jaw and say, “say it. tell me who you belong to.” and if you hesitate? she slaps the inside of your thigh and starts going harder.

4. frat girl!vi loves mirror sex. like, she’ll drag you to her full-length mirror and bend you over in front of it, whispering,

“look at you, baby… fucked-out on my strap, droolin’ on yourself. that’s my good girl.” she holds you by the throat sometimes. not to choke—just to keep you watching. and when you come? she grins, proud as hell, and doesn’t stop.

5. she has this thing where she fucks you on her frat letters jacket like it’s a ceremony. drapes it under you on the bed and says,

“you’re mine now. no one else gets to touch you like this. say it.” and when you do, breathless and ruined, she just goes, “good girl. now scream my name.”

6. vi adores overstimulation. she’ll edge you at first—multiple times, licking you and pulling back, teasing your clit with her fingers and saying,

“you want my strap, babe? then beg. crawl into my lap and beg like a pretty little slut.” and when you finally get it? she makes sure you take all of it. hands on your hips, body flush to yours, murmuring, “you wanted this, didn’t you? be a big girl. take it all for me, baby.”

[chlorinecake]

— YOU'RE RIGHT, BABY | 𝐂.𝐁𝐂

▹ PAIRING: soft!dom fiancé bangchan x f. reader

▹ SYNOPSIS: Chan gets a little upset upon realizing that you weren’t wearing your engagement ring, but you make it up to him by letting him fuck you in his studio after a long day of work…

▹ WARNINGS: KINKTOBER SPECIAL, swearing, kissing, teasing, dry humping and heavy petting, mentions of food, breeding kink + cream pie (chan’s a possessive freak and in love with the idea of getting you preggers lol), dirty talk, light breath play (f. receiving), pet names (good girl, baby), that’s about it

▹ WORD COUNT: 1.8k — DAY 2

BEING THE AMAZING partner you are, you decided to stop by the studio where your fiancé was working and bring him some dinner, and by dinner, I mean a box full of his favorite takeout foods:

Grilled beef, steamed rice, broccoli teriyaki, and a chicken egg roll…

He was working a few hours overtime that day, and aside from the fact that you wanted him to have something good to eat after expending such efforts, you really just missed his presence…

You missed looking at his gorgeous face and hearing his adorable voice while he did absolutely nothing but vibe with you… you missed having his hands on you and your hands on him as you both got lost in the lusts of your own hearts—

“Chris,” your voice came out gently as you stood behind him, caressing over his tense shoulders while he remained seated in his desk chair, “just rest your little head, baby… you worry too much…”

“I do… you’re right…” he sighs deeply while leaning his head back against the headrest to look at you, the smell of takeout distant in the room.

His eyes are clearly tired as you know he’s been overworked lately, but you hold yourself from bringing it up to him, placing a gentle kiss to the center of his forehead instead.

“Thanks for stopping by, though, princess,” he went on, and you already feel like he’s trying to push you away, despite how you literally just got here, “I have to get back to work now, though—”

“You’re always getting back to work, Channie…” you chuckle slightly, and his eyes flutter shut as your thumbs come across a particularly tight muscle in his left shoulder…

Digging in, you massage the knot gently, but the pressure you apply doesn’t feel so soothing at first—

“Ouch, that hurts!” Chan exclaims with a wince, and you simply smooth over his skin with your touch, massaging a different area instead as you decided to give that spot time to heal on its own.

“Look… your body’s aching as if you’ve been working in a field all day… that’s why I’m here to make you feel better,” you return, and his body is clearly starting to relax the more and more your fingers smooth along the base of his neck and back down his shoulders again, soft hums coming from his throat at the sensation.

“But you don’t have to, love…” he says, voice a little weak as the warmth of your touch reeled him into relaxation, “just having you around is making me feel better already…”

“Aww,” you pout facetiously, even though he can’t see it from where he’s sitting, “You missed me, Channie?… Your very own nagging fiancé?…”

“Nooo,” he corrects, turning in his chair now to get a proper look at you, “I missed my beautiful wife to be, and my adoring partner in crime…”

Reaching out a hand, the veins in his arm appear highlighted under the dim studio lighting as he guides your face into his before giving you a kiss that you both smile into… weakly though, considering how it’s literally 4 in the morning...

Breaking from the contact, you tug at his wrist slightly, not letting go until he finally gets up from the chair, letting you lead him to sit on the couch.

The look on his face now very clearly lets you know what’s on his mind, but you simply decide to sit on his lap in a straddle position, wanting him to make the first move from here…

And he did.

“Can I?” He asks while lifting his hands from the couch cushion, hovering them over your hips and being careful not to touch until you allowed him to.

“Of course, silly,” you chuckle, making him blush slightly at your brief fit of laughter.

“It’s not like anyone’s here to tease us for it,” you went on, thinking back to the countless times that your fiancé’s friends (specifically Minho and Han) would outwardly gag whenever you two publicly display affection—

“You’re right, baby… no one’s around to bother us,” Chris breathes in agreement, finally letting his eager hands rest at your hips before adding a bit of pressure as he caressed up your waist and along your thighs, “The two of us could practically get away with doing anything we want for the next few hours in here…”

You didn't even have to ask to know what he was specifically implying, but you decide to play dumb anyway, just because you absolutely loved hearing his strong Aussie accent come out whenever he was sexually worked up with you…

“Takeout’s still waiting to be opened, Chris,” you whisper, letting your nails gently drag against his scalp as he melts into your touch, his silky curls looping around your fingers, “we shouldn’t keep it out for too long or else it might spoil…”

“Well I’m not in the mood to eat anymore,” he whispers back in a raspy voice, and you let your weight sink further into his lap, your bottom resting right above the spot his true hunger was pulling him most.

“Use your words, baby… tell me what you want,” You press, leaving a kiss along his clenched jawline… and another one on his pretty thick lips… and a third one against his Adam’s Apple that makes him groan out loud…

Or maybe his groan had more to do with the way you were also rocking your hips against his clothed hard on, making his hands slightly grip at the fabric of your jeans for any sort of leverage.

“Why… of all the bottoms that you own, did you close to wear tight, denim jeans at a time like this?” He asks with frustration, making you giggle a bit at the way his chest rises and falls every time you circle in his lap, the rough material tantalizing him…

“Don’t you think they make my ass look good, though?” You tease with a pout, watching as he smirks at your question, only to hiss at your movements again.

“They make your ass look great, babe… but they also make it impossible for me to touch you properly…”

He was doing it again, you thought to yourself… That thing where he gets you to do what he wants without specifically asking.

Yes, Chris was a typically a pretty confident guy, but sometimes, you had a way of bringing out his shy, reluctant side when it came to sexual things, but you still found it cute nonetheless.

“Fine, then… since you’re too shy to ask for it properly, I’ll just do it myself,” you say in a bratty tone while getting up from his lap, and he visibly scoffs at the way you stood before him now, fingers meddling with the buckle of your jeans until he stopped you.

“C’mere,” he huffs, pulling you close to him by the belt loop of your jeans until you fall into the couch beside him with a gentle plop.

His smirks again once he finally unzips the rough fabric just enough to see a leak of what’s beneath, and the expression is so wide that his dimples come through…

At first, you’re not sure why he’s a grinning mess, but you understand once his fingers run over the lace of your black panties, the same pair that he brought you a while back on one of his tours cross-country.

“I’ll take a wild guess and say you wore these for me, huh?” He asks with a husk to his tone now that you’re bumping your knee against his clothed hard-on, and his hips subconsciously chase the friction.

“Mhm,” you hum softly, lifting up on your elbows now to look at him better, “I just didn’t expect you to take so long to get ‘em off me…”

“How cute,” he returns, and your eyes follow the veins trailing his forearm, his flexed fingers hooking at either side of your hips before tugging your jeans the rest of the way down and past your ankles with your panties, tucking them under the couch cushion for his private use later…

“Cute?” You repeat with a raised brow, spreading your legs before him as you both watched each others cores intently, practically itching within yourself for him to finally untie his sweatpants.

“Yup. Love it when you get in your little attitudes,” he says plainly, but his smile is half-hearted now as he leans over you, bracing himself with his hands before kissing your forehead.

You try to follow where his eyes are looking, but his bangs are in the way, and you can’t help but ask him what the matter is…

However, he doesn’t answer immediately, simply taking your hands in his and placing a kiss to l the closed knuckles of your left hand, right before pinning your wrist at either side of your head on the couch.

And that’s when it hits you… the reason behind his sudden change in aura:

You forgot to put your engagement ring on…

You had only taken it off for a second before coming to meet him in the studio because some oil from the takeout bag had spilled on your hands… while washing up in the bathroom, you had put the ring in your purse and simply forgot to put it back on…

Though, you knew at this point it’d be worthless trying to get that story through Chan’s thick skull, as he had already made up in his mind that you were playing games with him…

“Where’s your ring, baby?” Your fiancé asks while shimmying down his boxers and trousers with one hand, and you near choke on air at the sight of his glossy and girthy tip springing out before you, red and angry with need.

“I-it’s in my purse,” you stammer, almost feeling guilty now that you had even forgot to put it back on in the first place, “I can go and get it—”

“No need,” he interrupts you, lining himself up with your entrance as the depth of his voice equally catches you off guard, “just make sure you put it back on after this, yea?”

You winced at the sudden stretch of his cock filling you up just right, and your hips are already trembling at the delicious fullness.

“Channie… it slipped my mind, baby… please,” you say, and you’re not quite sure what it is that you’re begging for, but you always had a habit of going dumb around his cock, even if it’s just resting inside you.

“I gave you a simple order, love… now, do you understand me, yes or no?” He asks more sternly this time, thrusting into you with a sharp hit of his hips, and you internally cringe at yourself for hiccuping at the force.

“Y-yes, I understand,” is all you manage to say as he continues slamming his hips into you at a painfully slow pace, looking you dead in the eye as you crumble beneath his intense gaze.

“Say it again,” he orders, and you listen, gripping at his biceps and biting your lip as an attempt to keep your moans in, but the little whimpers and whines end up spilling out anyway.

You can feel Chan's cock twitch inside you every time you say yes for him, especially with the way your walls are throbbing around his length as he groans the words “good girl” in the midst of it all.

“So so good for me,” he continues, grinding his hips in a way that makes his pelvis graze your clit rythmically, and you’re sure you’re seeing stars once his hand finds your neck, just resting it there to get your attention.

“Good enough to let me cum in you, huh?” He questions, but it’s more so of a suggestion than anything, and you oblige to it, nodding your head in desperation as your hips start to follow the movements of his.

“Yes, baby… w-want you to fill me up so bad,” you whimper, and he lets a groan out right after you… one that makes your stomach flutter with emotions given how beautiful it sounded.

“Gonna put a baby in your pretty little stomach,” he huffs in between fucking you open with all his strength, “and at that point, who cares if you don’t have your ring on? Everyone will know who you belong to once your tummy’s all swollen because of me… tell me who this pussy belongs to…”

“Y-you, Channie,” you blabber out pathetically, your own mouth filling with saliva at how amazing he’s making you feel right now.

“Louder…”

“It’s all- fuckkk… yours, b-baby,” you cry out, and it’s a weak cry at that given the way his hand is tightening around your throat, but you don’t mind… not one bit when it feels THIS. Fucking. Good…

He finally lets his lips find yours in a needy kiss, and a string of spit keeps y’all together as he break away to let out a moan of his own, but you’re pulling him back into you, wanting him to be as close as possible to you in this moment.

The couch starts to creak to the rhythm of his movements, and you couldn’t be more thankful for the large cushions it was made with, otherwise you’re certain the both of you would’ve been on the floor at this point.

“Feels so fucking good inside you, baby… sooo fucking good,” he grunts, and you know he’s almost close just from the way his eyebrows are screwing into adorable little crinkles, his thrusts becoming sloppier and sloppier by the second.

“F-fuck~” you mewl against his lips, feeling the knot in your own stomach tighten as his cock hit mesmerizing places inside you.

He keeps his hand snug around your neck while looking into your eyes, and his hips can’t bare to piston into your cunt any longer once your walls clench around him, making him feel dizzy in the head.

“Cum in me,” you plead with a soft voice while, lips puffy from how hard you’d been biting them, and Chan finally lets himself go, barely getting any extra thrusts in before painting your walls with his hot release, groaning shamelessly like a porn star.

“Oh my God,” he grunts with a strained voice, using his last bit of strength to prevent himself from collapsing on top of you given how spent he is now.

“Wait, Channie,” you say, thighs still trembling a bit as he pulled out of you, a bit too early though for you to remind him that his cum would only spill out—

“Shit,” he swears under his breath upon realizing, rushing to catch the fluid spilling from your cunt now with his fingers, trying not to get it on the couch, but to no avail.

He instead lets his fingers push the cum back into you, holding his wrist there until he’s able to reach for a napkin off of his desk to help clean you up.

“Stop that, baby,” he says with a mischievous smile, but only because your walls were sucking his digits in, preventing him from taking them out to clean them off, “give me some time to recharge and then we can go again, okay?…”

All you can bring yourself to do is hum at his words, and he in turn offers you another gentle smile.

Applying light pressure to your lower stomach, he finally gets your walls to release his fingers from the confines of your sloppy hole, wiping the residue off with the napkin.

“Didn’t expect you to cum this much,” you say in a sleepy tone while reaching for your jeans to slide them back on.

“Me neither,” he chuckles, readjusting his pants before getting up to toss the soiled napkin in the bin nearby, “but uh... just know that if in three weeks, we find out that our first future child was conceived on this couch, never tell this story to anyone…”

⋆♱✮ Huge thanks to everyone who made it to the end of this fic, concluding DAY 2 of my Kinktober Event !! This was also my first time publishing any written work for Stray Kids (my ult group XD) so feel free to tell me how I did in the comments !! Finally, if you're interested in reading more works like this, check out my main enhypen masterlist or my kinktober masterlist here by clicking one of these links !!

⋆♱✮ PERMANANT TAGLIST:

@squoxle, @nishiimuranights, @ashgonedash

@yourmomscuntis2tighy, @wonbinisbabygurl

@watamotee33, @addictedtohobi, @ot7sevenlvr

⋆♱✮ KINKTOBER TAGLIST:

@pasteltheghost16 @fawnpeaks @melonvrs

@mheretoreadff @skzfelixlove @inishij

@yaorzu-blog @andromedawillburyyou @ramyeonzprincess

@zaihypen @simjaeyunns @gardenwonnies @hynier

@idontknowhowtomakeusernames @enhymeowz @minhosimthings @stormy1408

also, check out THIS fic NEXT if you're interested in more...

[minkieater]

most to least likely in ateez to wanna share their girlfriend with the members…?

SHARETEEZ ☆ atz ot8 x fem!reader

please i love this topic so fucking much, thank you for asking this !!!!! shareteez is so important to me. the only government ship i used is yungi because im insane and addicted to them 😄 not proofread sorry 4 any mistakes <3

smut mdni 18+ | wc ~4k

most likely …

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐖𝐀 ☆

idk what it is about hwa but something about him screams voyeurism to me. i think he’d be the one to bring it up, and i also think he’d share you with every single member if he could. as the oldest, even if he doesn’t share his personal items, something about sharing you gives him a sense of control. he’s always sitting in the corner of the hotel room, watching, analyzing as one of his best friends makes his girl feel good, but also, something about watching two people he loves together, right in front of his face, gets him off. he doesn’t wanna be involved— he wants to sit in his corner and watch, see how you react, see what the others do that he does or doesn’t do, watch how his members fall apart because of you. he’s prideful about it, it’s a way of showing you off, showing his members what they can have for a night but never to keep. he’s never jealous if you cum quick or if you’re screaming for another member, he’s watching with calculated eyes, taking notes, trying to ignore the ache of his cock that he doesn’t touch until he can’t take it anymore.

his favorite person to share you with is san. san is a passionate man in everything he does, his motivation never dies, and god does that statement remain true when it comes to sex. seonghwa is addicted to letting san fuck you, he’s the only member that’s fucked you more than once, hwa is obsessed with how you react for him, how easily you fall apart under his touch, the sounds the two of you make… seonghwa nearly asks for his wrists to be tied to the chair. its impossible not to stroke his cock while san’s eating you out, to not cum at the same time you do, to not drool as he watches the muscles in san’s toned back flex as he fucks you. hwa is a mess in his corner, his lap covered in cum, hand slick and wrist aching while his cock lays flaccid and utterly spent— but he still can’t stop, not when san hasn’t finished yet, not when you aren’t brainless and lifted to that fuzzy space that only san brings you to so easily. seonghwa could watch you for hours, his own personal movie, his favorite part would always be when you twisted your head to stare at him as you came, every single time. seonghwa would die a happy man in his corner if he was watching one of his best friends fuck you stupid.

