#some quick content warnings for implied:

[magicpiano]

Dark AU, Arkham patient! Jazz Fenton.

Sadly, Jazz Fenton is convinced that her brother Danny is still alive, that Phantom didn't kill him, that ghosts are actually sentient and not necessarily evil. Clearly she was brainwashed by Phantom who was pretending to be her brother.

The GIW graciously don't charge her with the crime of violating the anti-ecto act by protecting ghosts as a kindness to her parents who have done so much good work. She is sent to a mental hospital outside of Amity Park because they think she will recover better away from ghosts.

Well Arkham doesn't know what is about to hit it and Jazz is going to do whatever it takes to escape and save her brother.

[tywrites]

secrets that you keep (talking in your sleep) | mateo manta

pairing: mateo manta x gn!reader

word count: 1,267

warnings: implied smut, wet dreams, dry humping

a/n: i need this blanket viscerally. hope you fellow blanket fuckers enjoy <3

part 2

It wasn’t a rare scenario to find you in. Curled up on the couch, wrapped up in your fuzzy, yellow blanket ­- the TV on a low volume in the background, playing some overdramatic reality show. The only difference, however, was that you were sleeping.

You didn’t often fall asleep on the sofa, especially after receiving the dateviators. Knowing that every object in your house was sentient honestly made you feel quite self-conscious a lot of the time. You didn’t even want to think about going to the bathroom. Sleeping on Betty was still a bit new to you but she was so chill about it that it didn’t bother you as much. But you didn’t know Koa super well yet. Sleeping on him felt a bit… awkward.

But here you were, soft snores leaving your mouth as you laid in your slumber. The most awkward part of it was that you’d left your dateviators on. They were slightly slid down your nose, but still working. Since you’d been hanging out with Mateo, you’d had them on to be able to converse with him. But now, your head was slumped on his shoulder, the soft material of his duvet jacket acting as a perfect pillow.

Mateo didn’t mind in the slightest. He actually thought it was adorable, gazing on your sweet, sleeping form with a small smile. He gently brushed the hair away from your face, his hand stilling as you shifted. He definitely didn’t want to wake you up. After a moment, you stopped moving, now cuddled into Mateo’s chest as your own rose and fell in even, relaxed breaths. He chuckled at how clingy you seemed to be in your sleep.

“Wow, mi vida,” he said softly. “Guess the inanimals really took it out of you today,”

You’d both had a pretty busy day. All of the inanimals had needed grooming, Sinclaire had dropped off a pretty hyper Sudsy, and Davi had even done his usual disappearing act again. All in all, quite a chaotic time for you both. Mateo of course was kinda used to it. But you? Not so much.

Mateo very cautiously shifted your positions, taking great care not to disturb your rest as he moved you both to a reclining position on the sofa. He propped himself up against the arm, allowing you to lie fully down on top of him, your face snuggled against his chest. Pure comfort. He sighed in content, allowing himself to enjoy this small moment of peace with you. His eyes closed and for a second, he wondered if he could afford to take a quick nap himself.

His eyes shot open as a curious noise broke through the silence.

He looked down at you, a bit confused. He swore he’d heard you speak.

He waited.

Nothing.

With a small frown, he closed his eyes.

There it was again! It was definitely coming from you. Only, it didn’t sound like words. He observed your sleeping form, silently waiting for it to happen again.

“Mmm…”

Oh.

Oh.

A flush settled on his cheeks, turning his face a rosy red. Maybe he was wrong. You couldn’t be… moaning. Right? You’d fallen silent once again, your face burying itself even deeper into his plush chest. Once in the desired position, you let out a satisfied sigh. He tried his hardest to calm his racing heartbeat. Chill, Mateo. He told himself. You’re clearly imagining things. They wouldn’t be-

“Ohh.. fuck,”

He bit his lip as you let out another moan, louder this time and slightly muffled into his chest. Yeah, he definitely wasn’t imagining this. He suddenly felt kind of creepy, as if he was completely invading your privacy. He would never, ever, under any circumstances, want to make you uncomfortable. And if you knew what he was hearing right now… Mateo felt conflicted.

The noises were becoming more frequent and you seemed to be having a very… pleasing dream. He didn’t want to wake you up… You’d been working so hard today and you really deserved the rest! But you also deserved privacy. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for the pure awkwardness that would fill the room after he woke you up.

He didn’t get that chance.

“Mm… fuck yes… Mateo please,”

He froze. Did you… did you just say his name? Blood pounded in his ears, his cheeks heating up adorably. You whined in your sleep, biting your lip subconsciously as you began to grind your hips against him, searching for any kind of stimulation you could find. All the while, you whimpered out the most erotic noises Mateo had ever heard. He couldn’t believe you were still asleep.

Mateo could barely think straight, the noises you were making going straight to his head. And… straight to somewhere else. His body ran hot when he realised just how tight his usually comfy sweatpants had gotten. His cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Mi amor, you’re gonna be the death of me...”

He had no idea what to do. Hearing you whine his name like that… It was insanely difficult for him to hold back from waking you up to hear exactly what your dream was about. He tried to take deep, calming breaths, raking a hand through his messy locks. But then, a thought struck him. The others; his fellow objects. They could probably hear you right now. I mean, you guys were literally laying on Koa. The idea of that, of them knowing how badly you wanted him… god, it drove him crazy.

You were still going at it, practically humping his thigh at this point. He honestly couldn’t stand it any longer. If you didn’t wake up soon, he’d be giving you one hell of a wake up call.

“Mateo, I need you… please,”

Ay dios mío, the way you were begging so sweetly for him – it drove him crazy. He felt like he was ready to burst. You two had never actually… done anything before. Your relationship was sweet, romantic and caring. Not that he’d never wanted to! It was kind of an awkward thing to bring up and you both were always so busy. But knowing that you’d been dreaming about it… god, he needed you too. Badly.

He gently placed a hand on your cheek, his thumb slowly stroking it, attempting to coax you from your deep slumber. He knew you slept better when you were with him, but he’d never seen you so deep in your sleep. It didn’t take too long to wake you, your eyes slowly fluttering open, blinking in the light of the TV.

“Fuck, did I fall asleep?” you asked hoarsely, rubbing at your eyes.

He chuckled nervously. “Yeah, you did. That tired, huh?”

You smiled up at him. “Must’ve been…” You yawned, stretching your arms. “God, I had the best dream,”

His eyes widened, looking at you curiously. Did… did you know you were talking in your sleep?

“Oh yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah, it was…” You trailed off, a subtle blush rising to your cheeks. “...good, really uh, good,”

He couldn’t hold back the knowing chuckle. “Uh huh, I could tell…”

You looked at him, confusion evident in your eyes. It was only when he purposely rolled his hips up against your own that you realised what he’d meant. The hardness pressed against you left very little to the imagination. Your mouth dropped open and your body burned all over.

“H-how… how did you…”

He smirked, cupping your chin with a soft but firm hand.

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk in your sleep?”

[mssishipi]

soft love — pjs

— in which you found purpose in jay's control that love was so soft to be touch and tight enough to never let go.

warnings: dark romance, emotional manipulation, psychological control, jay is older than reader, power imbalance, dependency, themes of submission and ownership. explicit content (smut): unprotected sex, implied breeding kink. MDNI

Dating older guys, they said, would be so good.