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐍 ☆

san would quite literally do anything his gf asked of him, but i think san is a fucking freak to begin with and watching you with someone else would be a dream to him. he’s obsessed with your pleasure, a demon possessed when it comes to getting you off, there isn’t a day that goes by where you aren’t finishing from some ministrations of choi san. if you even so much as look at another member with lingering eyes he’s on it— he’s observant, he’s horny, and his mind is always going, thinking of something new, trying it out with you, getting you past the finish line with it. san is a quiet man but he’s always storing details away, saving them for later, rewording them into propositions to make you think it was his idea. when san drops the idea of you hooking up with someone else, you’re the one shocked as if he’d just stripped you bare, peered inside your mind, as if all your thoughts were written across your forehead. san doesn’t get jealous, he’d do anything to get you off, and he means that.

san giggled to himself when he watched you approach yeosang in the backlit bar. quiet and meek, san would have never expected yeosang to agree to dance with you— but the blush that crossed yeosang’s cheeks, how his ears tipped red, san knew he was going to have fun with this. san stood with wooyoung as he watched you dance with yeosang, grinding on him, hands around his neck, lips ghosting his skin, san’s pants were agonizingly tight and only grew tighter every time yeosang glanced their way with worried eyes. he didn’t stop, though, he never asked for permission, and for some reason it made san hornier that yeosang knew you called the shots. so when the three of you made it back to your shared place and you sat with your back pressed against san’s chest and yeosang between your thighs, it was no surprise to any of you when san ended up finishing untouched, ropes of hot cum painting your back, sticking your skin to his. it was so hot, hotter than san could have ever expected, too hot to not make the occurrence a regular thing. after that night you invited the rest of the boys to your bedroom, one by one, it became a game to you and san. who could get you off the fastest, who did new things that you could incorporate into your own sex life, who you wanted to invite back into the bedroom. san was always present, always watching, always right there, always touching, always finishing at the same time as you.

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐈 ☆

mingi would share the world with yunho, so yungi topping mingi’s gf is so real to me i’m 100% convinced it’s true. unlike the other two before him, mingi is possessive and jealous by nature, he can be shy and insecure, but never when it comes to yunho. he’s third on this list because i think he’d be dating his gf for less than six months before he let yunho get his hands on her, Grade A Lover Boy ™, he’s so open to the idea that he’s the one pushing it to happen— he’s been having threesomes with yunho ever since he started having sex, so when it comes to you, his perfect little girlfriend, why wouldn’t he want to show you off to yunho? he boasts about you all the time, how pliant you are for him, how your pussy is the best he’s ever had, how your body was sculpted by god himself. it makes yunho drool and fills mingi with such a sense of pride he needs to show him as soon as he can, let him experience it for himself, but asking you is the hard part. somehow explaining the relationship between the two without making it sound like he’s objectifying you in any way, because he’s not, you’re the two people in this world he loves the most, and he’s just as confident in yunho’s skills as he is in how he feels about you.

when you agree without a second of contemplation mingi knows he’s found the one. so he invites yunho over to your shared apartment on a random weeknight, a couple glasses of liquor between you to ease your one sided nerves, and you were laid out bare on your mattress before you had a moment to second guess. two huge men towered over you, taking you for everything you were worth, making you finish over and over and over until you had nothing left to give. yunho’s long fingers inside you combined with mingi’s thick, calloused hands roaming across your body, in your mouth, in your hair, when the both of them filled you up, at the same time, you were a sight to be seen by the end, the end that you weren’t sure would ever come. you didn’t want it to, and neither did mingi, who loved everything about it. he enjoyed threesomes with yunho always, but with you, they’ve never been more in tune with one another, it’s never been so intimate. fucking has always been fucking, but with you it was more, it was a dance, a rhythm, a mutual agreement never spoken out loud. mingi’s relationship with yunho changed after that— aspects of your own relationship with mingi changed after that. it didn’t stop with just that one time, neither you or mingi could let it be a one time thing, yunho kept coming over, the two of you kept seeking him out, even when you were in public yunho became regular, routine, never spoken about, only enjoyed.

𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆 ☆

even if wooyoung is a fucking freak i think this would definitely take him by surprise. i KNOW he is the mayor of freakville and would do anything at any point in time, but i think inviting someone else in, someone he knows so closely, so intimately, might make him double take just for a second. especially because its neither you or him that initiates it, it’s the third party peering in, the third party who has watched you, listened to you, can’t stop thinking about the two of you and wants to join in on the fun. you’re down immediately, but wooyoung…? as much as he would be down for a threesome, inviting a member in makes him think logistics. for once he’s thinking with his brain and not his cock when it comes to you, you’re his, and as much as he loves to show you off, a shred of insecurity lies deep in his gut somewhere. he thinks on it for a total of two (2) days and then he can’t stop thinking about it, what you’d look like under him, what you’d sound like, how he’d look inside you… it’s all too much for him all at once, the realization that he needs it, that he’d beg for it if it came down to it.

but he quickly remembers that it was him the two of you needed that final yes from. seonghwa comes over as soon as he shoots the text and the three of you are stripped bare without as much as hello, wooyoung thinks that maybe the two of you have him beat in freakiness. he doesn’t feel left out for a moment, though, not as seonghwa slips into easily found dominance, giving the two of you instruction, watching you make out sloppily on the bed before he’s pulling you apart and making you obey him. wooyoung’s cock was rock hard the moment he stepped foot into your bedroom, as soon as seonghwa used that voice on him, hitting that sweet submissive spot in his brain he couldn’t always tap into so easily. you were both switches in your relationship, neither of you dominant all the time, usually switching in an out of roles during one singular session, but seonghwa tamed you both with ease and wooyoung ate it up, he was a whimpering mess before he knew it, cock overstimulated and red and angry, laid against his stomach still wet from seonghwa’s mouth as he watched him fuck into you with no mercy— you were a crying, screaming mess, too, already came too many times, yet none of you wanted to stop. seonghwa was toying with you both and wooyoung was obsessed, he let it go on until either you or seonghwa had enough, and it seemed you had the same idea, too. both of you wanting to please him, satisfy him, give him what he wanted from both of you. only on nights where both you and wooyoung were reminiscing particularly hard did you call him and beg him to come over again, to dominate you both, to send you back into that headspace you’d never forget.

𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐆 ☆

yeosang is only down here cus i think if you brought it up poorly you’d hurt his feelings. he’s really a chill guy and he’s super versatile when it comes to sex, i think there’s not much that he’d say no to, but he’d definitely have to think it over for a long time before deciding to say yes to opening up your relationship to anyone, let alone another member. you’d have several conversations about it before even thinking about choosing a partner, setting boundaries for one another, what a threesome would consist of, why you’re doing it in the first place. choosing someone was another week-long conversation, going through every single member before deciding on one together, the reasons why you were choosing him, making sure none of this was being easily decided. yeosang is heavily aware that this is a big ask of another member, and he won’t be anything but wise in his choosing, in his intentions. then it came down to actually asking him, the safety of it all, precautions and boundaries, what would actually happen during the encounter. yeosang would want all bases covered before going into it, you’re too important to him to lose, and his members are too important to him to fuck up his dynamic with any of them. it’d be months of just talking and planning before anything actually happened.

the two of you choose wooyoung because he’s the closest to you both, you spend a decent amount of time together just you three, wooyoung going as far as joking that you adopted him to the other members all the time. he’s kind, respectful and light-hearted, you both trust him deeply, and you think you could show him a good time, and vice versa. wooyoung is def thrown off when you approach him with the seriousness of it all, he’s probably like yeah sure and then you two throw a five page long essay about why you chose him and what would happen in said threesome. not really. but it probably feels like that to wooyoung, who’s ready to strip his clothes off when you asked him if he’s open-minded. yeosang is feeling confident when the night finally comes, and falls into pace and rhythm with wooyoung easily, the two of them bouncing off one another and leaving you a writhing mess. it’s a dance of hands and spit and tongues and cum, kissing yeosang while riding wooyoung’s face, blowing wooyoung while yeosang stretches you out, relying on two sets of strong shoulders while they both try to fit inside you, fighting to keep your eyes open to watch as they messily makeout over your shoulder. it was a true threesome; not one of you left out, no one left untouched, wooyoung was exactly what you expected him to be, if not more. it left yeosang feeling so confident that he’s the one to suggest it happen again— after you caught him making out with wooyoung after one too many beers at the bar.

𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐇𝐎 ☆

jeong yunho is a deeply possessive man, we all know this, and i think there’s only one way this could possibly go. he isn’t possessive out of insecurity or jealousy, but because you’re his, and no one else should be able to see all of you, hear you the way only he gets you. soft and submissive, bendable, pliant, obeying— that’s how he loves you, how he needs you, yunho is dominant, extremely dominant, and when it comes to your sex life, you will not do anything unless he asks it of you, or unless he makes you. so when you make a silly joke about fucking mingi, he takes it personally, he almost spanks you for it— why would you want to invite anyone else into your bedroom? why do you want someone else to fuck you? you had a long session that night, yunho took it upon himself to fuck some sense back into you, because yunho is all you need, jokes or not, you know better than that. as the days followed, yunho found himself daydreaming about fucking both of you, dominating you at the same time, two people crying and begging at his mercy… it was less about sharing you and more about making the both of you his, even if it was just for a night. his cock was standing tall at the thought, he could see it in his head, thinking of his best friend that way opened another can of worms he wasn’t sure he even wanted to act on, so he didn’t. not for months.

then there’s that one time he’s out with you and mingi somewhere completely innocent, like the farmer’s market, somewhere the three of you go often, probably twice a month when your schedules allow. the two of you are deep in conversation standing in front of a fruit stand, and yunho’s speaking to you, trying to get your attention but neither of you hear him, and it pisses him off. he snaps his fingers, something he does to you when you’re lost in a session, when your mind floats away even with all of your training, when he needs you to come back down to earth. but instead of your head snapping up it’s the both of you, with wide eyes and parted lips, waiting for yunho to say something, waiting for instruction. it awakens a feeling he buried deep in his gut that he couldn’t help but get you both in the car and back to your place immediately. the bond the three of you shared has never gone unnoticed in your years of being friends, and that mental link you had was proving itself more than ever now, how both you and mingi went straight to the bedroom, sat yourselves quietly on the bed awaiting yunho’s instruction. it was heaven to yunho, as he instructed mingi on how exactly to make you cum, how to suck on your clit, how to curve his fingers inside you to hit that one spot that made you squirt on demand. it was even better when he instructed you on jerking mingi off, how he held mingi’s hands behind his back, how he made you edge him over and over until he cried, abdomen clenching and sweat beading down his skin. yunho’s favorite was when you both sucked him off at the same time, how your tongues danced with each other on his cock, how you both had that gleam in your eye solely to please him. yunho couldn’t get enough after that— having one person completely submit themselves to him was one thing, but to have two? it’s safe to say that was not the last time mingi was in your shared bedroom with yunho.

𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐉𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐆 ☆

another possessive demon freak is hongjoong! you would piss him off so bad if you didn’t bring this up in a delicate way, honestly even if you did bring it up delicately he’d still prolly be pissed off. i think he’s the only member that would get mad mad tho, like not speak to you or sleep on the couch or something. why would you need anyone but him? he gives you everything you ask for, and it’s still not enough? when would it be enough for you???? it drives him insane for days, bro can’t work because he’s legitimately tripping over you thirsting after another one of his members. plus your sex life is great, he breaks your back every time he fucks you, he doesn’t consider it sex unless you’ve came two or three times. why would you need anyone else??? even if he could accept the fact that you wanted more— he has to come to terms with the fact that he’s to share you? the thought is ridiculous. someone else seeing you spread out, writhing, hearing you, possibly touching you? it makes him homicidal tbh he’s actually fucking crazy. knowing you have exes makes him rage enough, but to willingly let someone else see you is a whole different ordeal.

but he hated the idea of letting someone else watch a little less, so there’s your compromise. you let him choose because he’s insane and he tries to think of someone who would get the most pleasure out of sitting off to the side and just enduring, someone borderline pathetic, someone so horny they’d say yes to everything. naturally his mind leads him right to wooyoung, who said yes in a heartbeat. sat in the corner of the room in a cozy chair, wooyoung already had his pants pulled down to his thighs when hongjoong had just started kissing you. he smiled into your lips, knowing he was putting on a show, pride consuming him at the fact that he got to show this part of you off. as much as he hated the idea initially, he warmed up to it quickly when he realized how desperate wooyoung was, when he saw how badly wooyoung wanted to join in, wanted to be touched… depriving him of that made his cock harder, made him want to please you more, wanted to show wooyoung what he’ll never fucking have. hearing wooyoung whine and moan and gasp whenever he locked eyes with you, when hongjoong made you cum again, it made hongjoong want to work harder, want to make you cum again and again and again, just to hear you, to hear him, to dangle you right in front of wooyoung’s face. hongjoong never thought of himself as an exhibitionist but i think that experience definitely changed his life, and he wouldn’t mind showing you off for someone else again.

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐎 ☆

tbh i think jongho would be weirded out. he doesn’t see a point in opening up your relationship unless he wasn’t enough for his gf, and at that point he’d just end the relationship lol. if he was invited in to someone else’s relationship i think he’d literally say fuck no. too easy to get messy, for feelings to get involved, what if another member got jealous and couldn’t look at jongho the same way? these guys are his brothers, he doesn’t need to know what the inside of their girlfriend feels like. that’s territory he’d legit never cross. he trusts the members and their intentions but his relationship with them is too important to let a night of fun mess all of that up. but if you begged him for a threesome, like really begged, and strategized in a way that’d leave jongho with no more valid arguing points OR leave him with the feeling of not being enough for you, the one person he’d share you with is hongjoong. hj knows how to keep a secret, he can turn the switch off to separate his feelings, to realize when a situation his purely situational. he trusts hj with every bone in his body, he knows hj would take care of you, and if jongho never wanted to speak about it again he knows hj would never bring it up first.

what jongho has never realized because why would he is how versatile hongjoong is when it comes to sex. when jongho laid down the ground rules hongjoong was respectful, which was the most important thing to jongho, about yours and his boundaries— no kissing, no saying names, no cuddling, no spending the night. everything else was free game, though, and hongjoong took advantage of every unchecked box. it came down to worshipping you, and he was everywhere jongho wasn’t, you wondered if the two even realized the other was there. if jongho was inside you, hongjoong was feeling you up, fingers pressed to your clit, his other hand tweaking your nipples, whispering nasty shit in your ear. if jongho was kissing you he was behind you, licking and sucking down your back, his hands roaming every inch of untouched skin, praising you about how soft you are, how sweet you taste. jongho was pleasantly surprised, hongjoong slipped in like he’d done this a thousand times before, like your pleasure was all that mattered to him, and that was all jongho could ask for, aside from his rules. they totally never spoke about it again tho.

… least likely

masterlist

perm tags: @chimivx 😛

[caleignii]

Gamer!Caleb/Fan!Reader

mentions of: smut, fingering, pussy eating lol, p in v, possessive behavior, creampie, jealousy, cumming, breeding, masturbation, rough sex, orgasm, praising kink, sexual overstimulation, caleb is totally a pervert.

summary: as he came to your coffee shop one day, you never thought that you'll meet your favorite streamer caleb?!

a/n: LOLOLOL, OMG HAPPY JUNELEBBB. I've been lazy for almost twoo weeks WHAAAT??? UGHH idek what to do neext. This one is my longest fic so faarr so have fun readingg! Might post the part two of PossessiveMechanic!Caleb tomorrow lolll, stay tuned!!!

A soft ding was heard on your phone.

As you are currently in the kitchen looking for some snacks, you turned to check your phone. A “Mid night stream since y'all fav streamer had been busy from Cappleb” was shown on the notifications not long ago.

Since your favorite streamer, Caleb, or should we call him Cappleb, hasn't been online for nearly four days, you're thrilled and your excitement is visible on your face.

Before you knew his page, you were busy scrolling into Chrome, when the phone suddenly jumped on your hands landing towards your face.

His adorable face, which nearly looked like a puppy due to his eyes, was what drew your attention when you unintentionally clicked on a few tabs and found his page.

At first, you enjoyed watching him stream about his gaming activities. It was clear that he loved airplanes so much that he occasionally even makes replicas of little aircraft instead of his usual gaming streams. Some airplanes on a shelf that can be seen in his background were precisely aligned and appeared to have been well-maintained.

After you become comfy with him, as you haven't missed any of his streams, you began interacting with him in his comments by asking, "How are uuuuu??” or occasionally making remarks about how accurate and skilled he is when playing Valorant.

Feeling flustered when he notices your little comment, “Doin' pretty well angel, how 'boutcha?”

After awhile, you came to the position of one of his most top fans, and a badge next to your name that notifies him anytime you sign up for his streams. Sometimes if your wallet is feeling a bit too full, you'd send him some stars to fund his streams.

cutiaples [Top Fan 🍎]: sent 1000 stars! ⭐⭐⭐

“WHAT IN THE HOLY GYAAAAT! That's a lottt.” he stopped in his game to look in the comments.

cutiaples [Top Fan 🍎]: you've been playing nonstop for 4 hours, thought this would make u smile cute boy ;3

“Wait-wait-wait, my mind's still processing... Thank you so much baby!!!” you were stunned when he called you baby, blood immediately rising to your cheeks.

The look on his face is everything, slightly widened eyes, corner of his lips turning upwards, and the way he giggles. It made you feel like your stomach was moving around.

Right now, when you clicked on the notifications that directed you to his stream, you saw him wearing a black sweatshirt that fits him perfectly and headphones resting around his neck. You observed him as he is presently working on finishing his desktop so that his game may be seen.