"They’re more mature," they told you. "Patient. Experienced. They know how to take care of you. They’ll spoil you, treat you like a queen."

Jay was all of those things and more.

He was sweet in that effortless, older-man way, never fumbling or awkward, always knowing the right thing to say, always knowing exactly what you wanted before you even said it. He'd buy you things without you having to ask. Something you liked, something you needed and the next day, it was waiting in your hands like magic. Clothes, jewelry, rides, trips... everything.

He gave you the kind of love that made it easy—too easy—to fall into him. And you did.

He made you feel safe, special. Protected. Like nothing in the world could hurt you as long as you were his. Like you didn’t need to worry about anything anymore.

And little by little, you stopped.

You stopped checking your own schedule because Jay always had plans for both of you. You stopped talking to certain friends—Jay didn’t like them anyway. You stopped doing a lot of little things because he took care of them for you... until you weren’t sure where you ended and he began.

He became your whole world. And at first, that was intoxicating.

But it started to shift. You didn’t notice it all at once. The control didn’t come like a storm. It came in whispers.

In little comments, like: "You don’t need to go out tonight, stay with me instead." Or: "Why do you even talk to him? You know I don’t like it." Then one day, it was: "Wear this instead, I don’t want other guys looking at you."

And when you pushed back, even gently—just asking questions, wanting to understand—he’d smile that same sweet smile he always had. But it didn’t feel sweet anymore. It felt like warning.

He was still patient. Still spoiled you. Still called you "baby" with that soft voice that once made your stomach flutter.

But, sometimes, it made your skin crawl.

Because when Jay got angry—really angry—it wasn’t loud. It was cold, still and heavy. He didn’t yell. His silence said enough. His glare made your heart skip beats for all the wrong reasons. You forgot how kind he could be in those moments. You only remembered the way your breath caught when you saw the shift in his eyes.

"Love, my friends are planning to visit Indonesia, can I go with them?" 

Your voice is barely above a whisper. You speak without looking up, your fingertips nervously playing with the edge of your sleeve, eyes fixed on Jay as he types away on his laptop across the room. You already know what he's going to say, but you ask anyway—half-hoping for something different this time.

Jay doesn’t stop typing, not at first. The rhythm of the keys continues for a beat too long, the silence between you stretching thin. Then, without looking up, his voice comes out flat. 

"I told you, I’m not comfortable with your friends." Click. Click. "Didn’t one of them have a scandal at some bar? They’re a bad influence."

You flinch, "love, it’s not a scandal," you murmur, careful not to let your tone rise. "She was... she was a victim."

That’s when the keys stop. Just like that, the room feels heavier. His fingers hover above the keyboard.

You dare to glance up and regret it. He’s staring at you now. Not angry. Not yet. But disappointed, which somehow always hurts more. You hate that about yourself, how fast you shrink under his gaze, how quick your heart races when you think you’ve said the wrong thing.

"You always defend them," he says quietly. There’s no yelling, no raised voice, but you feel like you’ve been slapped.

"I’m just saying—" you start, but the words catch. Because what are you saying, really? What are you trying to prove?

He sighs, turns his eyes back to the screen. "I just want what’s best for you. I thought you knew that."

And just like that, the conversation ends. Why did I even ask for permission? That was never your mindset before. You were independent, assertive, unafraid to make your own choices. But somewhere along the way, that changed.

They say it’s normal, even healthy—asking for your partner’s approval. That’s what being in a relationship is, right? Compromise. Communication.

But you feel like you're being held tightly. Not by arms, but by invisible strings that pull every time you try to step too far away. The worst part is you don’t even want to fight it.

You don’t know anymore what’s right, or what’s normal. You just don’t want Jay to look at you like that again. You don’t want to see that shift in his eyes. You don’t want to feel that pit in your stomach, or the shame curling hot in your chest like you’ve done something wrong.

It hurts. Not the kind of hurt that bruises skin but the kind that seeps into your bones, the kind you carry without scars, but never really heal from.

The bed shifts with the familiar creak of weight settling beside you. The mattress dips, and even before he says a word, your body responds on instinct.

You turn toward him immediately, almost reflexively, slipping your arms around his waist and pressing your head against his chest. It’s automatic now, seeking his warmth, his presence. As if holding him tight enough could make everything feel okay again.

Jay’s hand finds your back, slow and soothing, running a few gentle strokes over your spine before settling there. The steady thump of his heart under your ear should feel comforting, but instead it leaves your chest heavy. You breathe in the clean, cool scent of his cologne. Familiar. Inescapable.

“We can go to Indonesia,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “Just the two of us, hm? What do you think?”

He presses a kiss to your forehead like a peace offering. You nod against him, almost automatically, the motion small and quiet.

It’s not what you wanted. But it’s something. And it’s him. That’s enough. Isn’t it? 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, not sure if you’re apologizing for asking, or for pushing, or just for being difficult. You feel him pull you in tighter, his arms wrapping around you.

“It’s okay. I understand,” he says, his voice calm.

Your eyes sting, warmth welling up. You bite your lip, holding the tears back even though you know he can probably feel it—your breathing, just a little uneven now. You blink quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice the dampness gathering at the corners of your eyes.

You’re not sure what hurts more, that he does understand, or that he never really had to.

You nestle closer into his chest, burying yourself in him. You feel the steady rhythm of his heart, the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the weight of his hand pressing gently against your back.

This moment is love. You’re lucky, so lucky, to have someone like Jay. That’s what everyone says.

A man who takes care of you, who thinks ahead, who plans things for you because he knows what’s best. A man who holds you at night, whispers apologies even when you feel like you were the one who did something wrong. A man who spoils you without asking, who says “I understand” even when you don’t deserve it.

He always knows how to bring it back to this. Where guilt fades into gratitude. Where you start to believe that maybe you are overreacting, maybe you are too sensitive, too quick to doubt someone who’s only trying to love you the right way.

Jay never yells. Never hits. He doesn't need to. He just speaks softly, slowly. He makes you feel like the bad decisions you make are your own—even when they were never really yours to begin with.

He listens, and then he corrects, but always gently, always with a calmness that makes you feel childish for pushing back. And every time you hesitate, he meets you with patience… and just enough disappointment to make your stomach twist with shame.

He gives you so much, how could you question him?

You remember the way he brought you your favorite drink after you got upset. The time he booked that surprise weekend trip just because you were stressed. The necklace you wear every day—he noticed you admiring it once and had it delivered within a week. He always comes back with something better. Something to make you forget the argument. Something to remind you that he's still the one holding everything together.

So maybe you were wrong about Indonesia. Maybe it’s selfish to want something he doesn't feel good about. Maybe you’re asking for too much.

Jay is the best boyfriend you could ever ask for.  

That’s what you remind yourself, even when everything feels complicated. He’s perfect. Handsome in that effortless, masculine way, with a sharp jawline and steady eyes that seem to see right through you. Broad shoulders, strong arms, the kind of body that makes you feel small when he wraps around you. Safe.

He knows exactly how to touch you, how to take you apart and put you back together like you were made for his hands. There’s no awkward fumbling, no hesitations. He takes, and you give—because giving to Jay feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s expected. Like it’s right.

"J-Jay!" you gasp, your voice breaking as his pelvis slams into you from behind, every thrust hitting deep. Your breath catches as his grip tightens around your wrists, pulling your arms behind your back.