You can't help but be impressed by his features, including his fluffy hair, the way his brows move unintentionally, and the way his Adams apple rises and falls with each swallow. The fact that he looks so good without even trying makes you blush.

The whole time you just watch him playing some silly game, laughing off when he does something funny.

Saying farewell to his viewers as he stopped his stream at around 4:00 AM, and you forgot that you still had work to do in the morning.

“Y'aaall don't miss me muuch! Bye-byeee!” his smile is clearly warming, along with his eyes that threaten to close in any second.

You were clearly sleep deprived after staying up all night, as evidenced by your drooping eyes and distracted thoughts. You have repeatedly tried blinking forcefully in the hopes that it might reduce your drowsiness, but it has didn't worked.

“A cup of large iced-americano and a slice of apple-pie, order coming up!” you came back to your senses hearing your manager's instruction.

As you brew the coffee yourself you can't help but to yawn.

“Didn't sleep much huh? Who kept you up all night? Wish that was me tho” your coworker Frank commented.

“None of your business, get back to work we aren't supposed to be chatting, do you want us to get scolded or what.” you shot him back clearly annoyed.

“Jeeezz calm down, here's the apple-pie by the way. Serve it to table fourteen.”

When you reached the designated table, dropping the tray onto the table to a man wearing a cap looking slightly suspicious by how cautious he is acting.

“Here's your large iced-americano along with an apple-pie lemme know if you need something else, enjoy your order!”

“Excuse me, Miss? I think there's something missing in my order.”

As you turn back, you can't help but feel a sense of familiarity against him.

“May I see your receipt please?” when he handed the slightly crumbled paper, you caught a glimpse of his face under the cap he was wearing.

CALEB!?

IS IT REALLY HIM?

“S-sure, it seems like the Lemon chiffon cake is missing. Let me get it for you right ahead” When you returned to the kitchen you tried to think of something else. What if he just looks like him? It'll be embarrassing if I straight up greet him, right?

“Im sorry for our mistake, here's your Lemon chiffon cake Sir. Is there anything else you need?”

“Nopee but thanks anyway!”

You swore share the same voice!

“Clean up table six!” as you came back to your senses you proceeded to go back working.

Following a long day, you were left to clear the final two tables. As you reached to pick it up, you noticed something gleaming beneath the table that definitely drew your attention. Someone appears to have dropped this wallet. A brown pocketbook with blue and orange accents on the edges, as well as the tiny apple charm that had been shining from the earlier sunlight.

You opened it to check for identification or documentation pertaining to the owner. When you opened it, there was $248 inside, along with a piece of lemon-flavored candy. Going on to eventually locate an ID.

Caleb Xia, 25 Years Old, Registered Pilot in the Deepspace Aviation Administration.

Your heart nearly leapt out of your chest.

Caleb? It is him.

You stared at the ID, unable to look away. That soft smile in the picture, the same one you’d seen countless times during his streams, made everything click into place. Your hands trembled slightly as you clutched the wallet. What were the odds?

The wallet felt warm in your hands, still echoing traces of its owner.

Caleb.

Your breath caught when you saw his name—just a thin layer of leather and circumstance separating you from a person you’d admired for so long.

A streamer you watched religiously, heart fluttering at every “hey angel” typed to someone you assumed he'd never meet.

But now, he was here.

In your café.

Ordering lemon chiffon cake and smiling with those same crescent-moon eyes that used to light up your screen at 2 AM.

You didn’t say anything. How could you?

How could you tell him that the barista who brought his coffee was the same person who sent him stars with whispered admiration behind every coin?

That the girl wiping tables and yawning at dawn was the same voice that told him he was doing great mid-Valo match?

No.

You kept it to yourself.

You tucked his wallet safely into a sealed bag, placed it beneath the counter, and watched as the night slipped away like steam off hot coffee.

He came back the next morning, this time with his cap gone and a quiet confidence in his step.

“I think I left something behind,” he said.

You didn’t meet his eyes at first. You were afraid he’d see too much in yours.

“A brown wallet with a little apple charm, have you guys perhaps seen it?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, retrieving it for him. “We held it for you. Thought you might come back.”

“Thanks,” he said, eyes soft with gratitude. “Would’ve been a disaster if I lost it.”

You handed it over, your fingers brushing for a moment. He smiled, and something in your chest lurched.

He started showing up more often after that.

Sometimes for the lemon chiffon. Sometimes for the espresso.

But after a while, you noticed—he didn’t even pretend to look at the menu anymore.

He came to talk.

"Rough night?" he'd ask, noticing your eye bags.

"Yeah, just… couldn’t sleep."

Couldn't? No, you wouldn't sleep cuz he was streaming til 3AM.

"You too, huh?"

He’d sit by the window while the sun stretched across the floor like golden thread. You’d steal glances while pouring milk, wiping counters, pretending not to notice how the light caught in his hair.

You learned things.

He loved planes—real ones.

Not just models. Not just flight sims. He had studied aviation since he was sixteen. He told you about his training, the nights he’d sleep under textbooks, the mornings he’d wake up with paper cuts and dreams of blue skies.

“I wanted to fly away from everything back then,” he admitted once, eyes far away.

You wanted to ask what he was flying from—but you didn’t. Some silences are more sacred than sound.

He became a part of the place. A low hum in your routine.

Sometimes you’d sit across from him after your shift, swapping stories over lukewarm pastries.

You'd tell him about your dream to study design, about how this café was only a stepping stone. He listened, chin in his hand, like every word you spoke mattered.

But still, he didn’t know.

Didn’t know that after your shifts, you raced home, slipped into your blanket cocoon, and waited for his stream to go live.

Didn’t know you still logged in as cutiaples, heart skipping when he read comments, even if they weren’t yours.

You were greedy for the version of him that was just yours, outside the glowing screen.

Then one night, it happened.

He mentioned you on stream.

“There’s this girl,” he said suddenly, eyes flicking nervously to the side of the camera. “She works at this café I go to. She's… cool. Funny. And she listens.”

The chat lit up instantly.

BabyzAyneee: OHHHH HE’S IN LOVE

ladsADICTS [Top Fan 🍎]: SHE BETTER NOT HURT U CAP

calebxsmuncherr: drop the @ drop the @ drop the @

He chuckled, rubbing his neck.

“I dunno. It’s weird. She has no idea who I am, which is kinda… nice.”

You froze.

He didn’t know.

Of course he didn’t.

You didn’t comment.

You didn’t even log in.

You just watched. Quietly.

Because he wasn’t talking to cutiaples anymore. He was talking about you.

The real you.

The one with frizzy hair after a twelve-hour shift. The one who spilled oat milk once on his sleeve. The one who laughed a little too hard at his dumb plane puns.

The next day, you found him waiting before your shift even started.

“Hey,” he said, holding something behind his back.

“What’s that?”

He revealed a small gift bag. “Don’t get excited, it’s dumb. But I found this apple that reminded me of you.”

You peeked inside.

Green apple.

You stared up at him, and in your chest, something cracked open.

“Do you believe in coincidences?” you asked softly.

He tilted his head. “Like... destiny wearing a fake mustache?”

You laughed, even though your heart was pounding.

“I have something to tell you,” you said.

And there, beneath the humming of espresso machines and clink of ceramic mugs, you told him.

“I know you” you blabbered.

You told him everything.

That you were cutiaples. That you’d been watching since before you met. That you were terrified of how real this all became.

He was quiet.

Then he smiled. Slowly. Softly. Like sunrise after a storm.

“No wonder your username felt... familiar.”

“You’re not mad?”

He shook his head. “Mad? No. Just kinda stunned.”

You both sat there, letting the world fall away.

Then he added, “So… my top fan’s the same girl I’ve been falling for. That’s kinda poetic, don’t you think?”

After bumping into each other again—this time intentionally, as he started frequenting the café “for the pie”—you exchanged numbers. Conversations grew from small talk into long, late-night texts. He’d occasionally send you a meme or a blurry pic of the model airplane he was working on with the caption:

“Don’t laugh at its nose 😤”

You’d tease him playfully and call him “Captain Puppyboy” just to fluster him. Eventually, he invited you to co-stream with him—just for fun. Nervous, you agreed.

The chat exploded when you appeared on stream beside him for the first time, cozy on his couch.

OrbitingYourHeart: cutiaples in the flesh???

GalaxyGf4Hire: WAIT THEY’RE SITTING SO CLOSE

Iwmiwmeow: SHIP CONFIRMED??

giDIEon [Top Fan 🍎]: IM JEALOUS BROOO

You both laughed it off, but neither of you denied anything.

As you both play, currently focused on delivering content in real time while managing interactions. Caleb noticed some comments.

frankieer: YOOOOOO, remember that time we almost dated? Wild days. Didn't know yer meeting w some guy now.

He read it aloud, which caused him to lose focus on the game. You, however, forced you to look at what he was reading.

“Who was that?” you paused the game.

“I dunno, i guess some random dude. D'you know him?”

“Lemme see... frankiee?? Frank? The hell are you saying?” the annoyance in your voice alarmed his mind.

“Who's that babe?” he automatically raises an eyebrow, as you've never mentioned someone naming 'Frank' before.

“He's my coworker, flirting with me at any chance he gets.” his head turned back to the screen as his eyebrows knitted together.

“Yeah right.” you couldn't tell the expression on his face,

He turned off his screen so fast, livestream off, tabs off, mic muted, everything, leaving the viewers dumbfounded and shocked.

“Baby—” you were interrupted when he abruptly jolted you into his arms and took you to your shared bedroom.

“Caleb, baby I swear that wasn't true. Please don't believe him. Babe I'm sorryyyy.” while he laid you down on the bed, attempting to coo him.

“You know that you're mine right?” as you nodded to his response.

“Then allow me to further claim you.” as he smashed his soft lips with yours, calloused fingers roaming around the curves of your body. Caleb lifted you up, legs wrapping around his waist.

The kiss went deeply, his fingers tangling in your hair. He could taste himself on your lips, could feel your breath against his skin.

He unclasped youe bra, his mouth capturing one nipple. He sucked and licked, his hand teasing the other. Your breathing quickened, hands tangling in his hair.

“Caleb I want more, please” as the heat in your inner thighs began throbbing.

“And who am I to decline? My pretty baby wants more hmmm?” smirk showing on his lips. “Yes, yes pleasee?”

Caleb complied, his other hand slipping under her skirt to find you wet and ready. He groaned as his fingers slipped inside, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in slow, circular motions.

Your hips bucked against his hand, breath coming in ragged gasps. "Caleb," you moaned, head falling back. "You feel so good."

Caleb's fingers moved faster, his thumb pressing harder against your clit. "You're so wet," he growled. "I can't wait to taste you."

As your eyes flew open, gaze locked onto Caleb's. "Yes," you breathed, voice filled with desperation. "Please."

Caleb withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking on them slowly. Eyes darkened with desire as you watched him, body aching for his touch.

Caleb leaned down, his mouth finding her wetness. He licked slowly, his tongue exploring every inch of your gummy walls. You gasped, hands fisting in his hair as you ground herself against his face.

"Oh God, Caleb," you moaned, hips moving in time with his tongue. "Right... ngghhh there, yes."

Caleb sucked on your clit, his fingers sliding back inside of you. Fingers moving in and out, his thumb pressing against your g-spot. Your body tensed, breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Caleb," your cried out, orgasm crashing over like a wave. "Yes, yes, yes."

Caleb didn't stop, his mouth and fingers continuing to work until you were boneless and panting. He kissed his way back up to your body, his lips finding yours in a passionate kiss.

When you wrapped your legs around him, hands working at his belt. "I want you inside me," you murmured against his lips.

He groaned, his cock hard and aching. As he pushed the skirt up, his fingers finding the wetness once again. He slipped two fingers inside, thumb rubbing your little button that has a bundle of nerves.

"You're ready for me," he growled, voice thick with desire. "You're so ready for my cock."

As you nodded, eyes locked onto his. "Yes, I am," you whispered. "Give it to me, Caleb."

Caleb withdrew his fingers, his cock taking their place. He pushed inside slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Haaaah... baby so biigg nghhh” nails digging into his back as you adjusted to his size.

“You feel so good,” Caleb murmured, his hips moving in slow, shallow thrusts.

”So tight and wet.”

You wrapped your legs around him tighter, hips moving in time with his. "Harder," you whispered, voice filled with desperation. "Fuck me harder, Caleb."

His hips moving faster, his cock slamming into your walls with force.

“Fuuuuckk” body moving in time with his.

"Yes, yes," you cried out, head falling back. "Right there, don't stop."

Caleb's hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pounded into you. The room filled with the sounds of their bodies slapping together, moans and groans echoing through the apartment.

"You feel so good," Caleb growled, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Your pussy is so tight around my cock."

His thrusts becoming faster, deeper. Your moans were louder now, body writhing beneath him. He could feel her getting closer, could feel her muscles tightening around him.

"Caleb," you gasped, "I'm close."

Your body is moving again, orgasm building once again. "Caleb," you cried out, body convulsing as you came. "Yes, yes, yes."

Caleb leaned down, his mouth capturing yours in a fierce kiss. He could feel her orgasm, could feel her body convulsing against his. He thrust into her a few more times before he came, his body shuddering with pleasure.

His hips slamming into yours. The bed creaked beneath them, bodies moving in perfect sync. "Fuck, yes," you cried, nails raking down Caleb's back.

Caleb's cock swelled inside you, his body tensing. "Baby ngggh," he groaned, his hips stuttering. You felt him pulse inside, his cock filling your pussy completely. Your own orgasm crashing over. Both of your bodies shook together, breaths ragged. When Caleb collapsed on top of fragile form, bodies slick with sweat.

Both lay together, bodies still joined. His cock softened inside, cum dripping out of your swelling cunt. You smiled, eyes locked on Caleb's. "Are you jellyy because of that??," you murmured. Caleb grinned, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. "Hmmmp!" he pouted, his voice soft. Both stayed like that for a while, bodies entwined, their hearts beating as one.

You were no longer just cutiaples, his top fan.

You were his favorite person.

In every timeline.

On every stream.

And in every quiet, ordinary moment in between.

[emacrow]

You have something that belongs to me.

The world was shaking within a void of Glowing Green as the Justice League was listening on what John was explaining that the Infinite King that supposedly is a Protector has been gone off the rails in straight panic for the past 4 months straight because something very life or very death Important was taken from him and he been on a rampaging hunt throughout the multiverses, literally tearing and reforming them as he went, as John described the tip from Deadman.

Unfortunately, what was important to the Infinite King is on this earth. John immediately cut off Bruce as trying to fight him all together even with Superman that Infinite King would easily squish Superman like a mosquito with only just a tiny breath.

Just let the Infinite King find what he is looking for and pray that it is safely unharmed so we may survive afterward.

That was 3 hours ago after Batman went back to gotham, as Batman stared in horror of a larger then Life elderitch being had both of his arms deep in Jason's chest.

"You have something that belongs to me." The Infinite King hissed.

Just hearing the hitched Gasp in Jason's voice was reeling in the terrible flashback of that night that triggered his fight instinct, only for the very shadows seemingly holding him back by literally force.

Only for the Infinite King to pull out a tiny lararus Pit coated goopey naked 4 year old girl sobbing out daddy with her arms stretched out, doing tiny gimme hands toward the king.

"Oh Ellen..."

Jason's body was seemingly unharmed, beside the raspy breathing that was slowly developing into a hyperventilating hysteria after being chased like a hunted rabbit from a savage starving wolf for three hours straight by this elderitch being in Crime Ally.

The Large humaniod Elderitch being with several glowing green eyes that was a nightmare fuel, mixes together with stars, galaxies, and secrets untold slowly shrank more and more becoming more human in a gruesome fascinating way that would Haunt Bruce's nightmares for years to come.

the Infinite King was now a Teenager with glowing white hair defying gravity, tanned star coated skin, large teaey icy blue eyes in a black winter suit with a DP symbol delicate, holding the whimpering little goopey girl close to his chest, covering her with a star covered cape now blanket as he kissed her forehead looking at Jason.

"Jason Peter Todd, I am sincerely thank you for letting my daughter possess your core after she accidentally went off on her own and accidentally dipped into the deep end up Tainted Ecto portals. Your core will be healing in a few months after Ellen had kept using yours to save her own destabilizing."

"I must go now before she began to destabilize more, but here is my contact ritual." The infinite King disappeared into a clearer glowing green lararus Pit portal after a good bow, leaving behind a note on Jason's lap.

The coms were suddenly back on as Tim's voice could be heard.

"So the reason why Jason was all Trigger gun happy was cause he was accidentally pregnant with the infinite king's daughter?"

[bratbby333]

i will possess your heart – satoru gojo

-this story contains very heavy nsfw content! please read at your own discretion!-

𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 content warnings dead dove fic- heavy stalking, violent obsession, manipulation, forced voyeurism, forced exhibition, drugging, mentions of blood, knives, use of restraints, plot twist, extreme dub-con 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 synopsis for as cocky as Satoru is, it’s oddly fitting. in his mind, everything belongs to him, including you. 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 word count 8k

Satoru fumbled with a tripod as he positioned his camera onto the stand and proceeded to hit record. He was thorough, making sure his chair was perfectly centered before he sat down, staring at himself in the viewfinder while he fussed with his hair, inhaling deeply. A wide grin cut across his face before dropping back into lackluster neutrality. He looked down at his lap, his fingers ran up and down his denim-clad thighs. He snapped back onto the camera blank-faced before a deranged smile pulled at his cheeks.