“You’re mine, baby,” he murmurs between thrusts, filled with that dangerous softness he always uses when he wants you to feel safe while giving in. “Only mine. Say it.”

“I—I’m yours,” you cry out, the words tumbling past your lips before you even think. Your hips instinctively roll back into him, body desperate to meet every stroke. Your own moans betray you, building with the wet slap of skin and the sound of his breath unraveling behind you.

“Wanna keep you to myself—fuck,” Jay growls, his grip flexing around your wrists as your walls tighten around him. “You’re too beautiful. Everybody wants my girl.”

You feel him shudder, throwing his head back, a moan tearing from his throat as he sinks deeper, harder, the pace growing erratic. His words come broken now, laced with raw possession.

“You’re mine… mine… mine… fuck—mine.”

Your whines rise with him, high and trembling, legs shaking beneath the weight of his rhythm. He’s hitting every spot  like he owns them—because in his mind, he does.

Jay always knows what you need before you do. He knows when to be soft, when to be rough. When to pull you close, and when to make you beg. 

He releases one of your wrists, only to slide his hand down your front, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes your legs nearly give out the moment he touches you. His fingers circle it with cruel expertise, pulling out helpless gasps as your body responds.

“See how good I treat you?” he breathes against your neck, lips brushing just beneath your ear. “No one else can fuck you like this. No one else gets to.”

You moan in response, pushing your hips back to meet the punishing rhythm of his thrusts. Your ass collides with him, each impact echoing in the room. He growls low in his chest, gripping your hips, dragging you back onto him with a force that leaves you breathless.

“I’m gonna fill you with my cum,” Jay hisses. “Gonna make you pregnant, baby. Everyone will know who you belong to.”

Your moans break into sharp cries as the pleasure burns through your veins, white-hot and endless. Every stroke of his cock drives deeper, rougher, shaking what little strength you have left. Your body can't hold itself up anymore—your arms collapse beneath you, face pressed into the sheets as he continues his assault from behind.

“I love you,” Jay groans, his voice fraying into a broken moan. “I love you, I love you, I fucking love you—”

Something inside you snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking loose after too long held back. It’s overwhelming, violent in its depth, unstoppable in its force. Your body tightens around him as pleasure detonates from your core, spreading outward in pulsing waves that steal your breath and leave you crying out his name.

Your hands claw at the sheets beneath you, your back arching as every nerve lights up, every muscle trembling beneath the pressure of his thrusts. It’s like falling and flying at the same time, the intensity of it burning behind your eyes, blinding everything else.

All you can hear is his voice—those words repeating, claiming you. I love you. I love you. I fucking love you.

You’re still trembling as he keeps going, chasing his own end, using your limp, pleasure-drunk body. “Yours,” you whisper, the word broken and breathless into the sheets. “I’m yours, Jay…”

He lets out a sound that’s almost a sob, thrusting harder, deeper, messier now. And you can feel it coming—his climax, the one he’s been holding off for you, the one he’s about to give with everything he has.

Even with your limbs trembling, your body still oversensitized and wrecked from your own release, you shift your hips to meet him, chasing his rhythm. Moaning, shakily, as the pleasure blooms again when you feel him release inside you.

A broken curse falls from his lips, and then he’s spilling into you, his entire body seizing with it.

Every pulse inside you is another claim, another mark, another reminder that you belong to him.

“I love you,” he whispers. His breath is hot against your skin, each word punctuated with a kiss pressed to the curve of your neck.

He stays inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back, skin slick with sweat and warmth. You feel the full weight of him, one of his hands slides up, fingers threading gently through your hair, tilting your head just enough for him to press a kiss to your nape. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

And when he finally presses his lips to yours, it’s a ghost of a touch. A silent apology.

He whisper, again, I love you, buried in your hair now. Oh, how it feels so good.

To be wanted like this. To be needed this much. To be held so tightly that you forget what it was like to ever stand on your own.

Because in Jay’s arms, even when everything else fades, even when you’re lost in the dark—It always feels like home.

[saltnsugarbear]

he tells me he's gentle when he wants to be (18+)

summary: Carmy's first time giving head is... interrupted....

title from: "touch tank" by quinnie

word count: 1.4k

content warnings: smut MDNI!!!! afab reader genitalia, CLAIRE SORRY FOLKS (just briefly mentioned and implied conversation), implied blowjob, pussy eating, voyeurism (??? unknowingly cause Claire's not aware but on the phone with reader during)

side note: don't like it that much and it's a bit short but !!!!! here's another interlude friends! thank you to olive again

series masterlist!

Carmy has the day off, surprisingly.

You've checked with him a half-dozen times that he doesn't need to rush off to the restaurant. To which he assured you every time that no, he didn't need to. The staff forced Carmy out of the kitchen once a month, making him take a vacation day after June. A sound decision made by Sydney, Richie, and Sugar.

Being one of the few times you and Carmy share an off day, you told Claire your friends had planned a sleepover at some hotel for the night. However, in your rush to get a bag ready and get over to Carmy's, it had slipped your mind Claire could check on you. Could see you at Carmy's place...

Your stomach twists at the realization, quickly cutting off your location a few stoplights away from Carmy's apartment. You hoped the area was general enough she wouldn't recognize the neighborhood.

Those worries leave your mind when Carmy tugs you into the apartment, when he kisses you like he can't get enough of you.

Carmy is a vision above you. The flush from his face has made it's way down his chest while he pants to catch his breath. As you slow down your movements, teasing out the last of his release, you start to pull away.

He hisses quietly as you flick your tongue over his slit before you part. Carmy watches as you gaze up him. Watches as you pause. Watches as you slowly open your mouth and show him your tongue.

Carmy grabs at you before you can shut your mouth, dragging you off your knees. You make a sound when he kisses you, open-mouthed and slow.

"You're so gross..." You mutter against his lips, huffing quietly.

Carmy groans into your mouth, tugging you on top of him. He keeps your mouth open with a firm grip, holding you close as he tastes you. It's messy as he trades his spit for the cum in your mouth. He rocks up into you, using his free hand to guide your hips against his.

You make a sound of surprise when Carmy flips you over, kissing you into the mattress. He moves you easily, lifting you further up the bed until you're laying against the pillows. You groan softly as he paws at your chest, groping at the flesh with calloused hands until they trail down south with his kisses.

Carmy presses his teeth to your skin, leaving soft nips along your stomach and chest. Your hands find their way to Carmy's face, turning him upwards so he can look at you.

"What're you doin'?" You ask him, brow furrowed. "You don't have to-"

"I want to.." Carmy insists, placing a kiss to your waistband. "Y'trust me, right?"

And fuck, when he puts it like that? Paired with the way he's looking up at you?

You fold easily, nodding at him. Carmy gives you a quick smile before kissing your stomach again.

You let Carmy slide off your underwear, planting kisses along your legs as he goes and trailing them back up when he's done.

To say Carmy is good with his mouth would be an understatement. He starts shy, pressing tentative kisses from your hole up to your clit. Carmy wraps his lips around your mound, sucking gently until your back arches off the bed. The feeling of his tongue tracing small circles over your clit makes you choke on a moan, hand flying to his curls to ground yourself.