Click

January 16th, 4:06 AM

I woke up drenched in the feeling of lethargy again—another night of only an hour’s worth of sleep. Nothing feels real when you hit a certain point. I’m plagued by the shadows, my entire life enshrouded in darkness. I don’t remember what things were like before. Day by day, it’s all the same. I cannot escape it—this anchoring feeling of despair. The emptiness eats away at me. I’m in search of release…of some sort of freedom from this pain. I need to fill my life with meaning, to find purpose in this accursed world…I think I’ll go out for coffee today. People watching brings me so much joy. They seem to live much happier lives than me.

Click

January 16th, 6:38 PM

My daydreams must’ve blended into reality because there was no way I created someone as beautiful as she was outside my imagination. I’m certain of it. She was sitting at the bar of the cafe down the street from my apartment, dressed in business casual—she probably works nearby. How kismet. The coffee was bland, as were most things in my life, but she awoke something in me. I hope I see her again. She somehow managed to clear the cobwebs around my heart. I think my life has finally found purpose. She is my driving force. I wonder what her name is.

Click

January 19th, 6:11 AM

Feeling well-rested today. Four hours of sleep is my new record. I plan to go to the coffee shop again. Back to the place where my eyes were first blessed with the mirage of her…where I first fell in love. I hope she’s there. People are so fun to observe when they don’t think they’re being watched…it’s simple psychology. The Hawthorne Effect. When humans notice they are under observation, they change. So inauthentic. But her? She never notices. She sits so obliviously, allowing me to take her in with ease. So good to me. She’s a breath of fresh air. I hope to work up the courage to speak to her soon. My heart soars at the mere thought of being in her presence once again. It’s so refreshing to feel something after all this time. I’ve been numb for so long, but she has set my heart on fire. She is everything to me, my sole purpose for existence.

Click

January 19th, 8:27 PM

I saw her again today. She didn’t see me. Just how I like it. She typed away on her computer like normal…she’s a hard worker, it seems. Driven and strong. And here I was thinking such beauty was a thing of legend. It's refreshing to have been proved wrong–that rarely happens. Oh, how I crave her. I know she’d make me feel whole again. She can save me from all this, I can feel it. 

Click

January 23rd, 5:13 AM

Only two hours of sleep tonight. But, for some reason, I feel better than ever… I normally do when I find a reason for living, again. It’s her…it must be because of her. She keeps me going; my muse, my inspiration. She’s worked wonders on me already and she doesn’t even know it, yet. I’m going to the cafe again today, I cannot wait to see her. Maybe today I will finally speak to her.

Click

January 23rd, 9:53 PM

She never showed up today…I wonder what’s going on. Maybe she had other things to do. It’s fine, really. I’m annoyed, honestly. I waited around all day. I’ll keep checking until I see her again. 

Click

January 28th, 7:06 PM

My sweet girl has gone missing. I haven’t seen her in quite some time now. This is just ridiculous. The woman I love…is she avoiding me? No, no that cannot be. 

Click

February 2nd, 8:31 AM

I haven’t slept well in days. I’ve been awake for twenty six hours now…my mind feels like it’s filled with static and yet, I feel sharper than ever. I’ve gone to the cafe every day. Still no sign of her. I’m slipping back into my old ways, the darkness is going to return any moment. I’ve begun to hear the laughter in the shadows again. They’re making fun of me, I just know it. I need her…oh, I need her so bad. How could she do this to me? Does she not know how much I suffer when she’s not around? If I don’t see her again soon, I will never recover.

Click

February 5th, 6:21 PM

I finally saw her again today. My heartrate spiked and I nearly leaped from my seat to kiss her, to hold her, sway her side to side in a deep hug. Instead, I slipped a tracker into her purse as I walked by her chair. I must know where she works, where she lives, and what she enjoys in her free time. She slipped away from me so easily…can’t let that happen again. I need to know every little thing about her. She is my one and only after all. It would be ridiculous to love someone so deeply and know nothing about them. She is too beautiful, I cannot let her wander around unsupervised. There are some crazy people out there—you never know what could happen. I can’t lose her. I must keep her safe. I will possess her heart. No one else can have her but me. 

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Satoru observed her for months, shadowing her all around town. He knew the woman’s routine like the back of his hand, before he ever learned her name. Sunday’s she went grocery shopping, Monday after work was her pilates class, every couple of Thursday’s she was at the nail salon, and Friday’s were seemingly payday–he picked up on her pattern of going out to nice restaurants every other week. Satoru eventually got an upper-level management position at a company that shared the office building with her job–he is incredibly intelligent and overqualified, after all; they would be foolish to not hire him. Now he could really keep an eye on her.

That was when he finally learned her name–the two of them taking the same elevator. She didn’t recognize him as the man who seemingly had the same routine as her–it’s one of the many reasons why Satoru loved her so much: her naivety. She looked into his eyes for the first time that day, her voice was soft and angelic, and the name that fell from her lips sent waves through Satoru’s body, the same name that would now be coupled with his gasping moans every evening as he stroked himself to the thought of her. 

With Satoru’s new job that brought him one step closer to her, he knew he could no longer watch her in the way he used to. His movements had to be more calculated, putting more distance between them than he normally would or hiding behind the deep tint of his car windows. If she saw his face too frequently, she surely would have caught on. Satoru smiled at the possibility of her never catching on…how she’d greet him with a smile and a friendly hug each time they “coincidentally” bumped into one another, giggling about their lives' odd synchronicities. Such a sweet girl. If only she knew.

He stopped into her job, a small gift bag hanging off his slender fingers, desperate to watch her eyes light up with the sweet gesture of an unexpected gift. He asked to see her, only to be informed by the receptionist that she had the day off.

It was no worry, he didn’t let that dull his excitement. “I’m a friend of hers, brought this in to surprise her. Do you mind showing me to her desk, I’ll just leave it there for her when she returns to work,” he said kindly. The lady working the front desk blushed under his piercing gaze and handsome features, nodding shyly and walking him to his lover’s designated area. 

Satoru thanked her, stepping into the cubicle to place his gift by her computer. His eyes glazed over her workspace. It was decorated with trinkets and family photos. He picked one up, his thumb tracing over her face. His pretty girl. That smile could bring about world peace; it definitely quieted the angered voices in his head. He scanned her desk, a moment of envy shooting through him at the thought of her dainty fingers dancing over the keyboard rather than tangling in his hair. He groaned internally, looking over his shoulder to ensure no one was around, before ducking down, rummaging through his beloved’s drawers. Stowed away in the bottom of the unit was a fuzzy, white cardigan. He brought the fabric to his nose, inhaling deeply, stifling the filthy moan that nearly echoed through the cubicle. He quickly tucked it into his jacket, took one last look around, and headed toward the exit. 

In the safety of his vehicle, Satoru whipped the clothing out from under his wing, bringing it to his face once more. He undid his belt buckle with haste, shoving his dress slacks halfway down his thighs before his large fist swaddled his cock with the fuzzy white cardigan. He nearly sobbed at the contact, the smell of his car filling with her beautifully floral perfume. He brought the free edge up to his nose, taking another whiff as his hand worked furiously against his shaft. He had never finished so quickly in his life, staggered whimpers and choked moans fell from his parted lips as fat ropes shot up onto his abs and chest. His cheeks were flustered a violent red as he wiped his sticky shame away with her top. After he came, then did his clarity, and Satoru’s body ached with the thought of how good it would feel to finally be sheathed within her sticky walls, rather than her soft clothing. I’ll be with you soon. Soon, my love. 

These feelings were getting unbearable. His overactive brain had him teetering on the edge of insanity. He needed more. His imagination was no longer enough to satiate the hunger that gnawed so deeply in his core, the distanced watching and hopeless longing for the love of his life created jagged rifts in his already damaged psyche. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. A few deep breaths and the promise he made to himself to take action soon quelled his burning desire. But for how much longer could Satoru repress the demon that clawed through his body?

Satoru surveyed her while she ran to the bank, walked her dog, or took her car to the wash. But his most favorite place to watch her was from the bench just outside her bedroom window, engulfed in darkness. Pretty girl lived on the second floor, her silly little brain assumed she didn’t need curtains. She never saw him, but he always saw her. All of her. Drinking in the way her clothes were delicately removed from her pretty little frame, the way she turned and posed in the mirror–so good to him. How her skin glistened after she got out of the shower, the water droplets running along her body in the same way Satoru wanted to. 

He fell into a state of bliss, feeling spoiled by the show he was getting tonight. The lotion that she worked into her body, the beautiful set of lingerie that she dawned. His eyes buzzed around his sockets, elation flooding through him. Gorgeous, gorgeous girl. But his body went rigid and his jaw locked tight at the appearance of another man behind the love of his life. He sat upright, shoulders stiff and heart pounding in his ears at the thought of his sweet being in danger, he cursed himself for not being more aware of her surroundings on her behalf. But when his darling girl turned to the unknown man with a smile, greeting him with a gentle kiss with the lips that were supposed to be just for Satoru, his heart shattered into a million pieces. 

Oh, no. This just won’t do, my love. You are mine. 

Jealousy coursed through his veins while he looked into her room, rage balled in his fists as he watched a random man have her in the one way Satoru couldn’t. Not yet, at least. He must’ve been new in her life, judging by the way his nervous hands explored every part of her skin. Satoru laughed at this–he knew he could please his woman so much better. But betrayal nipped at the back of his neck; how could she do this to him? Had his loyalty fallen on unappreciative shoulders? No, that couldn’t be. Satoru knew she was better than that, he picked her for a reason, after all. She was just playing hard to get. 

You rejected my advances and desperate pleas, and now you throw your relationship in my face. It’s punishment enough that I can’t have you, but I won't let you let me down so easily.

Feeling at a loss, swallowed whole by his hungered desperation, he did what any rational person would. He moved in next door.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Satoru Gojo was your next-door neighbor. He moved in only a few months after you did. You were elated, chalking it up to a lucky roll of the dice that you had met by chance at your job; he had started working for the company that shared the office park with yours. It really seemed like things were on the come-up for you. He was kind, confidently intuitive, funny, and supportive. Mildly egotistical, but it worked for him. He always invited you over for dinner and movie nights and was a strong, dependable shoulder for you to cry on. You had just moved to the city, feeling utterly lost and absolutely gutted about being so far from your support systems now, and he was your first friend. You felt safe knowing he was just a wall away. 

On a random Sunday, you opened your front door to see all the food you loved sitting at your doorstep–weird, you were just about to leave for the store. You turned your head, seeing Satoru peeking out from his cracked door, grinning at you. 

“Was this you, Satoru? You didn’t have to…this is incredibly thoughtful,” you beamed, stepping over the grocery bags to give him a tight hug. “You’re the best, I don’t know how I could ever repay you.” But Satoru did, he knew exactly what you could do for him.

When you needed a ride to work, he jumped in to save you. The two of you worked in the same building after all. It was a crazy coincidence that your new neighbor turned best friend worked just a few floors above you. It’s such a small world, isn’t it? But it worked out perfectly for the two of you. 

There was a month where you were short on rent, and there was Satoru, paying the rest on your behalf. 

You weren’t catching on. Sweet, naive girl. Oh, how he loved you. I need to work harder to get her attention.

Satoru was not a patient man, but for you, he would do anything and everything to get you right where he wanted you, expertly playing the long game. It began with the fated sighting of you sitting in a cafe, and snowballed into something bigger. At first, he only ever observed you, maybe the minor occasion of overstepping, but as time went on, he couldn’t sit idly by. It was time to make his move.

His disruptions in your life started inconspicuously. Leaving for a date? You found your car tires slashed and windows shattered in the parking deck. Now there’s a police investigation. Bummer…gotta cancel the date. Had a guy over? Satoru’s apartment flooded. Weird… that was the second time this month. 

“You gotta talk to the landlord about this, ‘Toru,” you sighed. He had to stay at yours that evening. 

You cried on his shoulder, telling him that some guy stood you up on a date you had been anticipating for weeks. There was an electrical fire in that man’s apartment that night. Must’ve been faulty wiring...or something.

His apartment flooded again. He was back at your door. You welcomed him with open arms, of course. He’s so good to you, the least you could do is help him out, as well. 

Satoru, you’re slipping. That’s too many times in one month. Ease up or she’ll catch on.

Friday night, in a wild happenstance, he bumped into you while you were out with another man, enjoying a nice dinner together. He smiled warmly at the two of you, before politely dismissing himself. His cheery smile dropped into a demented grin once he stepped out of the restaurant as he anonymously called in a bomb threat to the establishment. You were so shaken up at the entire ordeal you practically begged Satoru to stay with you that night. He’d be a fool to turn you down.

Satoru got everything he wanted. You were just a tough nut to crack, is all. No big deal. He loved a challenge. After all, how could you not love him by now?

But nothing was working. You couldn’t catch the hint, even with everything he threw at you. He was always the one there for you, even when you weren’t aware of it. What more could he do to prove that he was the only person you needed? I’m reliable, witty, and loving… how can she not see this? He finally snapped. The last straw? Hearing your pleasure-filled cries while getting fucked by another man, your “boyfriend”. The lewd sounds ricocheted around your room, shooting through the thin walls of your apartment and straight into his listening ears.

Tsk, tsk. Now you’ve done it. Always been such a tease. 

For as cocky as he was, it’s oddly fitting. In his mind, everything belonged to him, including you. And with that, his demented plan was in full effect. He had hoped to spare you, prayed that you would fall in love with him before he lost his composure completely. But your sweet, naive nature had proved to be a difficult wall to break down. 

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Click

The sound of your front door’s lock disengaging echoed through the empty hallway. Satoru stepped in, inhaling deeply as he shoved your house key into his back pocket. It was far easier to gain access into your home than he had originally anticipated; he was fully prepared to break in, but all he had to do was tell your landlord you went out of town and you forgot to leave a key with him before you left. The manager of your apartment complex knew how close you and Satoru were, so it was an easy lie to tell. But it couldn’t have been further from the truth. You weren’t out of town, he wasn’t house sitting, and you had no intentions of having company this evening.

Seated at your desk, he opened your laptop and navigated his way to your iMessage settings, ensuring you could only send and receive texts from your laptop. Clicking on the messaging app, he stifled the gag that threatened to escape his throat as he clicked on the thread between you and your boyfriend, his contact name “my love” in your phone. He rolled his eyes, before drafting a quick text: 

-Hey, baby. I have a half-day at work today…dinner and wine at my place tonight? ;)

He grinned at the quickness of your boyfriend’s response.

-I would love that. What time, my love?

Satoru scoffed at the pet name. He doesn’t deserve to call you that. Poor bastard needed to learn his place. Heat rose in his chest, jealousy emanating through his skin as he crafted his response.

-3pm…Can’t wait to see you.

Everything was going according to plan. Satoru glanced at the clock beside him: 11:17 AM. It was time to get set up, he had a big day planned for you, and his first guest would be arriving in a few short hours. 

A knock rang through the apartment as Satoru finished lighting his final candle. He smiled wide, sauntering over to the door. He swung it open, grinning politely at your boyfriend. “...Hey, man…didn’t expect to see you here…” he said warily as Satoru stood to the side and gestured him in, a quizzical look painted on your partner’s face as he stepped through the doorway. The door shut and the lock was reengaged. “Where’s…” but before he could get his question out, his chin was met with Satoru’s right fist.

Satoru made quick work of dragging his body upstairs. He dug through the unconscious man’s pants, pulling out his cellphone. Satoru was disgusted to see that you were his lockscreen. This pitiful man wasn’t worthy enough to be with you. He rolled his eyes, unlocking the man’s phone and sending you a text: 

-Hey, beautiful. Come straight home tonight. I’m making dinner for us. See you when you get off work.

You smiled at the familiar ding of your phone, the notification effectively distracting you from your tedious paperwork. Your heart soared at the message, sighing deeply and shifting your weight around in your office chair. Your hand rubbed at your face in an attempt to hide your blushing cheeks. 

“What is it?” your coworker asked. 

“Oh, nothing. I thought my boyfriend forgot our anniversary cause I hadn’t heard from him all day…but he just texted me saying he’s at my place and is making dinner for us tonight.” A giddy smile couldn’t help but drag across your face. 

Satoru looked at the clock: 3:28 PM. You would be home in an hour or so. Just a few more things had to be done, everything had to be perfect.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Your heart rate spiked as you got closer to your apartment door, keys jingling against your palm as you fumbled with the lock, excitement making your movements a bit clumsier than usual. You entered and kicked off your heels, and as you turned to toss your keys onto the small table in your foyer, you noticed a small card that said “Read Me” placed perfectly in the center of the tray. You were perplexed as your eyes scanned over the note. “Go to the living room” was all it said.

You blushed, a nervous smile pulling at the edge of your lips as you crept to the other room. Your eyes went wide at the sight; deep red roses were placed in the center of the coffee table and every accessible surface around the couch was adorned with beautifully flickering candles. Another note was on the table, your fingers fumbled with the edge of the card as you opened it: “Have a seat, take a sip, and press play.” You settled on the couch, noticing a glass of alluring red wine to the right of the roses. You took a few deep, fulfilling swigs of your drink before grabbing the TV remote. Your face twisted a bit, examining the glass in your hand, the flavor of wine different than the one you were used to. It was a special night after all, your thoughtful boyfriend must have wanted you to branch out this evening. Where is he, anyway? As you pressed play, you called out for him, only to be cut off by your own confusion as Satoru’s face appeared on your TV screen. You watched with perplexity as Satoru recentered his chair, smiled, relaxed his face, and then smiled again.

No…no, no, no. What is this? You were locked in place, the melodious sounds of Satoru’s voice cascaded out of your surround sound system. He looked different though, his eyes were dull and low, his voice monotonous–his alarming difference in demeanor sent a chill down your spine. Your groggy mind inferred that this must’ve been an accident. Maybe it was casted to the wrong TV. I shouldn’t be seeing this…these are Satoru’s video diaries. 

You so badly wanted to tear your eyes away from the screen, this seemed like such an invasion of privacy. But you were entranced, staring intently toward the TV, though you didn’t really have a choice, your body was completely numb now. 

“January 16th, 4:06 AM

I woke up drenched in the feeling of lethargy again—another night of only an hour’s worth of sleep. Nothing feels real when you hit a certain point…” you fought to keep your eyes open, to piece together what the hell was happening, until your body eventually succumbed to sleep.

When you finally came to, you were laid out on your bed, fully nude. Soft grunts lingered in the air as you worked your hardest to refocus your eyes, your head pounding. You shifted your weight onto your forearms, your neck straining as it felt like your brain was filled with lead, eyes searching your bedroom for the culprit of the moans. One glance to the left, a quick look to the right, before you stared straight ahead at the wall directly across from the bed. Your body lurched in fear as your heart sank, the source of the sounds now looking you dead in the eyes: The man you had been seeing for the past couple of months, gagged and tied to a chair, his bloodied face twisted up in agony. 

You tried to call out for him. Your feeble attempts to drag your heavy body closer in order to console him were interrupted as the room was suddenly illuminated with the streaming lights of a projector. Your movements halted as you shielded your eyes immediately, the bright interruption feeling like a flashbang to your sensitive head. 

“We didn’t get to finish my show and tell,” a voice spoke up from the dark corner. 

“Satoru?? Wha…what is going on?” you cried out, tears spilling from your eyes while your hands attempted to cover your modesty. You tried your hardest to sit upright, your head spinning, unsure if Satoru was the culprit or your savior. Your body felt like it was anchored to the floor, your head throbbing with every word that tore through your chest. 

“There’s no need for all that yelling, sweetheart,” Satoru grinned, crouching down next to you. You winced as his hand cupped the side of your face, his thumb brushing away the tears that trickled down your cheeks. 

Click

Metal cuffs clamped down on your wrists before you could even register what was happening. A million unanswered questions spun through the room as you frantically searched through his blue eyes, hoping to find any sort of insight into the torment he was inflicting upon the two of you. 

“This is what’s gonna happen, okay? I need you to listen to me.” His voice was sickeningly sweet, each syllable that left his lips more damning than the last as he dragged your limp body up the bed, securing your wrists to the headboard and angling your body toward the projected video on your wall. A crazed grin lit up his dull face as he raised his hand, pointing the remote toward the projector. “You’re gonna sit here and look all pretty f’me while you watch these tapes, and if you move, if you stop paying attention for even a second…” Your stomach churned at how gently he was able to give such vile instructions. He turned his attention towards your partner, the blade of a knife twirling through the slender fingers of his free hand, “...He’s dead. Understand, angel?” 

You nodded reluctantly, unable to do anything else but comply with his demands. Your head was spinning, trying to digest the fact that this was the same person who had paid your rent and entertained your rants after a hard day of work. You listened as his voice continued to drabble over the static of the projector, recalling how bland that day had been until he saw your face. How he must’ve dreamt of you because there was no way your beauty could exist outside of his imagination. To you, it had been a normal Tuesday afternoon. To him, it had been the start of the rest of his life. 

The longer you watched, the more the realization set in that the sweet gestures he presented to you were not out of the goodness of his heart, but from the darkness of his spirit, driven by his wanton lust. Your face was slack, eyes wide in horror. Disappointment crawled through your chest at your own naivety. How could I be so oblivious? So trusting? 

Satoru’s eyes bored into the side of your face as he sat beside you, his hands rubbing deep circles into your bare thighs, pure elation shooting through his veins at his sweet girl finally having a look into his mind. The look of terror that painted your beautiful face made his heart leap with joy. Satoru’s giddy demeanor dropped as pained grunts emerged from the tethered man against the wall. He stood, closing the distance between the two of them, his fist encircling your boyfriend’s throat. You began to protest, to plead with Satoru to leave him be, but the rage that filled his eyes made you shut your mouth. “Uh uh…eye’s on the screen, my love.” Your head snapped back toward the videos, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as the muffled wailing of your boyfriend filled the room. 

As the final video played, Satoru returned to your side, kneeling on the edge of the bed as he  stroked the back of your head and rubbed at your cheeks. “Can’t you see all that I’ve done for you?” He grabbed your face, digging his fingers deep into the space under your cheekbones, forcing your lips into a pucker. “You belong to me, my love.” A deep growl rumbled through his chest, “You look so fucking beautiful like this.” He leaned down and crashed his lips into yours, his hot tongue bullying its way through your tight lips. Small whines echoed through your mouth and into his, and Satoru greedily swallowed up your sounds with ease. Whimpers of protest came from the wall across from your bed, but they were quickly drowned out by the wet sounds of smacking lips and battling tongues.

He broke away, a thick trail of spit still connecting the two of you. Satoru released your cheeks with a gentle shove, throwing his leg over yours to straddle you. He dropped his head to your neck, his white hair brushing against your skin. You winced as he licked a thick line from your collarbone to your ear. “I finally get to have you,” he whispered, nipping at your flesh, “You ready to give yourself to me, princess?” Your eyes widened in horror, your gaze affixed towards your boyfriend, blood trickling from the fresh cuts on his cheeks. Your head shook side to side, tears brimming in your eyes once more as your thoughts raced through your mind, causing a traffic jam in your throat. “I…no, I can’t…he’s…” Satoru’s palm covered your mouth, a groan erupting from the back of his throat as his eyes rolled deep into his skull. He sat back, staring down at you, his free hand running its fingertips between your breasts. “This has nothing to do with him…It’s just me and you now, my love.” Your head snapped up to stare at your captor as the rough pads of his fingers brushed over your nipples. A stifled moan teased the back of your throat, an exasperated look of fear in your eyes as you stared up at Satoru.

Your cheeks flushed as you held his gaze. He grinned back down at you before rolling the hardened bud between his fingertips. Your chest arched toward him, a shameful hum dancing from your lips as he played with you. A deep laugh erupted from the blue-eyed man at your unintentional reaction, his head thrown back with pure joy as he continued to pull at your nipples. He leaned into your neck once more, his teeth grazing the outer shell of your ear. “I knew it,” he purred, “Knew you wanted me, too. You were just playing hard to get, isn’t that right?” You shook your head once more, your words constricted in your chest. “N-no…I never wanted you,” you retorted, head thrown to the side, attempting to distance yourself from him, but to no avail. The weight of him anchored your lower half to the mattress while your tethered wrists held you in place.

A deep chuckle rumbled through Satoru, “So if I feel your pussy, it won’t be absolutely soaked right now?” A pathetic whimper escaped your throat as you shook your head furiously. The rolling motion against your nipples halted and his hand trailed lower down your abdomen. “Hmm…let’s see then, shall we?” he taunted, tracing your skin before rubbing your folds and dipping into your core. “I knew it…you’re fucking drenched f’me, sweetheart.” He shoved two fingers in, shallowly teasing your hole before withdrawing, bringing his sopping digits between your faces, turning his wrist as the dim light of the room illuminated the wetness, making it glisten ever so slightly. He examined them before meeting your fearful gaze. “Why did you lie?” He sucked his middle digit into his mouth, his tongue lapping hungrily at your sweet juices as his eyes fluttered shut. A hum emanated from Satoru as his other soaked finger pushed past your lips, “Here, have a taste, pretty girl,” his long digit dancing around your tongue. “So fucking sweet. You have no idea how badly I’ve been craving this.” 

“I’ll ask you again, princess…Why’d you lie to me? I thought you were better than that,” he teased, an insincere pout twitching at his lips as he cradled your chin. Your body thrashed as his hands pawed down your body, plunging two fingers deep inside you again. Your back arched toward him, his knee between your legs was the only thing keeping you open for him. “I…It wasn’t..ahh!– I wasn’t lying…I–”. Your words fell on deaf ears as a wicked smile crept across Satoru’s face.

“Shhh…shhh my sweet girl, just lay back and enjoy,” he smirked as he crawled down your body, laying himself flat on the bed with his head nestled between your legs. Satoru’s body no longer shielded you from your boyfriend, your teary eyes darted across his face, a silent apology being sent his way. Small gasps escaped your lips as Satoru continued to pump into you, the tips of his curled fingers toying with your sweet spot. When you stared down at him, the look of pure desire peered back at you, the dampness between your legs skyrocketing at the sight. A scarlet dusting of shame brushed across your cheeks at your clear enjoyment of all this, even though it betrayed every natural instinct you had. His tongue darted out from between his lips, the tip circling your swollen clit as his fingers dipped in and out of you, his movements spurred on by his own desperation.

He was delirious, suckling against your clit while his fingers worked into you with fervor, moans and growls echoing through the room as he drank you in. You so badly wanted to break away, to console your boyfriend who had an unintentional front row seat to you falling apart on someone else’s tongue, but you couldn't bring yourself to stop him, his digits hitting spots inside you that you didn’t even know existed. Pleasure ripped through your body as a tightening sensation crept its way into your stomach. The rattling of your cuffs echoed through your bedroom as you fought against your restraints, desperately wanting to tangle your fingers in Satoru’s hair.

Your hips bucked toward his mouth, your body aching for release as your pelvis thrusted against his flattened tongue. You didn’t dare look away from Satoru, for you knew there was another set of eyes affixed upon the damning scene that was unfolding. He continued to hum and suck and pump into your core as you tightened around him, his slender fingers quickly coaxing your orgasm from your writhing body. Your eyes screwed shut as your gushy walls spasmed around his fingers, your release painting Satoru’s overly-eager face. He lapped at you some more, working you through your orgasm as he cleaned you up with his wickedly talented tongue. 

A deep growl broke through Satoru’s chest as he removed his head from between your legs, the back of his hand dragging across his chin, catching the last of your release before he licked you off of him. He sat upright, craning his neck to look over his shoulder, “Hope you were taking notes,” a smug grin on his face as he addressed your watching boyfriend. He redirected his attention to you. “Did so good f’me, angel. Dreamt of that for so long…” he grinned, his tongue darting out to trace along his lips, hoping there was still some of you coating his face “...I could do that all fuckin’ day.” 

Your shaking chest heaved as clarity settled into your mind. Satoru untethered your wrists from the headboard, shifting your body so that you were on your hands and knees, head positioned toward the wall your partner was leaning against. Strangled sounds rang from your boyfriend’s chest as you finally met his gaze. Humiliation prickling under your skin at the realization of what you had just done. But you had no time to dwell on it as Satoru repositioned himself on the bed.

“He’s gonna watch me destroy you, my sweet girl,” Satoru was kneeled behind you, lining himself up with your embarrassingly soaked entrance. He grasped your hips roughly, sinking into you in one fluid motion. You choked out a sob as you dropped your head in shame.

“You’re so pretty when you cry. He can’t help you…can’t save you. Go ‘head, keep cryin’ for him,” he cooed, his thrusts deep and slow inside of you. Jagged moans escaped your throat as the thick head of his cock brushed into your sweet spot. “He can’t make you feel as good as I do.”

He leaned down, reaching around to cradle your throat in his hand, squeezing tightly as he turned your head to the side, his sharp eyes running up and down your contorted face. “Can’t you see that you belong to me, how my poor heart aches for you? How badly I’ve needed you?” His thrusts were agonizingly slow but incredibly deep, the pressure in your tummy betraying your desire for this to stop. “That’s it, my love. Feel you clenching down on me…you’re getting off on this, aren’t ya?” His hips rocked deeper into you, the new depth had your hands clawing at the sheets of your bed as pleasure worked its way through your trembling body.

“He doesn’t treat you the way I do. He never will. No one is better for you than me, princess,” he seethes, his hand cupping your chin, holding your head up, “Now look in his eyes while I use you.” His pace picked up, pulling you back on to him with his anchored hand around your neck. A broken sob cut through your constricted throat as he fucked into you, the visceral sound of flesh smacking against flesh and whines and cries spun through the otherwise stiff air of your room. He palmed at the fat of your ass, pulling your body to meet his rough thrusts. A choked cry left your lips as you maintained eye contact with your boyfriend, crimson droplets running down his face, mimicking the pattern of your tears. You mouthed a silent “I’m sorry” to him before your eyes shut tightly, waves of sinful bliss pulsed through your body with every mean thrust of Satoru’s hips.

“Gettin’ so tight around me–f-fuuuck–you’re close, huh?” Your face contorted in shameful pleasure as you nodded, your back arching even more to take him deeper. “That’s it…c’mon, my love. Need you to cum on my cock,” Satoru begged, his voice airy as he got lost in your tight, sopping walls. “Show me how good I make you feel.” His words ricocheted around your head as the building pressure in your stomach finally snapped, your legs shaking violently as your orgasm ripped through your body, splattering onto Satoru’s thighs and the mattress below you. 

A few more strokes met your dripping center before Satoru bottomed out inside of you, thick ropes of his pearlescent seed painting your spasming walls. He finally released his tight grip around your throat, your head dropping immediately as indignity plagued your trembling frame. He pulled out, spreading your cheeks as he leaned down, an animalistic growl pulling from his chest as he watched his cum dribble out of your pussy. 

Satoru rubbed soothing circles into your lower back as you worked to regain your breath. “You’re mine,” he whispered. He unlatched the restraints from around your wrists, a coy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the purple bruises that marked your skin. He locked eyes with your boyfriend, a deranged smile dancing across his face as he reached for the discarded projector remote. 

Another familiar voice flooded through the speaker, but this time it wasn’t Satoru’s. “...We broke up a few weeks ago. No, no. Really, it’s okay. She was kind of a bitch anyway.” Your pupils widened as you stared back at the man you had just been feeling sorry for minutes ago, rage mixing into the vast sea of emotions you were already feeling while you watched a grainy video of him snaking his arm around another woman’s waist. The two of them were laughing outside of his house before she leaned in to kiss him. 

“My poor sweet girl.” Satoru’s hand brushed lightly against your cheeks, catching tears that you didn’t even realize had begun spilling out. “I didn’t want you to have to find out this way, but I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

There were a million other ways he could have broken the news to you, but that somehow wasn’t the most pressing issue at hand. 

“An eye for an eye, right?” The same haunting grin that you’d grown to know all too well spread across his face again, his blue eyes slicing into your ex-boyfriend’s. “I can’t believe that my entire world was in the hands of someone so undeserving…” he redirected his attention back to you and recaptured your cheeks in his hands. He leaned down to meet your gaze, unexpected softness replacing his usual sinister demeanor. “What do we do now, baby? It’s your call.”

Your pulse was ringing through your ears. “My call?” your voice was reduced to a whisper as you repeated it back to him. 

“I’m going to kill him either way, but I want you to tell me how.”

You pondered for a moment, still coming to terms with the chain of events that lead you to this one vengeful moment. 

Satoru stood, sauntering over to your boyfriend, stooping down to his level while his hands hovered over his gag. “When I take this off, I don’t want to hear anything other than remorse come from that pathetic fuckin’ mouth of yours.” Your boyfriend’s eyes shifted towards you, then back to Satoru, as he nodded pitifully. The tie was pulled from his mouth. His words were broken, barely audible. “I’m -” he choked out. “I’m sorry, I -”

Your stomach lurched as a sharp smack met his cheek, the painful sound resonating through the room. “You can do better than that. You got one more try,” Satoru spat, his eyes burning into your ex-lover’s bloodied face as he wrapped his fist around his throat, jostling his head around in a fit of rage. 

“Satoru,” you hardly recognized your tone let alone the thoughts that were racing through your head. The last few hours of your life had been a blur. The words you heard earlier made perfect sense now, “Nothing feels real when you hit a certain point.” You were officially at that point. “Satoru, don’t. Let’s just end this.”

It was the first time you’d ever seen the silver-haired man look surprised. His eyebrow raised, a mix of curiosity and amusement glinting in his eye. “Tell me how,” he repeated. “I need to hear you say it.” 

You were in a dream. Nothing more than a figment of Satoru’s imagination, just like he had said. It was the only thing that made sense to you because there was no way any of this was actually happening. 