Unfortunately, his tongue isn't enough to drown out the beginning of Love Spit Love's "How Soon Is Now?" and how it makes your stomach plummet, recognizing the ringtone instantly. It's enough to make you remember where you are, who you're with, who's calling you.

"Fuck- fuck-" You push yourself up on your elbows, scrambling for your phone. Carmy looks up as he groans against your core. Your movements make your thighs tighten around his head, stretching for your phone on the nightstand.

He hadn't registered the song playing in the room until now. It moves with your phone, cut short when you swipe and bring it to your ear.

"Hello?" You say breathlessly, glancing down at Carmy before you lay back. "Are you okay?"

Carmy frowns, pulling back from your cunt as you listen to the other line.

"No, yeah," you clear your throat. "I didn't know that, I'm sorry."

Carmy's mouth twitches as he picks up on the voice on the other line. He glances back down at your cunt, covered in a mix of his spit and your arousal. He looks up at you again before he makes a decision, leaning back in to lick at your entrance.

You inhale sharply, looking down at Carmy. "No, I mean, I'm fine. Grease just jumped out of the pan."

Carmy can't help but smirk before focusing again. He drags his tongue up from your hole to press flat against your clit, tracing slow circles around it. Your hand finds it's way to Carmy's curls, holding tight as his tongue retreats and he wraps his lips around the bud.

"Shit-" You cut yourself off quickly, shutting your eyes. You tug at Carmy's hair, hoping he'll back off a little, but instead, he groans against you as he laps at your entrance again.

"No, sorry, it's just - it's kind of hard cooking with one hand... I can't... Because I won't be able to hear you over Mari's music." You have to bite your lower lip when Carmy starts rubbing tight circles with his thumb. "I- Uh- Maybe? I don't know what the girls have planned... Yeah, I'll look at it... Okay, bye."

You hang up on Claire quickly, throwing your phone above you on the bed before looking down at Carmy.

"You're such a fucking asshole- Shit-" You groan, head falling back against the bed. Now that you're off the phone, Carmy's relentless, using what he's learned against you. His hands slip to the insides of your thighs, pushing them onto the mattress.

Carmy alternates between sucking at your clit and tracing soft circles against it with his tongue. He keeps enough of a rhythm that you're able to rock your hips in time with it, crying out when the band in your stomach snaps. Carmy doesn't part from you as your climax crashes through you. Instead, he grabs at your hips, keeping you close as they buck into his mouth. He keeps your hips extended in the air for a moment before they fall back on the mattress, hands keeping them flat as you keen out.

His ministrations continue even when your body stops shaking and your thighs go lax. You cry out at the overstimulation, back arching harshly as you press your hips into the mattress.

He's quick to follow when your hips jerk back, grabbing the back of your thigh when it lurches up towards your chest. A whine tears out of your throat as he reattaches his mouth to your clit, sucking with his tongue as you writhe. You groan as your thighs clamp around his head again, tugging at his hair as he pulls another orgasm from you.

Carmy's hands are rough against your hips, holding you impossibly close as he laps at your core. You squeal gently when his tongue brushes up against your clit, hips bucking into his mouth. You choke on a whine when he sucks harshly at the bud, pushing gently against his forehead until he gets the hint.

You're breathing heavily by the time Carmy parts from you, resting his cheek against your thigh as he catches his breath. He starts pressing kisses to your skin, mixing a few soft bites between them. Carmy presses a soft kiss to your clit, pulling a delayed whine from you, pushing him away again. He huffs before he backs away, pushing himself up on the bed. He leans towards you slowly, giving you the opportunity to back out. Instead, you dive towards his mouth, brining a hand to rest against his cheek.

"Really fuckin' good at that.." You mutter against his lips, groaning when you taste yourself on him. He grins, giving you a second kiss before he parts from you and lays back against a pillow.

You can see it in his eyes. See the hunger that's still there.

"Carmen..." You sigh, turning away from him. He grumbles behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and tugging you back against him.

"You're insatiable..." You complain, leaning back as he kisses your neck.

"You like it..." He mutters into your skin.

He's not wrong.

[pineconepie]

CHARACTERS: Rune, you/reader

WARNINGS/TAGS: Parental yandere, infantilization gender neutral reader, forced age regression(?), language barriers, violence, death/murder (not major characters), kidnapping, SCP-inspired, implied dehumanization, Rune uses any pronouns

WORD COUNT: 4.5k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This has been sitting in my drafts for a while, just did some quick editing haha. Hope you enjoy! <3

You aren't a doctor, nor a psychiatrist, psychologist, or any sort of therapist. Your profession was actually to just tidy up the place and keep everything clean. Basically a janitor, but a little more specialized. You're not sure how you wound up getting the job, being completely inexperienced in this line of work.

But hey. It's money.

Working around such strange anomalies didn't scare you. You were only allowed to clean in the areas of those not deemed a threat, which is what made it not so bad. Most are kept in their own separate rooms where you wouldn't have to interact with them or look at them.

In the end, as long as you don't let curiosity get the best of you, it's just like cleaning any other facility.

Recently, you had been promoted to being allowed access to clean level three rooms, meaning a higher risk at being harmed.

But once again... it's money.

As you're doing your job, you hear a soft voice, but not quite human.

"Baby...?"

You turn your head. 9137, their file reads next to his door. They have long dark purple hair, long and pointy ears, and pink eyes that almost seem to glow. Their containment chamber is dark, so perhaps its just the lighting? Or maybe they just naturally do that.

The only clearly inhuman parts about them is their long thin black tail and claws, a gradient of black on their arms leading to their hands.

They wave softly, motioning for you to come closer.

"...me?" you say softly. Your coworkers had warned you about the friendlier SCP's. Their behavior may be innocent on the outside, but they know how to manipulate in order to get out. You know better, though. Surely you wouldn't fall victim to that. Its not like they can really do much behind this large bulletproof glass.

The humanoid creature seems content with this, sitting cross legged. They put their clawed hand against the glass. "You. My baby."

You squint at them in confusion, taking a moment to read the paper more thoroughly. As expected, it doesn't mention anything like this in their file.

The only information it gives is:

NUMBER: #9137

NAME: RUNE

HEIGHT: 6'10

WEIGHT: 236 LBS

AGE: (UNKNOWN)

CONTAINMENT CLASS: Euclid

SPECIAL CONTAINMENT PROCEDURES:

Subject 9137 must remain within their containment area at all times unless given permission from Dr. Kent. All rooms are to be kept dark or dimly lit, as Subject 9137 has been noted to become aggressive in brightly lit areas. No food or water is required for Subject 9137, as they seemingly have no need for any sort of nutrition.

Physical contact is not advised, but allowed if necessary.

All interactions must be recorded and filed.

ANOMALOUS PROPERTIES:

Subject 9137 is capable of some human speech, but does not understand it fluently.

Subject 9137 is able to emit a cognitohazard that decreases one's brain activity, rendering the person in a state similar to infancy. It is unknown how this happens, but it is theorized that 9137 is able to choose who it affects. It seems to only affect those in the same room as them.

There were some logs on interviews, but you didn't really have much time to read them before hearing the sound of what you could describe as purring. They are almost comparable to a cat with the wide-eyed look of admiration they're giving you.

You awkwardly smile. "I'm not your baby, I'm sorry..."