“Rip his heart out,” your voice emotionless as you gazed toward the blue-eyed man. Satoru groaned deeply, his dick twitching at the sound of your pretty voice speaking his dark language. The same depraved grin pulled at the edge of his lips as he looked back at your ex. 

“Well,” he smirked, “looks like it’s decided then…” Adoration swam through his ocean eyes as he looked back at you, “I knew I picked the right one.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Click

The lock of your front door unbolted as your bodies pushed through the door frame, giggling as four glasses of wine danced through your systems. Satoru wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into a deep, passionate kiss. “Happy anniversary, my love,” he mumbled against your lips. His hands grasped yours as he led you toward the couch. 

You nestled into the warmth of his chest, his arm secured around you while you gazed around the room. Your head spun from the wine-induced nostalgia that this day had inevitably brought on. You were still in the same apartment, only it belonged to both of you now. A blend of sentimental gifts decorated your bookshelf that the two of you had collected over the last year. A camcorder, pressed red roses, framed vacation photos, and the first set of diamond earrings he’d bought you stowed away in a heart-shaped jewelry box. But out of all of the memories that tied you together, there was one that stood out the most. 

“Should we open it?” you whispered, drawing lazy circles into his shoulder.

You didn’t have to see his face to feel his smirk. He knew his girl and he knew her well. He stood wordlessly, retrieving a jar from the highest shelf. He presented it to you, a smug grin gracing his ethereal features, the same look that was permanently etched into your brain the night he got it for you. 

“Be my guest, princess.” You unscrewed the lid, peering into the jar as the strong scent of formaldehyde tickled your nose. You smiled longingly into the container, the overwhelming feeling of love reverberating through your chest. There was something so beautifully poetic about Satoru’s limerence, the lengths at which he went to steal the heart of another in order to fully possess yours. 

author note: im so sorry for not posting my sweets,, i had the worst case of writer's block and i was actively trying to work on six different WIPs...i was losing my mind.

this was quite the heavy fic to write...i hope i didn't scare anyone away with it lol

alsoooo!! sending out the biggest thank you to @remlionheart for forcing me to finish this...my editor, my co-writer, the love of my life ♡ ⋆｡˚

© bratbby333 on tumblr. all rights reserved. please do no distribute. 2024.

[abbotjack]

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.

[motorsportbarbie13]

The Yapping Hour Is Upon Us - Part 4

In which you escape to paradise with the love of your life.

Warnings: nothing unless you hate happiness. Pairing: Max Verstappen x Podcaster!Reader Word Count: 2.4k

- The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Part 2 - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Part 3 - Master List

Phulay Bay, Thailand July, 2025

yourpersonalinsta posted

456,938 likes liked by taylorswift, redbullracing, alexandrasaintmleux, and others. yourpersonalinsta out of office tagged: maxverstappen1 kikagomes omg where are yoooou? >>>yourpersonalinsta thailand! he planned literally everything. all i had to do was show up. user928 max is never beating best boyfie on the grid allegations now redbullracing bring us back a coconut! >>>yourpersonalinsta hahahaha think max can smuggle one out in his backpack??? >>>redbullracing if he tries hard enough, he can do anything!

"Max, where'd you go?" You call, voice echoing out over the empty terrace of the beach villa Max had booked for you two during F1's summer break.

Last year, the two of you had spent a few weeks on a boat off of the Amalfi coast with some of your friends but this year, it was just the two of you. This entire trip had been a complete surprise, Max having planned the entire thing. You had gotten a text one afternoon just a few days into the month long F1 break from Max telling you to pack a bag (heavy on the bikinis and lingerie, as personally requested by your boyfriend) and to be ready to leave the apartment in Monaco in an hour.

You had bustled about, a mix of excitement and anxiety twisting in your chest. To be quite honest, you had been looking forward to having some down time at home, just the two of you. It had only been a few months since you had permanently moved from New York to Monaco and you were far from settled, having spent most of the first half of the year traveling with Max.

The moment Max burst into your shared apartment though, all of your anxieties evaporated into thin air. He had never looked more relaxed than he had that morning, telling you he was taking you on a trip and to not ask any questions. You, of course, dutifully obeyed.

Which was how you found yourself at one of the most private and romantic beach resorts in Thailand, currently looking for your seemingly missing boyfriend. You'd been here for a few days now, soaking in the sand and sun and quiet peacefulness the resort had to offer. Mornings were spent slowly in bed, breakfast often skipped in favor of time spent underneath (or on top of) Max. Afternoons scuttled by slowly, spent under the sun on the beach in your bikini being oogled by Max. And nights were spent together, either in the media room of the villa watching movies or under the stars talking about anything and everything with the man that had completely stolen your heart.

It was in those quiet moments, while you sat snuggled up between Max's legs, back pressed firmly into his chest, on the beach where you were in awe of how much your life had changed in a little over a year. How quickly Max had swooped into you life, into your heart, and never left.

The villa is quiet and empty, you assume that Max has wandered down onto the beach or out near the private pool while you had taken a quick shower before your dinner reservations. Something on the bed catches your eye though and you cross the wooden planked floor to read the note that sits on top of a white linen dress.

My love, I know we had reservations at the resort's resturant tonight but I took the liberty of moving that to some place a little quieter. Put on the dress and meet me out on that little bluff where we always watch the sunset, dinner is waiting. all of the love my soul possesses, Max

Tears prick at your eyes when you finish the note. Laying on the bed is a white linen dress that you had no idea was even in the villa. It's brand new, you'd never even seen it before. The moment you pull it on over your head, you can't help but be impressed. It fits like a dream and when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you can't help but smile. The dress is cut perfectly to your figure, the neckline scooping down low to show off an extra bit of clevege and the hem hitting just below your knee. You're not quite sure how Max did it, but the dress fits you like a glove.

Your hair is still a bit damp, but you're eager to find where Max is and what he's up to tonight so you opt for a long braid down your back.

When you step out on the back veranda of the villa, the sun is hanging low in the sky, just above the sparkling blue water that stretches out in front of you. The resort sits on a little bluff overlooking the ocean, romantically tucked into the side of rolling green hills and a lush forest behind you.

Just beyond the edge of the villa's back yard is a little outcropping of land that juts over the beach below. Every night since you had arrived, Max had insisted on making a point to sit on this little private bluff and watch the sun go down. No matter what you were doing or what you had planned that evening, watching the sunset tucked deeply in Max's arms, became a tradition you wanted to continue forever.

The cool grass tickles your bare feet as you cross the lush green lawn. For a moment, you don't even look towards where you know Max is standing because you're so distracted by the crash of the ocean waves and glimmer of the sunset on the water. When you do look over though, you stop in your tracks, pupils blowing wide at the scene before you.

There, right on your little plot of paradise, stands your boyfriend. He's surrounded by what looks like hundreds and hundreds of white hydrangeas arranged in a large circle. Clusters of candles dot the edge of the circle casting a soft glow over the entire scene.

Max stands in the middle of all of this, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his khaki shorts. He's wearing the navy linen shirt you bought him for his birthday last year, top few buttons undone at his throat. The breeze off the water tugs a bit at his hair, long from a busy season with little time to stop and get a haircut. The fact that you liked his hair longer also had a lot to do with him refusing to cut it lately, but he'd never admit that to anyone but you.

When Max sees you walk out of the villa for the firs time, he thinks he might just pass out right there. The dress Kika and Alexandra had helped him pick out was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen you wear, besides that navy and red lacy lingerie set you had worn for his birthday last year, of course. He had been planning this for months now, much to Daniel and Lando's surprise. His two friends were the only other people who knew what this entire trip was really about. They had expressed their surprise at the plans since you hadn't even celebrated your one year anniversary when he had set all of this in motion. Max had simply replied with 'when you know you know' and no one had questioned it again.

The red and gold ring box sits heavy in his pocket, his fingers tracing anxious patterns over it's smooth surface. He wasn't nervous about what he was going to do. No, what he was about to do was the most confident and self assured decisions he had ever made. What he was nervous about was you saying no. He wasn't sure if his heart would be able to take a rejection.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you approach Max. Unsure but confident about what's about to happen all at the same time. The conflicting emotions whirl around in your stomach in a hurricane of anxiety and shock.

"Hi baby." Max murmurs as soon as you step into the circle with him. His arms reach for you and to his great relief, you melt into him eagerly.

"Hi." Your voice nothing but breathy whisper. A smile that could power most of Europe shimmers across your face. "What's all this?"

"I know I said we were going to eat dinner out here, but I wanted to talk to you first." Max buries his head in your hair, inhaling the sweet and spicy scent of your shampoo, still lingering in your hair after your shower.

He takes a few moments and you are simply content to enjoy the feeling that settles over you. Outside of this little bluff, nothing else exists and you could stay here for the rest of your life and be completely content.

When Max pulls himself together, he pulls back a little so he can see you without craning his neck. "The moment you smiled at me the first time, my entire world shifted beneath my feet." His voice is rough, Dutch accent becoming more prominent the more emotional he gets. "The first time I kissed you in my drivers room in Miami, I knew I was done. I have never met a kinder, more ambitious, or more confident woman than you. Just being able to exist in your orbit has been the blessing I never knew I needed. I know it hasn't been long but I can't figure out how I ever managed to exist before you and I never want to find out what it feels like to exist after you."

Max pauses then, drawing in a shaky breath. Blood rushes past your ears as your knees threaten to buckle. You had hoped this day would come for you and Max but you had never expected it to be so quickly. Like Max, you had known pretty fast that he was it for you. You had tried to fight the growing feeling that your relationship could work its way into marriage but as you continued to settle further into life with him, you fought the feeling less and less.

He sinks to his knee then and looks up at you, those ice blue eyes that you dream about shining up at you. "I want to see you walk down the aisle towards me in a white dress. I want to see your belly grow when you carry our babies. I want to hear my children call you their mama and I want your babies to call me daddy. I want all of this and an entire lifetime of love with you and only you. Will you give me that, baby? Will you marry me?"

For a moment you're completely unable to breathe. The words Max said to you etched themselves onto your bones, words you'd never forget until your dying day. They were words that were to be written down. Words that your grandchildren would cry over one day when they stumbled upon your old journals in the attic.

Those kinds of things, those words, deserved to live in the universe alone for a bit, they're so powerful. You gave them space and respect, allowing what Max had said to you wash over your body.

"Oh my God. Of course. Yes. Please." You babble, really unable to make your mouth move in the way you want it. All you know is that you had never been so certain about anything in your entire existence.

Max slips the massive rock onto your finger before standing up to his full height. The diamond that winks up at you in dim candlelight is something that could be compared to the iceberg that sunk the titanic. Once the ring is secured on your hand, tonight's second perfect fit, Max catches your chin in his fingers to tip your head up towards him. When he kisses you, lips meeting yours so achingly tender, the entire world goes quiet. Everyone who could have possibly existed simply vanishes.

You stay like that for several moments, caught up in your boyfri- no, not boyfriend, fiance's arms and simply kiss him with every ounce of love you can wring out of your soul. His tongue licks into your mouth, eliciting a kitten like mewl of pleasure from the back of your throat. It's a sweet and tender kiss, soft and celebratory after what's just occurred.

"I love you." You say against his lips when you need a moment to breathe.

"I love you too. More than life, lifeje." Max's hand comes up to frame the side of your face, rubbing his thumb across your swollen bottom lip.

All you can do is stare up at him, pupils blown wide open. "How long have you been planning this? I can't believe you did all this...for me? Just for me?" For someone who has often gone unseen in their own family, being doted on like Max does is sometimes confusing.

"Months. I've had help. Danny and Lando helped decide where and how to do this." You can't help but chuckle at the thought of Daniel and Lando, two of Max's most unserious and unmarried friends, helping him plan a proposal.

"Alexandra and Kika too. They helped with the dress."

Your eyes widen in surprise. "Those two bitches knew and didn't tell me!"

Max tilts his head back and laughs heartily. The sound sends a zing down your spine. "No, although I suspect they might have figured it out. I just told them I was taking you on a surprise date and needed help with an outfit."

"And of course I did all of this for you." Max continues, face turning serious. "I did this all for you because I wanted you to know how important you are to me. How much I need you in my life. You're my everything, baby."

Emotion clogs your throat as you fight to keep the tears from falling. "I can't wait to be your wife, Maxie."

yourpersonalinsta posted

1,293,938 likes liked by kikagomes, yourdad, danielricciardo, and others. yourpersonalinsta girlfriend < fiancé 💍 kikagomes ahhhhhhh congratulations pretty girl!!! you are going to make the most beautiful bride. WAIT OMG, is this why Max had Alex and I help buy that dress????? >>>yourpersonalinsta yes 🤭 love you kiks >>>user928 i'm sorry but am i reading this right? max had alex and kika help buy the dress that he had her wear to her own engagement. idk if i'll ever recover from this. user02938 MOM AND DAD ARE GETTING MARRIED landonorris glad he finally did it so i can stop hearing about how excited he is. >>>yourpersonalinsta love you too, lando >>>landonorris ❤️ maxverstappen1 can't wait to start calling you mrs. verstappen >>>user0283 i cannot be normal about this >>>user0029 i have no one to send this too redbullracing our favorite couple together forever!!! congrats you two (liked by author and maxverstappen1)

tags: @shelbyteller @formulaal @martygraciesversion381 @longhairkoo @samantha-chicago @stelena-klayley

[literary-dolly]

A Study in Scarlet

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 2.6k warnings: nothing, really - treachery maybe? A mention of alcohol, some swearing

Tim loves a good podcast, but when his favourite podcast host is getting cosy with a new special guest, it rocks his world (A.K.A how Jason Todd makes his first podcast appearance).

If there was one thing to know about Tim Drake, it was that he was always plugged into something. Never working without some kind of stream, podcast, or music feeding into his ears – it makes chipping away at some of the more monotonous, less glamourous hero tasks a tad easier to stomach. Why would you go about life in silence if you could listen to someone discuss the history of monster trucks? Or the hidden harmful properties of household plants?

It's times like the current, while he sits in the Cave reviewing a week’s worth of CCTV footage in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the perp Bruce was trying to track down, that a good old-fashioned podcast comes in handy. And although Tim would like to see himself as a purveyor of all genres of entertainment, there’s something about a local story that really captures his attention.

The Gotham Goods. For surveillance purposes, of course.

It’s remarkable how much intel he’d gathered from the podcast, truly. Almost embarrassing. He was fairly certain that the woman must be some kind of vigilante – for a period, he was convinced that it was Babs herself moonlighting in casual entertainment (until she’d chewed him out for even suggesting it – she was a fan too, deep down). He’d tried to convince the Oracle to track her down, an idea to which Babs had vehemently protested. That was, until he realised that she had tried to track her down, and failed.

It was witty, funny inside jokes that only Gothamites got to make, interviews with the famous baker down on Crest Hill, the one-million-year-old homeless guy down in Gotham Bay who everyone and their mother has been robbed by at one point or another. It was safe to say he was a fan. So, best believe, when the latest episode pops up on his screen with another 4-hours of footage left to troll through, he’s on it immediately.

It’s impossible to stop the quirk in his brow at the title: A Study in Scarlet. Nice reference. He’s practically buzzing as he hunkers down into the chair, reclining back leisurely with a freshly opened Gatorade.

“Hello, dear, dear Gothamites, and welcome back to another episode of The Gotham Goods. I’ve got an interesting one for you, I must say. I know I’ve stepped back on the interviews in the past few weeks – death threats, am I right? – but I have been trying to get this interview for so long so when he finally agreed, I had to take him up on the offer. So, rather than leaving you in suspense for any longer, may I introduce todays guest – I’m sure you’ve heard of him – the Red Hood!”

And Tim thinks he just about passes away. If it’s possible for him to phase out of existence and back again, he does. There’s Gatorade all over the Batcomputer, Bruce will be pissed, but Lord knows he’ll be more shocked at what the actual fuck is going on. He knows immediately that he should call Jason, both to chew him out for being sloppy about his identity, but also to ask what exactly possessed him to entertain a podcast appearance.

“Hello, hello,” the voice is modulated, but still maintains the familiar cadence of Jason’s words, “Yes, it has been a long time coming and a lot of begging.”

“Well don’t say it like that, you make me sound desperate,” your voice is teasing and light, and Tim can practically hear the smile on your face.

“No, no, you’re right. Begging isn’t right – grovelling might be more apt.”

“Alright, smartass,” you quip, “I suppose we should move onto the hard-hitting journalistic questions, right Mr. Hood?”

“Please, no need to be so formal, Hood is fine.”

It’s only from the ache that begins to burn in his jaw that Tim realises he’s been sat with his mouth wide open this whole time. It’s unfathomable. It’s impossible to get Jason to listen to a voice note, let alone speak for an hour-long podcast. He doesn’t think he’s heard Jason speak for an hour total in the entire time he’s known him. There’s a disarming warmth to the conversation, one that sits in the hollow of Tim’s stomach, he’s seen it in videos of Jason, well, before, but not in the years since his return to Gotham.

“Soooo, quickfire question numero uno,” you pause emphatically, “thoughts on Gotham tap water? Love it? Hate it?”

“Ooo,” Jason croons, “Tastes like home. Don’t get me wrong, it’s fucking vile. It has that aftertaste like a science experiment gone wrong, right? But I feel like me and everyone else in this city has developed an immunity to it. Normal water tastes too clean.”