Their purring stops, looking saddened by your statement. But they shake their head, continuing to stare at you through the glass. "Name?"

Well, the file didn't say anything bad about telling them your name. "(Y/n)," you say. "You're Rune?"

"Yes," they smile, the tips of their teeth poking through their lips. They remind you of a shark. "You call me Mama or Papa. Because you are baby. Mine."

The way they said 'mine' sounds scarily possessive. You figure it'd be best to stay on their good side. As long as the lights aren't too bright and there's a wall between the two of you, you don't think they could try anything.

So you nod along. "Okay... Papa?"

They smile and clap their hands, making a cooing noise. They repeat your name under their breath as if they're committing it to memory. "(Y/n)... (Y/n)..." they make an attempt to pronounce your name as you did.

"Um... yeah, that's my name," you chuckle. "Well, I should get back to work. It was nice talking to you."

"No!" Rune slams their palm on the door. They begin speaking frantically in a language you do not know. The tone of their voice doesn't come off as malicious, however. If anything they just sound upset at the thought of you leaving. "Need baby! Please!"

"I can't," you sigh. "Look, um, I'll be back to clean tomorrow, we can see each other then. How's that sound?"

They seem conflicted, but ultimately nod. "Okay..."

...

True to your word, you come back the next day with the usual supplies.

"Baaaaby!" Rune smiles, hugging the closest thing near them; the glass.

"How are you?" you smile.

"Happy now. My baby here. Miss you very much."

They don't move an inch as you begin to sweep, simply staring at you contentedly with that same toothy grin on their face. Eventually they lay down on their stomach and rest their elbows on the floor, kicking their legs lazily while watching you.

It's almost cute. They feel more like a mother big cat with their cub than anything else.

When you've finally finished dusting everything off and spraying their table down, you take a break to sit on the floor opposite to them, as if you could share the space. They mimic you and sit criss-cross, smiling softly.

They point to the door, which requires a keycard from any level four staff, which you are not. "Open?"

"I'm not allowed," you admit sadly.

"Won't let you see Papa?" Their smile disappears again. "Bad white coats keep you from Papa...?"

You assume they're referring to the staff members dressed in white labcoats. You know why exactly the protocols are in place, so you can't bring yourself to agree, especially when you still have no idea how powerful they really are.

So you shrug. "Those are the rules. We can still talk, though. We just have to do it right here."

"Want to hold my baby," Rune sniffles. "You good. No one else good but you."

"Why's that?" you ask curiously. Sure, it's flattering. But you barely even know this person (can you even consider them a person?). It's nice having someone care for you so much, but its also quite sudden and suspicious. You know they're just an anomaly like everyone else here. And anomalies lie. They manipulate.

You cannot trust them, even if something in their expression breaks your heart a little bit.

"Been sad long time," they explain. "So so so sad until saw you." Their voice cracks. "White coats think me evil. Try hurting me. Poke me. Make me angry. All I wanted was family. Child I can love. Be parent to. White coats hurt you too. Right?" Rune points to the symbol of the foundation on your coat. They snarl angrily at it. "Make you wear. Don't let you leave. Trap you here."

You shake your head. "No... that's not true..."

"Mm-mm," Rune shakes their head. "Is."

They point to your eyes. You have heavy bags under them after being overworked. You look and feel drained. Not that they're wrong. The pay may be decent, but the environment isn't exactly... pleasant.

"It's fine though," you chuckle lightly. "I like working here. Besides, it's better than not having a job. There aren't many places hiring."

Rune crawls a bit closer, pressing their forehead against the glass. "I promise take care of you," they hum. "Soon you see Papa never hurt you."

This is becoming unsettling. While you doubt anyone as clingy and sweet as Rune could have bad intentions, there must be some sort of ulterior motive, right? They have to want something from you. Maybe its all a scheme to let them roam free and escape.

Not that you could blame them. Who would willingly live locked up in these conditions?

Still, you don't know anything about Rune outside of their file.

"What did you do when you weren't in here?" you ask. Hopefully you haven't upset them by rejecting their offer yet. But maybe this information could prove useful later on.

"Wander," Rune smiles. "Explore forest, rivers, cities. Walk the lands. Wandered far, never got lost. Know paths always. Then got put here."

"When did that happen?"

"Not sure," Rune murmurs. "Can't tell time. Long ago."

"I'm sorry," you say softly. This is a lot to take in, but you can't help but feel empathetic. You'd probably be going insane if you were in their shoes, away from a world you once knew for what could easily be decades, being studied every waking moment by people who may or may not even view you as a sentient lifeform.

Rune rubs the side of their face against the door, probably pretending its you. "I get revenge one day. Then (Y/n) be safe with Papa."

There's a chilling aura behind their words that you try to ignore.

...

A few more days pass by like this. Despite your skepticism towards their words, you find yourself falling into routine with the way you two behave. Rune acts almost like an actual parent in a way, even if its clear they're a bit confused on how humans work.

You find Rune waiting for you, which you're starting to become convinced they always do that whenever you leave. Like a dog waiting for its owner.

"Were you waiting for me?" you ask, smiling slightly.

"Of course," Rune replies, as if the idea of not doing so is unthinkable. "You come. So Papa wait."

"You don't need to do that all the time..." you sigh. "You can... go do whatever it is you usually do."

Rune tilts their head. "Like sleep?"

"Is there nothing else you can do?" you ask, a bit sad for them. "Do you have nothing to entertain yourself with? At all?" Rune shakes their head. "I'm sorry... I wish there was something I could do."

They coo, once again putting their large hand against the glass. "You talk with me. Make happy. Just wish you be in here with me. Want to hold my baby."

After you're done having your typical conversation with them, you leave with your supplies, only to see several of your higher-ups looking at you. A blonde-haired man gives a signal towards you, telling you to follow him in the other room. You oblige, knowing this was bound to happen eventually. He probably has seen the camera footage of you talking to them.

Great, this is the moment you get fired. You're sure of it.

When you're in your boss' office, you sit down. Your boss, Mr. Short, holds a hand up before you can begin.

"I want to offer you a promotion," he says.

"...pardon me?" you ask in shock. "Sir, I-I mean—"

"I've been going through camera footage and observing you speak with Subject 9137," he explains. "Usually staff interaction isn't allowed, but it seems that they really seem to like you." He slides you a folder. "We'd like you to assist us with our studies, getting close to them so we can collect information."

You blink dumboundedly, staring at the folder without taking it. "Why can't someone else more qualified do it? I'm just... a janitor."

"Well, to be honest with you," Mr. Short says. "All attempts to get personal information out of them have failed. Until now, that is. They seem very comfortable with you."

"But why do you want me to do this? Is it really that important?" you ask skeptically. Something feels off, but you can't place your finger on it.

"We simply want to know a bit more about them, is that so wrong?" Mr. Short asks. He opens the folder. "We'll take every single precaution necessary to make sure you aren't harmed. Even if we don't have much information about 9137's behavior, we will make sure to prepare ourselves for anything."

You fidget nervously, trying to read the documents.

Unfortunately, its complete jargon you don't understand.

"You'd be allowed in the same room as them," your boss continues. "We won't allow you in there for longer than an hour a day, due to the side effects others have gotten being in the same room as them."

Oh right, their special abilities or whatever. That whole brain activity thing.

"And... what do you need me to do?" you ask.