“Totally get it, you’ve put that into words in a way I don’t think I ever could,” you hum thoughtfully, “Next question, Condiment King? What the fuck is up with him?”

Jason bursts out into actual laughter, and Tim isn’t sure if it sounds like the gates of heaven or hell opening, “Don’t. Don’t even. I mean I respect the message, condiments are king, a wise man once taught me they make or break a dish. I feel like he’s like one of those kids who picked his Xbox username at like 8 years old and had to live with it for the rest of his life. He picked condiments and now he’s stuck in the niche.”

“Lost in the sauce, you could say?”

“Fuck off,” Jason’s wheezing now, “Christ, I’m gonna piss myself.”

“Okay, okay, final quick question,” you mutter out between wheezes, “Do you have a favourite rat? And before anyone makes any sweeping statements about it being gross or whatever – this is Gotham, dude. The rats have more rights than the people.”

“My favourite rat,” Jason plays up his pondering with a variety of noises, “Yeah, I would have to say my favourite rat is the one that I always see in the back of the bodega. I know he’s putting the work in back there, ya know?”

“Which bodega?”

“Top secret, I’m afraid,” Jason quips, “There’s no way I’m getting that place shut down, they feed me most nights of the week. Incredible chopped cheese.”

The conversation about convenience stores in Gotham continues for a few minutes as Tim attempts to recollect himself. Gather some restraint, focus on the task at hand, try not to lose his shit.

That is until Dick bursts in the door.

“TIM!” It’s deafening, echoing around the cave, and he can hear the thundering of footsteps heading rapidly towards him, “Tim this is going to sound crazy but –”

“Dick, Dick, I know.”

“You listen to The Gotham Goods too?”

“Don’t be stupid, Dick. Of course I do. Everyone does.”

Dick’s breathless, and Tim isn’t sure if it’s the strenuous activity or just a panic attack, as he huffs in and out, “What is Jason doing? And why does he sound so- so- dopey? Do you think he’s been drugged or something?”

“I thought that,” Tim muses, “but we’ve seen Jason hit with all kinds of gas and toxin, he’s never been like this.”

Dick reaches over to furiously rip one of Tim’s headphones out, regardless of how Tim attempts to swat him away; their squabbling is silenced as soon as they clock back into the light-hearted conversation drifting through their ears.

“So, dare I say, workout routine?” you tease, “For those of you that have never had the pleasure of seeing the Hood in person, his biceps are about as big as my head.”

“Aww, stop it,” Jason quips, but his words are full of mirth, “You’ll make me blush.”

“I can see you blushing, you idiot,” you bite back, “You can’t play coy with me, you know that.”

Tim can practically feel his bones grating against each other as he jars his head to the side to stare at Dick, who’s eyes have widened to the size of saucers.

“Did she just say he’s blushing?” Dick’s words come out loose and airy, clearly lost in whatever horrifying conclusion they have both just come to.

“He’s there without a helmet? He’s there as Jason?”

 It’s at that moment that another set of footsteps can be heard echoing throughout the Cave, and if Tim and Dick had been shocked before – the image of Bruce Wayne sprinting down the stairs in a full suit and tie to skid to a stop before the computer leaves them reeling.

“Jason’s identity has been compromised.”

That’s all he has to say.

“You listen to The Gotham Goods?” Tim lets out what can only be described as a guffaw, turning to Dick who (for the first time in his life) has been stunned to silence.

“Casually,” Bruce snips, “Alfred often has it on in the car.”

There are no words, truly. Much like Dick, Tim can seem only to stare into space meaninglessly as you and Jason continue to chirp in his right ear. Tim is a child of the Bat, he has a contingency plan for every single obscure event that could ever befall him or his family, but he had never for one second thought Jason’s podcast career would be one he would have to contend with.

The Cave is silent bar the sounds of the podcast chattering (which Bruce has taken the liberty of pulling up on the computer), nobody able to do anything other than sit and listen. Tim sees Alfred slip behind them, and if he didn’t know any better, he would say that by Alfred-standards that the butler has a smirk on his face.

“We need to stop him,” Bruce growls, “has anyone tried to get in touch with him?”

“It’s prerecorded, Bruce. Jason patrolled last night he’s probably still asleep.”

“I don’t care we need to –”

“Bruce,” Dick starts slowly, “Jason is, begrudgingly, an adult. And he’s in charge of his own life. If this is something he wants to do, then we can’t just tell him not to.”

“He’s compromising his identity,” Bruce bites, “Our identities.”

“He sounds happy, Bruce,” Dick’s words have a finality to them, and Bruce quiets fairly quickly after that. The glower across his features doesn’t go unnoticed, but there’s a strange resignation in his eyes.

They blow open wide at the next question.

“So, to actually get to a question of substance,” you start tenderly, “I know we talked about this before, and you agreed, but we don’t have to talk about it now. I think it’s a question a lot of people have about the Red Hood. The Bat symbol? Your relationship with Batman? You’ve never had the opportunity to speak about it before, and is there anything you would like to say?”

Jason’s sharp inhale picks up on the mic, and everyone in the room winces, “It’s not something I’m going to say too much about, but I know it’s news in Gotham every time me and Batman clash. I don’t hate the guy, not at all, we just have a difference in, ah, belief systems that I’m sure everyone in Gotham can put together. I do think Gotham needs the Bat; he’s our hero at the end of the day. But I don’t think I’m amiss in saying that I think we need someone with a less delicate touch too.”

“That was very well said,” your words are earnest, laden with the suggestion of knowing something deeper, “thank you.”

“He’ll probably find this at some point anyway,” Jason sighs, “so hiya Big Bat.”

Bruce physically winces at Jason’s words, and Tim shares a look with Dick at the point the man starts pacing back and forth along the walkway.

“Batman is crazy work though,” you add, bemused, “Talk about picking your Xbox username as a child.”

“Oh, totally,” Jason sniggers, “That’s a childhood fixation gone way too far.”

“I mean who looks at a bat and goes ‘real, that’s so me’ and then bases their entire personality off it? I’m a hypocrite though, I think I did that in high school.”

“I know –”

“Hold on, hold on,” you’re wheezing already at whatever has popped into your head, “Don’t tell me he hangs upside down. Please, you can’t, I’ll go crazy.”

“I have,” Jason begins slowly, almost tantalizing, “on occasion, seen him –”

“No, stop,” you’re shrieking, and the sound of you jumping up and down in your chair is audible through the mic, “Stop it, you’ve never told me that before. Oh, my lord.”

Dick turns to face Tim with a suspicious look, “You’ve never told me that before. This isn’t new, Tim, this is – they know each other.”

“You think that they’re… you know?”

“There’s no way. They can’t be.”

“An analysis of their tone does suggest,” Bruce begins half-heartedly, waving his hand with exasperation, “something of a fond affection for each other.”

It’s only as the podcast begins to wrap up that Alfred chimes in, that same whisper of a smirk gracing his features, “Well, Master Bruce, Master Tim, Master Dick, I would have to applaud you for your fine detective skills once again.”

“What are you suggesting, Alfred?” Bruce begins steadily, turning to face the older man.

“I’m suggesting that it used to take Jason roughly 17 minutes and 43 seconds to travel from his home apartment to the Manor. In the last 6 months, it has only taken him an average of 15 minutes and 29 seconds, suggesting he has changed residences. He has gotten regular haircuts for the same period, changed his cologne, and in general had a happier and more agreeable disposition, wouldn’t you agree?”

It’s at that moment that every cell phone in the room dings, and a look of dread passes over all of them accept Alfred. It’s Dick that opens his phone first, drawing back with a completely flabbergasted expression, “No, no, there’s no fucking way.”

Tim scrambles for his own, inputting his password as quickly as he can manage. And then it’s there. Jason has sent one photo into the family group chat: it’s him sat in some kind of recording suite, headphones pushed back casually, a beer in one hand, and in the other is someone else’s hand. A woman’s, clearly. Only the hand is visible. Interlaced with his own. The grin on Jason’s face can only be described as sharkish, completely smug.

The photo has a caption.

I hope you enjoyed the show, you nosy fuckers.

“No fucking way has Jason pulled THE GOTHAM GOODS?”

You’re desperately trying to gather intel for your next interview, having been cramming at the kitchen table for the past three hours. Jason has been sat lounging of the sofa for a similar amount of time, bursting out into a fit of hysterical laughter every 30 seconds or so.

“You do just think you’re hilarious, don’t you?” You sigh, closing your notebook for the day.

“Oh, princess, I am hilarious,” Jason chuckles, “This might be the best thing I’ve ever done. They’re losing it.”

He’d hacked into the camera in the Batcomputer hours ago. He’d been watching them since they started.

You settle down next to him with a huff, and he brings an arm to rest around your shoulders out of instinct, “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to you? I’m hurt, truly.”

“Nah, I’m just being dramatic, baby,” Jason presses a kiss to your temple, “Obviously you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Is that right?” You grumble, shoving his side with a playful grin.

“Absolutely,” there’s a wide smile plastered across his face, “Now, let’s watch them desperately try and figure out who you are. I’d like to see them try.”

“You are an evil, evil man Jason Todd.”

“You know it, baby.”

This idea came to me in a cold and flu medication infused haze. I actually think it's really funny, but then again, that could be the cold and flu.

If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. If you don't like it leave me alone.

[pixeld0ll]

Tear you apart

pt. 1 | pt.2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 (coming soon!)

tags: NSFW, MDNI, ryomen sukuna, sukuna x reader, sukuna smut, jujutsu kaisen smut, sukuna fanfiction, jujutsu kaisen x reader, dark content, dark romance, nsfw fanfic, possessive sukuna, masochistic reader, degradation kink, sadism and masochism, size kink, rough sex, aftercare, marking kink, carving kink, curse!sukuna, sukuna's domain, bratty reader, power dynamics, worship kink, dubcon elements, twisted romance, jujutsu kaisen fanfic, jjk x reader, sukuna x you, smut fic, yandere vibes, obsessed sukuna, cursed bond, forbidden love

an: HIIII this is my first fic in like 4 years so please bear with me!! huge huge shoutout to @cinnamorollcrybaby for inspiring me to start writing again, ur the bomb.com <3 i hope u all enjoy!!

words: 4.8k

It’s your third year at Jujutsu High, and the urge to summon Sukuna gnaws at you day and night. Ever since you first heard about the King of Curses, a part of you has been… intrigued by the four-armed, two-faced legend.

You still remember the day Maki told you about him, after teasing you for knowing so little about the world of curses. Your face flushed in embarrassment as you grabbed a strand of your hair, twisting it in your fingers—a nervous habit.

“Alright, newbie,” Maki had said, her face shifting to something more serious. “Ryomen Sukuna is known as ‘The King of Curses.’ According to dumbass Gojo, he looks mostly human—aside from having four arms, two faces, two sets of eyes. Fucking—seven feet tall or something like that.” She paused, picking up her cursed tool to sharpen it.

“He ruled in the Heian era, like, a thousand years ago. He’s the definition of pure evil. Killed thousands—maybe millions. No one fully understands his technique. He could rival Gojo, honestly.”

Your eyes had gone wide. How had no one ever told you this?

“Eventually, they defeated him—or sealed him or whatever. The story gets fuzzy,” Maki continued, placing her blade down and removing her glasses to clean them with the hem of her shirt.

“His twenty fingers were cut off and scattered. Jujutsu High has a few. Some are used to attract cursed spirits, and of course, some are in the hands of curses themselves.”

You swallowed hard, trying to picture Sukuna in your mind. Would he be grotesque, like the curses you fought on missions? Or would his ‘human’ form make him... a little sexy?

You couldn't lie—seven feet tall made your ears perk.

What the hell? You shook your head. You can’t be thinking like that. A sorcerer shouldn’t wonder if a curse is hot. They’re curses. They must be exorcised.

“…Is it possible for him to come back?” you asked quietly, half-hoping the answer was yes.

“Oh yeah,” Maki said, and your eyes widened further. You weren’t expecting that. She chuckled at your expression. “You’re cute. Your first time fighting a special grade’s gonna be fun. But yeah—two ways Sukuna could come back. First, someone eats his fingers—becomes his vessel. The second? You don’t summon him exactly—you enter his domain. Not sure how that would work, or if it even can. I mean, who the hell would wanna find out?”

You laughed softly with her, opening your mouth to ask more—but were interrupted.

“Maki! Y/N!” Panda called from the top of the staircase. “Come inside! Gojo’s got a mission debrief!”

You and Maki exchanged a glance before standing and heading toward the large cursed corpse that awaited you. But your mind swirled with questions. You made a mental note to check the library after the mission—to learn more about him.

That obsession never left.

It grew. Festered. You tried to ignore it, to suppress the dirty impulses and morbid curiosity—but one day, it became too much. You gave in. Hours turned into weeks, scouring books, blogs, and old scrolls. Your room became a shrine of obsession—papers, texts, ancient diagrams… even a blog written by someone who claimed to have contacted Sukuna before. They said the summoning didn’t fully work, but symbols appeared, questions were answered, and something watched them.

And now… here you are.

Three years later.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of your dorm, surrounded by red candles and ancient Heian-era symbols scrawled in your own blood. It hurt to collect—but the pain was nothing compared to the hunger to see him. To know him.

It’s well past midnight—close to 2 a.m.—and you've cast a veil to prevent any sorcerers from detecting your energy. You take a shaky breath, reach for the wooden box, and slowly open it. Inside rests a talisman-wrapped finger—one of his.

You bite your lip as you begin unwrapping the paper, whispering the chant you painstakingly pieced together from hundreds of texts:

"I seek the gate carved in sinew and stone, Where curse-born kings reign from bloodied throne. Let flesh wither, let truth distort, I step where the living hold no court."

"With eyes unblinking and heart laid bare, I cross the threshold—if I dare. By tooth, by nail, by cursed design, I enter the Shrine where Sukuna lies."

"Ryomen Sukuna, let the veil be torn. May my soul walk where gods are shorn."

"Open the gate. I offer my name."

"And enter now your cursed domain."

You place the unwrapped finger into a circle of blood and whisper your name into the dark.

Nothing happens.

Minutes pass.

Your eyes flutter open, disappointment filling your chest. Of course it didn’t work.

“I can’t believe I thought this would—”

Suddenly, a wave of nausea slams into you. The room spins. You stumble forward—but instead of grabbing your bedpost, your hand meets something horrifying: a pile of skulls. A river of thick, dark-red liquid flows beneath you.

You scream and jump back, hands clamping over your mouth.

“You dare to enter my domain,” a deep voice growls behind you, “and shriek like a brat—nearly louder than the thousands I’ve sliced in three. Bow before me, insolent fool… or I’ll do the same to you.”

You freeze. Your heart races as you slowly turn, legs trembling.

A figure looms behind a towering column, hidden mostly in shadow.

Four arms. More than seven feet tall. Colossal.

It’s him.

Your breath catches.

You remember something from that blog: Sukuna enjoys disobedience. Your survival instincts scream to kneel, to beg. But a darker part of you whispers: Keep going.

“…And what if I don’t?” you call out.

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, letting the blood-red light reveal his face.

“If you refuse,” he says with a sinister grin, “I’ll break your limbs, tear you apart, and feast on what’s left of your pitiful little body.”

He stands over you now, red eyes gleaming, drinking you in. His voice is cruel—yet somehow intoxicating.

“Don’t even think about running, little human. You’re nothing. A bug. A speck waiting to be crushed.” He leans in, towering above you. “So tell me—will you obey your king?”

You scan his body—your question from three years ago answered in full. Is he sexy? Hell yes.

Towering, muscled, with four arms that could break you in two. His robe clings just enough to reveal the outline of his powerful chest and abs. Four crimson eyes burn into you with heat and hunger.

You suppress every rational thought.

“I never said I wanted to run,” you whisper, locking eyes with him.

His brow raises, amused. “Oh? You have guts, insolent little thing.”

He steps forward again—closer now. So close his heat radiates against your skin. He leans down, lips nearly brushing your ear.

“You’re not afraid of me, eh?”

You gulp, trying not to tremble. “What if… what if I said I am afraid?” You look up. “And what if I said… I like that I’m afraid?”

He freezes for a moment—then smirks. A devilish, dangerous grin.

“Oh really?” he murmurs, voice low and sinful. “You like being afraid of me?”

You bite your lip, breath hitching. His massive body makes your knees weak. You stumble slightly, grabbing his bicep to steady yourself.

He growls at the touch.

“So what if I do?” you breathe, looking up at him through long lashes.

You step onto your toes, rising to meet his face. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Sukuna lets out a low, guttural chuckle—one that vibrates through the stone walls of his domain and sends a tremor down your spine.

“What am I going to do?” he repeats mockingly, his voice silk and poison wrapped into one. “You come crawling into my domain, bleeding for me, begging for my attention... and now you ask me what I’m going to do?”

His four hands move at once—two clasp behind his back again, composed and regal, while the others reach out. One wraps around your chin, lifting your face to meet his eyes, while the second hand trails slowly down your side, ghosting over your waist as if memorizing the shape of you.