Mr. Short smiles. "Just act the way you always do. Get them to open up to you and reveal new information. There's some specific questions written down here, but you don't need to rush it. Act natural."

"How am I supposed to document it? Would you guys just use cameras?"

"We'd give you a recorder to keep inside your pockets and maybe plant a wire on you somewhere," Mr. Short says nonchalantly. "There's some things in the folder to sign if you wish to accept."

The thought of this is nauseating.

"So what do you say?"

Your eyes flicker back down to the paperwork, staring at it anxiously.

"I guess... okay," you nod. "Yeah."

...

The door hisses open with a soft sound, your keycard sliding back into your pocket.

And now comes the moment where you have to pray Rune isn't secretly plotting to kill you.

When you step in, it locks immediately behind you. You take a deep breath, a bit panicked from the overwhelming feeling of anxiety building inside you.

It takes Rune a minute to realize you've entered, their expression changing from surprise to joy when they register that it really is happening. It makes the guilt build up even worse inside you, but you force yourself to remember that Rune is technically your job now. In all fairness, its not like they would know you're gathering information about them, so what's the harm in asking?

Regardless, your morals feel compromised at best.

You figure there must be something your boss nor the doctors are telling you, because it doesn't make sense that they'd be so desperate as to make you do the grunt work rather than trained professionals.

But for now, you try your best to shove those doubts aside.

Rune wastes no time pulling you in for a hug, picking you up effortlessly in their arms as they purr loudly.

"My baby," Rune grins, holding you closely and squeezing tightly.

You pat their back and wiggle around in their grasp as a signal to put you down.

Rune does so reluctantly, continuing to hover over you like an overbearing parent. They smile with that toothy grin.

They make a hand motion, rushing out a quick, "Stay!" and scramble to grab several pillows, stacking them in the corner of the dimly lit containment chamber.

"Huh? What's this?" you ask, walking over to them.

"Nest!" they announce proudly, fluffing one more pillow.

You awkwardly sit on one of the pillows, smiling at the clear effort Rune has made to ensure you're comfortable.

"You didn't have to make a spot for me..."

"Papa make you comfortable," Rune replies as if it is obvious. "Do you like?"

"I do," you nod. You suppose there wouldn't be any harm in indulging Rune in their delusions, especially since its part of your task now to do so anyway. Its... a little fun. Not that you'd admit it. But hey, who hasn't wanted to be pampered at least once in their life?

Rune grabs you again, tugging you gently onto their lap with your back pressed against their chest. It makes you feel small. Fragile. You can hear Rune humming contentedly as they play with your hair.

"No more alone," they sigh happily, nuzzling the side of your head like a cat.

"Oh, um," you nervously glance at the door. "I can only stay for so long..."

They stop their gentle movements, wrapping both their arms tightly around your midsection. Rune squeezes you against them, hunching forward as if curling around you.

They don't reply. Its hard to tell whether or not they even heard you. For all you know, they may have known what you said and simply chose to ignore you.

Maybe its best not to test them.

"Can I ask you some questions?" you ask. At Rune stiffening, you stutter, "I just want to know more about my, um, papa. You can ask me questions, too."

Rune nods. "...yes," they reply. They lay their chin on top of your head. "What you want know?"

You think of a good question to start that isn't too sudden. Something casual that might seem natural. "How old are you?" You remember the file mentioning how Rune's age is unknown. "I know you said you can't tell time, but do you remember what it was like when you were born, maybe?"

They hum in thought. "My kind..." they struggle to find words. "My kind live very long."

"There's more of you?"

"Don't know," Rune murmurs. "Haven't found." They hug you closer. "Don't care. Baby only matter now."

You think about your next question. "Why do you see me as your baby?"

They tilt their head. "Instincts say you baby. Babies need love and protect. Like you."

That certainly clears things up.

"Do you see anyone else as a baby?"

Rune quickly shakes their head. "No. Others are mean. Scary."

You nod. "Do you have any questions for me now?"

That makes Rune perk up. They ask about your hobbies, favorite food, color, interests, all sorts of things to get to know you. Even though you're sure they have no idea what half of the things you said are, they still listen intently, trying to absorb as much information about you as possible. They seem overjoyed to know more about you.

Its genuinely pretty sweet.

As you answer the last question they had for you, you realize your time is almost up. You panic slightly, trying to pull away. Rune makes a confused cry, wondering why you suddenly jerked away.

"I have to go soon," you say sadly. "It's almost time for me to leave."

"No," Rune says lowly. "No, no no no..." They clutch onto you harder, keeping you still even as you try wiggling out of their grip.

"I can come back tomorrow," you remind them.

"Hurts when you leave!" Rune exclaims, tail wagging madly with their distress. "Hurts me here! Here!" They tap their heart repeatedly.

"They won't let me stay past visiting hours," you say apologetically. "They could get really angry with me. I'm sorry."

Rune purses their lips. "They keep you from me..." Rune mutters bitterly under their breath. You don't like the malice behind their voice. They pick you up, cradling you like one might do a swaddled infant. "Stay."

"You know I can't," you say sternly. "I'll come back tomorrow, I promise. Then we can talk some more."

It takes them a moment, but Rune finally sets you down on the floor, giving you one last bone-crushing hug before letting you stand up again.

"Papa promise keep baby safe one day," Rune whispers in your ear.

One day soon.

...

The next few days pass by fairly quickly. You wake up, arrive at work, and visit Rune, who greets you excitedly every single time, waiting for you to arrive just beyond the door.

You two spend most of the time cuddling while you converse with them.

One day, however, you decide to visit them, even though you've already visited them once that day for over an hour. But one or two more can't hurt that badly, right?

As usual, you use your card key, sliding it in smoothly before you hear it click and unlock. The door hisses open, and you enter their containment chamber. Rune perks up, smiling happily to see you again so soon.

"Hello, baby! Visit again?" Rune practically hovers over you, as they typically do if not holding you. "Miss Papa?"

"Yeah," you chuckle.

"Want nest?"

You nod, making your way to the pile of pillows with Rune. As soon as you're sitting down, Rune pulls you into their lap yet again, circling their long legs around you and your waist. You aren't even wearing the hearing device, but then again, you aren't here to get more information, anyway. This is just purely to spend time with Rune.

For whatever reason, being with them comforts you in a strange way.

Even though they've said some slightly worrying things, you figure they're safe enough. Their files may be limited, but your higher-ups don't seem worried about Rune hurting anyone.

They could have easily hurt you, yet you've been kept safe and sound.

You even notice them getting a little better at speaking your language. Sure, it still has a lot of grammar issues, and sometimes they use incorrect words completely, but its still improvement.

"Tired?" they ask, cocking their head to the side to observe your face. You jump slightly when you feel them trace underneath your eyes with their claws. "Dark spots here."

"Oh," you mumble. "Yeah, just a little sleep-deprived. That's all."

Rune looks concerned by this, kissing your forehead tenderly. "Poor baby. Sleep in nest."

"It's against the rules—"

"Sleep," Rune repeats firmly. They pick you up and lie sideways on the cushions. Your body is pulled until your back is against their chest. Almost instinctively, Rune wraps their limbs around you, caging you in protectively. "(Y/n) rest. Papa sing."