“I could tear your soul apart and scatter it across the cursed realm,” he purrs, leaning close enough that you can feel the chill of his breath. “Or—” his eyes flicker, pupils thinning like a predator’s, “—I could reward your... dedication.”

His thumb strokes your lower lip, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. His eyes scan your face like he's searching for the slightest twitch of fear, the tiniest crack in your bravado.

“You’ve been watching me. Studying me. Craving me.” His voice dips lower with each word. “Why?” It isn’t a request. It’s a command.

You swallow hard, feeling your heart thudding against your ribcage like a drum of war. You should lie. You should apologize. But the part of you that brought you here, that carved your own blood into summoning circles, speaks louder.

“I wanted to see if the stories were true,” you whisper, breathless. “If a curse could be beautiful. If danger could be divine.”

His smirk curves into something more dangerous, more unhinged.

“You think I’m beautiful?” he says with mock surprise. “How quaint. Humans and their need to romanticize their own destruction.”

Then, in one swift movement, he steps even closer. You’re practically caged now—his enormous frame casting a shadow over you, the air around him thick and humming with power.

“Let’s see if your devotion is more than words,” he growls. “Prove it.”

Your lips part, the words stuck in your throat. “How—”

“You summoned me,” he interrupts. “Now submit.”

One of his hands lifts, tracing a symbol in the air that glows briefly before disappearing. You feel your knees weaken again—not from fear this time, but from the raw, oppressive aura that crashes over you like a wave. It's overwhelming, like gravity has tripled in an instant. You nearly collapse again, but his hand steadies you by your hip.

He leans in, his voice a whisper against your skin:

“Worship your king.”

He watches you tremble, your breath shallow, your thighs pressed tight. Your silence only fuels the hunger in his eyes.

Then he angles down, lips grazing the shell of your ear, voice low, guttural, and cruelly sweet:

“God, you’re so fucking pathetic.”

You inhale sharply, body going still.

“Transporting yourself into my domain just to be used,” he growls. “You wanted this. Came crawling into the lion’s den just to be ruined, didn’t you?”

One of his hands snakes behind your neck, yanking you closer until your chest presses against his rock-solid torso. His other hand slides slowly, deliberately down your body—past your waist, to your hip, fingers flexing possessively.

“You want me to destroy you from the inside out. You want to be wrecked so badly that no other man will ever satisfy you again.”

His voice dips darker, each word dripping with venomous promise.

“You want to be fucked so hard you forget your name—but not mine. No. The only name you’ll ever remember is mine.”

He yanks your head back slightly to make you meet his eyes. All four of them burn with sadistic glee.

“Ryomen Sukuna. Say it.”

You do. Weakly. Breathless.

He chuckles.

“You want me to defile you—mark you so deeply you bleed my name. I’ll give it to you. I’ll ruin you.”

He leans in until your lips almost touch, his breath hot against your skin.

“I’ll fuck you until your voice breaks, until you’re sobbing, a drooling, trembling mess who can’t even beg properly. I’ll make you scream. I’ll make you bleed. I’ll own you.”

His hand tightens at your throat—not choking, but enough to make your head spin deliciously.

“When I’m done with you,” he snarls, “you’ll be nothing but flesh. A whimpering, broken toy that exists to please me. You’ll crave my touch like a curse.”

His thumb presses against your bottom lip, forcing it down.

“But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, barely able to breathe. Every part of you burns—fear, desire, the overwhelming thrill of submission.

“Yeah,” he hisses, grinning like the devil himself. “You would. You dirty, desperate little slut.”

He tilts his head, mock sympathy in his voice.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s worth it. You’ll forget everything you were. Everything you wanted. The only word you’ll know...”

He leans in, brushing his lips against yours—barely.

“...is my name.”

Your breath stutters as his thumb slides down your chin, dragging it open until your lips part with a soft gasp. Sukuna hums, a low, vibrating sound in his throat that’s equal parts cruel and amused.

“So easy to break,” he murmurs, eyes devouring your expression. “And you want it. You want to be reduced to a whimpering little pet in my grasp. Filthy.”

His hand leaves your throat—just long enough to trail down your side, the weight of it scorching through your clothes like a brand. Four hands. Four points of contact. You barely register where he’s touching anymore, only that you're utterly surrounded by him. Caged.

“You’re trembling.” His voice is soft now. Dangerous. A hiss laced with anticipation. “Not from fear. Not entirely.”

You try to speak, but no words come. Sukuna notices. He always notices.

“Look at you,” he grins. “On the edge of reason. You’ve thought about this, haven’t you? For years. Dreamed of what I’d do to you. What it would feel like when I finally touched you.”

One hand grabs your jaw again, forcing you to meet his gaze. All four eyes bore into yours—two mocking, two ravenous.

“Thats right, I was aware every time you thought about me. I saw those dirty little fantasies late at night. Now you’re here. And I’m real. And I promise you this—when I’m done, you won’t want to go back.”

Your knees threaten to give out. His body is so close. Heat rolls off of him like steam from a fresh kill. You can smell the iron in the air, the faintest metallic tang of blood soaked into the stones beneath you. His domain is alive, pulsing—watching.

He steps closer still, and his lips hover a breath away from yours.

“You summoned me,” he whispers darkly. “You walked willingly into the lion’s jaws.”

He leans down, mouth brushing the corner of yours, just enough to make your head spin.

“Now beg,” he growls. “Beg to be devoured.”

And just as his mouth descends toward yours in a twisted parody of a kiss, the world around you goes darker—red lightning crackling through the shadows like veins, the temple stone beneath your feet pulsing with cursed energy. The air thickens, pressing against your skin like a second body. The veil between power and pleasure snaps taut.

Everything is trembling on the edge.

The moment before the storm.

The exact place you’d wanted to be.

You kiss him back with equal ferocity, matching his hunger beat for beat. His lower hands make quick work of your oversized t-shirt, claws slicing through the fabric like it’s nothing more than paper. The sudden tear and the rush of cool air against your bare skin draw a gasp from your lips—but he doesn’t waste the opportunity. His tongue slips into your mouth, skilled and unrelenting, claiming every inch as if he owns it. Which, in this moment, he does.

A helpless whimper escapes you, and the sound earns a guttural, possessive growl from deep in his chest. His upper hands find your breasts, easily engulfing them—his fingers rough, greedy, squeezing with a pressure that borders on painful. You arch into his touch even as you flinch, the sensation overwhelming in the most intoxicating way.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down the column of your throat, licking and biting with the same cruel precision he likely used to kill a thousand men. When he finds a particularly sensitive spot, you moan, voice hitching—and the smirk that spreads across his lips against your skin is unmistakable. He���s found your weakness, and now he plans to exploit it.

Without warning, sharp pain rips through your neck as his fangs sink into your flesh. Your eyes roll back, the coppery tang of your blood mixing with the heat of his breath. You cry out, instinctively reaching for him, fingers tangling in his hair in a desperate attempt to pull him away.

But Sukuna is far from done.

He growls again, grabbing both your wrists in one hand and forcing them behind your back with humiliating ease. The other hand holds you in place by the waist, and he laps at the blood trailing from your wound, his tongue slow and deliberate. Worshipful, in a twisted, terrifying way.

He doesn’t stop. He dives back in, sucking, biting, marking you over and over until your neck blossoms in deep reds and violent purples. A crown of bruises worn only by the damned.

You’re trembling now, not from fear—but from the unbearable rush of it all.

And Sukuna? He’s only just begun.

He reaches one of his lower hands between your thighs, brushing aside your pajama shorts with an effortless motion. With a flick of his wrist, he hooks a finger into the waistband of both your shorts and panties, tearing them apart like wet paper. The sound of fabric ripping echoes in the chamber, followed by the soft whisper of cloth hitting bone as your clothing falls to the ground in tatters.

With his other lower arm, he lifts you like you're weightless, hands gripping your waist with practiced strength—rough, yet with a frightening kind of care. Like a predator who doesn’t want to break the prey until the right moment. As he ascends the pile of skulls, you instinctively avoid looking down, unwilling to think about who they once were. You focus instead on him—on the sensation of his body pressed to yours, on the terrifying comfort of his grip.

His lips never leave your neck. His fangs, already stained with your blood, drag against your skin in a cruel promise. Your neck, once smooth, now blooms with dark marks—bruises, welts, cuts—a living canvas of his possession.

A sudden wave of shame crashes over you as the reality of what you’re doing sinks in. What would your fellow Jujutsu sorcerers think if they saw you like this? Marked by a curse—the curse. You feel the weight of your choices bearing down.

He feels it too.

Without a word, he hurls you onto his throne—a towering, jagged seat of bone and twisted steel, as brutal and imposing as its master. You hit the seat with a thud, breath stolen from your lungs, your body trembling with a mix of fear, guilt, and something darker.

A strong hand seizes your chin, tilting your face upward. You look into four burning eyes, full of scorn and amusement.

“Tch. Look at you,” he mutters. “Trembling like a leaf, after crawling into my domain on your own. I don’t let just anyone in here, you know.” His other hand cracks against your cheek with a sharp slap, the sting blooming instantly across your skin. “Well you're in luck. I've always wanted to defile a jujutsu sorcerer. Its just my luck a fucked up pretty little whore dropped in my lap.”

Tears spring to your eyes, not just from pain, but from the shame curling deep in your stomach.

“You really are pathetic, aren’t you?” he growls, voice low and dangerous. “Three years you spent digging into my legacy. Feeding your obsession. And here you are—just another filthy human slut desperate to be touched by something monstrous.”

He cages you in, all four arms braced on either side of you, his massive form casting you in shadow. You feel like prey. Trapped. Hunted. Your heart races.

“I can smell it, you know—the guilt,” he sneers. “But I can also smell the truth underneath it.”

He leans in close, his lips brushing your ear.

“You want them to know. All those little sorcerers you call friends—you want them to see the marks I leave on you. You want them to know who you belong to now. Don’t you, little whore?”

You freeze. The thought had crossed your mind once. Maybe more than once. But hearing it said aloud—so crudely, so accurately—makes your throat tighten.

“I asked you a question, whore.” His voice sharpens. “When your king speaks, you answer.”

You gulp, nodding.

He growls softly. “Ah, no. Not enough. I want words, not whimpers. So mouthy before, and now you cant even get a coherent sentence out. I havent even fucked you yet, how pathetic.

You look up into his eyes—terrified and trembling, but unable to lie to yourself anymore.

“Yes,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Yes… I want them to know I’m yours.”

He smiles—a twisted, triumphant expression that sends a chill down your spine.

“Good girl,” he says, lips curling back to bare his fangs. “Because from this moment on, you are.”

Suddenly, his grip tightens, and before you can process what’s happening, you feel a rush of pressure between your thighs — not one, not two, but three of his massive fingers drive into you without warning. The sudden stretch steals the breath from your lungs.

“You want it, do you?” His voice is a low growl, vibrating through your chest like thunder. “Then beg, pet. Beg for your king.”

Your words crumble into gasped half-sentences, muffled moans, and desperate little pleas as your body writhes helplessly in his hold, trying to match his rhythm. Every curl of his fingers makes your vision blur, the relentless pace driving you higher, faster.

“Oh, you can do better than that.” His voice darkens, almost mocking. “Beg for your king like the filthy little whore you are. Say it. Show me.”

His thumb finds your clit, pressing in tight circles that send shocks up your spine. Your back arches against him, mouth falling open with a sobbing moan.

“F-Fuck, please,” you choke out, barely coherent. “Please—please, I need it—need you—Sukuna, please—”

The moment his name falls from your lips, everything changes. He lets out a feral noise that’s somewhere between a snarl and a groan, and before you can even mourn the loss of his fingers, he buries his dick deep inside you with a savage thrust.

You cry out, not just from the stretch, but from the overwhelming sensation that follows — the heat, the fullness, the way your body clenches around him like it was made for this. Made for him.

His breath stutters against your skin. “Tight little thing,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You feel that, don’t you? How you fit around me so perfectly. It’s like you were always meant to be mine. God, you can fucking see my dick in your stomach.” he groans out. Its been so long since hed taken anyone like this; and though he’d never admit it to you, you’re the best pussy he’s ever had. 

You don’t even have time to answer. Your body moves on instinct, spasming around him as your climax hits you in a sudden, overwhelming wave. He holds you steady, one arm wrapping around your waist like a steel band, the other gripping your thigh as he starts to move — deep, slow, brutal.

“Already?” He chuckles darkly. “You must be a virgin Cumming so quickly… How precious.”

He leans forward, forcing you to meet his eyes — those four blazing orbs searing into your soul. “Look at you. Wrecked, ruined, and I’ve barely even started.”

One of his hands slides up, fingers wrapping around your throat — squeezing slightly to constrict your breathing slightly. “You’re mine now,” he says, tone calm but laced with threat. “Every breath you take. Every sound you make. Every time someone even thinks of touching you, they’ll see me in your eyes.”

You can barely think, barely speak, every nerve set alight as he starts to move again — unrelenting and commanding. All that’s left is the sound of your whimpers, the heat of his breath on your skin, and the terrifying, intoxicating truth:

You don’t want to be anywhere else.

“Mmf- s-sukuna-” you moan out, knees falling open as you completely submit, showing just how much he can use you. “Mm… let you do anything..” 

He stops his momentum immediately, making you actually tear up, missing his dick pressing against your cervix, hitting the right spots every time. 

“What the fuck did you just say?” his eyes flash, sadistic smirk forming across his face. One of his hands grips your chin harshly, and he spits, spits, in your face. “Say. that. Again.” 

You gasp, his saliva trailing down your cheek. You gulp before responding quietly. “I’d let you do anything you want to me.” your voice is slurred with pleasure slightly, and you swear his eyes glow red when the words leave your lips. 

He drops your chin and shoves you down, hooking your legs around his waist. 

“You innocent, little thing. You have no idea what you’ve done.” he purrs in your ear. 

“I’m going to fucking tear you apart.” 

Suddenly his mouth is on your breasts, biting and sucking, and he resumes his cruel thrusting pace, making you scream out in surprise. He grabs a nipple into his mouth, biting down on the taut bud just enough to send jolts of pain and pleasure through your body. His hand grips your other breast, rolling your the nipple between his large fingers and pinching. 

He looks up at you, mouth still moving on your breasts, and he actually has to close his eyes to keep himself from cumming. 

Your head is lolled to the side, eyes dazed and rolled back. You’re flushed and sweaty, hair sticking to your forehead, mouth open as actual drool dribbles out. 

His marks completely cover your body, and he absolutely knows there is no way of covering them up. You look like you're in pure ecstasy, and he engranes the image in his mind to use at a later date. 

Another orgasm pours over you, and Sukuna lets out an animalistic growl as you squeeze around his dick. 

“Fuck- tightest little cunt- god, I can’t wait to fucking fill you up.” 

You moan at his words, and he continues fucking into you roughly, finally releasing your neck as finger-shaped bruises begin to form. He holds your hips down, bringing another hand to your clit, flicking at rubbing it harshly.  

A third orgasm crashes over you, catching even you off guard. Sukuna barks out a yell, sinking his teeth back into your neck as he makes four deep thrusts, your constricting walls finally breaking him. He growls and falls against you, spurting load after load of hot, sticky cum deep in your cunt. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, feeling him fill you to the brim. 

For a moment, the only sound that lingers in the heavy air is the ragged rise and fall of your breathing, tangled with his own. Sukuna releases your wrists, and to your surprise, his movements shift — not harsh, not greedy. He pulls out of you with an almost reverent slowness, your body still trembling from the aftermath.

You whimper instinctively, still aching, still stretched far beyond your limits. His deep, throaty chuckle rumbles through the chamber as he watches you tighten around the emptiness he left behind.

“There, there, little girl,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek with unexpected tenderness. His clawed fingers trail your jaw, soft for the first time. “You got what you wished for.”

Through your half-lidded eyes, you catch the faintest hint of something new tugging at the corners of his mouth. Not smugness. Not triumph. Something quieter. Older.

A single, large hand cups your cheek, his thumb swiping gently beneath your eye. “Sleep now, pet,” he says, voice low and velvety. “Perhaps I’ll grant you another visit.”

The world goes dark not with fear, but with surrender.

Sunlight filters through the narrow cracks in your curtains, speckling your room in faint gold. You blink against the light, breath catching as memories rush in—vivid, violent, visceral.

You jolt upright and immediately regret it, pain flaring through every muscle. So it was real...

Gingerly, you swing your legs off the bed, feeling your thighs protest every movement. Every step toward your vanity is a struggle—your body marked, exhausted, claimed.

And when you catch your reflection, you freeze.

Your neck and chest are a canvas of bruises, deep purples blooming across pale skin like morbid blossoms. Small bandages pepper your body—tucked neatly over teeth marks, scratches, and raw places only he could’ve reached. You stare, wide-eyed, as a blush rises to your cheeks.

Did the King of Curses… bandage you?

Your hand comes up to touch one of them, and something twists in your chest. Not fear. Not shame.

Possession.

A flicker in the mirror draws your attention. For a brief second—too fast to be certain—you swear you see four crimson eyes watching from the shadows behind you. A whisper of heat coils at the base of your spine.

Then it’s gone.

But you know better now.

This isn’t over.

You had opened a door. And Sukuna… would never lets his plaything close it again.