At first you want to argue that this is definitely a safety hazard, and that if anyone catches you sleeping here you could lose your job. But Rune starts rubbing soothing circles across your back while humming a tune from their own language, and you find yourself dozing off slowly.

...

When you wake up, Rune is still humming quietly.

You feel a brief sesne of dread; they told you not to spend longer than the time they gave you each day, right? And you're sure spending the night certainly crossed that threshold.

Especially when your mind feels as numb as the file had warned.

You attempt to pull yourself up, only for Rune to tug you back down, keeping you laying on the pillows with them. Rune seems to realize you've woken up, smiling contently when your eyes open blearily.

They greet you lovingly. "Sleep well?"

On top of your mind feeling numb, you realize its also hard to talk. Now you're sure your superiors were correct about you needing to stay away for too long, otherwise it could render you useless. Maybe if you hurry back right now, it could reverse the effects.

You wriggle slightly in their hold, attempting to communicate that you'd like to stand up.

Rune stares at you curiously for a moment, until your intentions dawn on them. They pull back a few inches, narrowing their eyes coldly. "Where going?" their tone is scarily sharp, contrasting greatly with the overly affectionate purring from before.

"Need to get back to work," you grit out. You're impressed you managed to say even one word to them.

They look conflicted, gazing between you and the door. Then, they smile. It isn't the sweet smiles you're used to, this one looks far more unnerving. It makes your skin crawl.

Rune picks you up with ease. Before you can begin questioning what they're doing, they grab your keycard from your pocket and slide it through the card reader by the door.

It still requires a code. You feel only a brief relief, until you see Rune enter it: 78500.

They must've memorized it after watching you put in the pin, which you admittedly never paid attention to whether Rune had been watching you or not. You had assumed they weren't smart enough to memorize codes.

Now, they walk you both outside, and into the halls.

The lights are blinding compared to what you've grown used to in Rune's containment room. They hiss at them, holding you tighter while keeping a swift pace despite not knowing where they're headed. They hide your head in the crook of their shoulder, as if they think you hate the lights just as much.

Alarms go off quickly as several researchers and doctors scramble to find the problem, realizing what has happened.

Just when a group of guards tries to intervene, Rune just lifts their hand and twists it gracefully, causing several of them to drop limply in the middle of the floor.

Noticing you had turned your head to stare in horror, Rune coos and hides your face back to their chest, cradling the back of your head.

"Don't look, (Y/n)," they murmur sympathetically.

You hear several screams and loud banging noises, as if bodies are being thrown across walls. Rune continues walking at the same pace.

Never have you once predicted they were this strong. Sure, they're an euclid class anomaly, but based on your encounters with them, they never appeared threatening.

Part of you wonders if even the doctors and other workers here know that they were capable of this amount of carnage.

You begin crying, though you doubt Rune hears it over the screaming people and blaring alarms surrounding them.

They must've been biding their time this entire duration just for this exact moment. And you played right into their plans perfectly.

There's someone's voice in the intercom telling all staff to evacuate immediately.

Rune mutters something in that language you don't understand. You start to understand when you feel yourself getting increasingly tired again, unable to fight as Rune uses their ability.

You wonder if the lights make them stronger. Normally the foundation doesn't care about their subjects' comfort unless it poses as a risk. But it would explain how they were able to keep such an overwhelmingly powerful creature in a room for this long; still, you doubt even they knew the extent of their abilities.

They carry you out of the facility, stopping only momentarily to breathe in fresh air. Or maybe they're basking in victory, you aren't really sure. Neither do you care anymore.

"Why...?" you sob. It's the only word you can manage.

They shush you, cradling your head against them even still. You feel yourself falling asleep, eyelids drooping lazily despite your struggles.

Rune rocks you gently. "We go home."

You don't know where that even is, and you doubt they do either.

They look scary right now; their eyes glowing brighter than ever, sharp teeth glinting from the sunlight. Long black claws that could tear apart anyone who dared cross them. Yet they treat you with such delicacy, even as specks of blood lie on their face.

All you can do is drift back to sleep, overcome by their powers.

[devotion-disorder]

be careful what you wish for...the village Killian's from is having a bit of a population crisis right now, and having a nice little human come by could be just what they need...

Oh noooo....I'm just a naive human lost in this big forest with no one waiting for me...would be a shame if some beautiful elves whisked me away and brainwashed me into thinking I'm their pet/breeding machine and only need their "love and devotion". That would be terrible /silly

- 🩵

wdym the beautiful elf men do not, in fact, have my best interests in mind and were planning something nefarious from the start </3 I was just gonna write down some quick thoughts but it kinda got out of hand LOL

Content warning for: implied drugging (hypnotics, aphrodisiacs), dubcon/ noncon touching (nothing explicit though), manipulation, slight obsessive/ yandere themes, general elven condescension?

Imagine that you’ve accidentally wandered too deep into the forest and lost your way, your shoes hardly holding up in the rough terrain, and the last remaining rays of the setting sun are snuffed out by the overgrown foliage…

To make things worse, you walk right into some sort of trap - a stumbling step is all it takes to activate the runic trip switch, and a suffocating cloud of purple gas is the last thing you remember before things fade to dark…

How clumsy of you! Good thing Priest Killian happened to be on his evening walks when he spotted your pitiful form twitching and writhing in the hunting trap he’d set up; carefully he scooped you up and went his way back to the village. Only the most observant would be able to discern that the Priests’ unmoving smile seemed a bit wider than usual.

It was a trap the elves set up for hunting animals, he’d explained. The poison was almost enough to be fatal, had he not been there in time to save you. It’ll also take a bit for all the toxins to be out of your system. No worries though, because Killian offers to take care of you in his quarters until you’re up on your feet again. 

You don’t even remember if you’d managed to give a response, what with lead-heavy limbs and relentless migraine pulsing in your head. Luckily, Killian treated you with utmost care. 3 meals a day (along with the antidote treatment) brought to your bed (well, his bed), and spoon-fed to you because you were too weak to even sit up. He massaged your stiff muscles and brushed your hair. He ran warm baths and washed you – and even then he never opened his eyes – so at least there was some comfort in that.

Under Killian’s care you gradually regain your strength, save for the occasional dizzy spell and fatigue. But he saved your life after all! Feeling indebted to him, you offer to stay longer in the village to help around. While Killian’s expression is ever-unreadable, you can’t help but sense a bit of…amusement from him upon your suggestion. Regardless, he agrees – so long as you agree not to wander too far outside the village, because it’s very dangerous out there, he said.

And of course, he maintained a watchful eye over you, shadowing your tottering form as you went around introducing yourself to the other villagers. How cute.

You worked whatever odd jobs the elves had for you. which isn’t much at all. Mostly just menial tasks, or perhaps relaying messages. Things that they could’ve easily done themselves with their magic, but it’s fun watching an over-enthusiastic little human do it instead, so eager to please. You would say they are…endeared, perhaps. Or maybe they’re just looking out for you, what with your unfinished recovery. Anyhow, the elves are charmed by the newfound presence in the village.

Killian gifts you a new set of clothes, made by the local tailor (you don’t remember visiting a tailor for measurements at any point though, strange). To help you feel more at home, he said. It's pretty, a delicate garment that flutters cool against your skin in the warm summer heat, with an unmistakably elven style of elegance. It is a little short but, well, elves are known for being tall so maybe they're not used to human proportions? The white silk is a bit sheer in places, and you tried to ignore how it clung to the contours of your body when you sweat…

You hadn’t expected elves to be so openly affectionate. Being a long-living race known for their high culture and intelligence, it made for the perception that they were maybe a bit prudish, engrossed in their endless pursuit of finer things to care about lowly desires. But you suppose the elves are as curious of you as you are of them. You got to know some of them quite well, and soon it was routine for them to envelop you in their embrace. They pet your hair and nuzzle into your neck (Killian said something about how common skinship is in elven culture), at times slipping their digits beneath your clothes…sometimes you don't really remember, because the medicine still made you a bit sluggish. But it's ok! Their affectionate nature is a surprise but one you welcome. You think. 

During all of which, your treatment continued. Just a little longer, Killian promised. The side-effects seem to show no sign of waning, if not worsening at times. Sometimes you struggle to recall what has happened and what has not. The elves didn’t seem to mind, gladly cradling your tired body when you are overcome with sudden bounds of weakness. You poor little thing, they cooed, one hand combing through your hair to distract you from their other that wandered along your body.

Some days the medicine leaves you feeling more flushed than usual, and a strange feeling you can’t quite place invades your senses; a deep, frustrating kind of yearning that throbbed in your core. You assume it's the side-effects of advanced elf sorcery/ enchantment in your antidote treatment. It’s a tad embarrassing, but you can’t really do anything about it when the elves (if not the Priest himself) check in on you so frequently. 

Your only reprieve comes when Killian slots himself snug against your smaller form at bedtime. Were you always this close? You’re not sure if you recall, trying desperately to suppress the suggestive thoughts flooding your brain. His cool hands trail over your body, and it feels way too good against your overheating skin, so good that you can’t even think about resisting as his lips come crashing on top of yours, when he slips his arm underneath your waist to push you closer, closer against him.

Stumbling out of Killian’s quarters in the dead of night, confused, and your vision blurred by hot tears, all you can think about is getting away from him, from this godforsaken place. The other elves stepped out of their houses from the commotion. It was as if something in the air shifted. Their friendly, curious pretenses have dropped completely, leaving a ravenous hunger and unyielding need in their place. The way they leer at your body, the disheveled elven outfit failing to provide much cover, makes your hair stand on their ends. The elves close in on you, their concerned voices laced with something unmistakably sinister. You’re trapped.

A gentle hand on your shoulder snaps you out of your stupor.

“Now, now, I’m sure we’re all very excited about our little one here, but everyone will have their turn sooner or later.” Killian explains. He leans close to your ear, whispering in a volume only audible to you. “Look at you getting everyone so riled up already. Aren’t you such a needy little pet?” You’re paralyzed in fear, but his husky voice in your ears is still setting your nerves alight. 

“I’ll give you two choices. Either you let me 'take care of you' back at home,” his arms snaked around your body again, lithe fingers fanning across your thighs. “Or we’ll give everyone a show, and maybe let them get...a preemptive taste, as well. What’ll it be?”

[https-lvesick]

♡ ⭑.ᐟ 엔시티 드림 . . "merry christmas, loverboy!"

scenario . . ♡ you’ve been bragging about your christmas gift for the whole month and, even though your boyfriend had been arguing you couldn’t beat his gift for you, he was curious, after all, you were talking too much. he didn’t expect you to tell the truth. it’s the first christmas eve you’ve spent alone since you started dating, a few months ago, so you decided to prepare something memorable. he found you lying on the bed, completely naked, well, not completely since you had a big red ribbon around your breasts, offering yourself as the special gift.

content . . 𝜗𝜚 boyfriend!dream x fem!reader, first time as a couple! [mk] protected sex, praising, squirting, kinda rough sex, mark is lowkey a beast ♡ [rj] protected sex (in my mind), praising, breast play, renjun is a whiny sub ♡ [jn] unprotected sex, virgin!reader, big dick!jeno, power play, cervix fucking, creampie, jeno it’s too good for this world ♡ [hc] fingering, messy sex, mention of squirting, mirror sex, haechan is a bit of a perv and kinda mean (but wbk) ♡ [jm] fingering, cunnilingus, praising, jaemin is a softie and… kinda pussydrunk ♡ [cl] unprotected sex, implied breeding kink, mentions of children (as next christmas’ gift), GIVE THIS MAN A KID Y’ALL, chenle is completely obsessed ♡ [js] unprotected sex, creampie, clothed blowjob (?), slight size kink, jisung is needy

lola's notes .: oh, haii >.< i’m kinda back yippie! i’ve been facing terrible writer’s block that is eating me alive and i’ve been kinda… depressed bc writing is literally my favourite thing to do, (stardew valley, close your eyes) so it’s being hard for me… anyways, dropping this hc (which i didn’t know i could write on time) so you can enjoy it while i’m away! also, i’m closing requests for now :( i have like 8 in line and, as i said, i can’t write now, but i’ll do it as soon as possible. i have some other projects to do, so idk when i’ll open it again… well, that’s it, enjoy your holidays, my adorable “lola lovers” (you’ve been named by @lyvhie btw) and merry christmas! love y’all <3 (and wtf are these content warnings 😭😭)

Mark

as soon as he stepped into the bedroom, his mouth fell open. he opened and closed it several times while you giggled, watching your boyfriend freeze in the doorframe. he didn't know how to react. though he wanted to touch you, his mind wouldn't let him — not until you gave verbal permission, even though you were literally offering yourself to him. mark stood there smiling awkwardly, trying to hide his obvious arousal. but when you walked toward him, touching his arms and whispering sweet words, he melted. you peppered his face with kisses, running your hands over his body just as you'd imagined.

you gripped the bedsheets so tightly you thought they might tear. you knew your boyfriend had strong hips — he was a dancer, after all — but you hadn't imagined they were this powerful. mark had your face down, hips raised, completely lost in pleasure. he barely let you catch your breath between positions. you'd already reached one orgasm, and he was driving you toward another.

"fu-fuck, baby, slow down..." you murmured, feeling another climax building. you were already weak, but mark kept going round after round like he couldn't stop himself. his skills were undeniable as his hips snapped against yours in sharp, quick thrusts, hitting all the right spots inside you. your eyes rolled back as you drooled, completely undone, but he loved seeing you like this — pleasure-drunk and utterly satisfied.

"c-can't..." he gasped, sucking in a breath when you clenched around him. "been waiting for you my whole life. i can't stop, baby, i'm sorry." his voice was weak, matching his expression. mark truly couldn't control himself, his body moving on its own. "so pretty, baby... so pretty..." he murmured, gripping your flesh. you managed a faint smile at his praise.

one hand maintained its tight grip on your ass while the other traced down your spine, his touch ghosting over your skin before grabbing your hair and pulling you to him. his lips pressed soft kisses and bites to your shoulder as you reached back to hook your arm around his neck. mark buried his face in your neck, whimpering as he picked up his pace once again.

when your fourth orgasm hit, your breath caught, and suddenly you felt something warm and liquid beneath you.

"did you just... squirt?" mark asked, staring in awe with a goofy smile. "shit, this was so fucking hot." he kept talking, but you couldn't process his words, too exhausted to focus. he removed the full condom, disposing of it in the bathroom before returning to you. "let me clean this mess so we can enjoy a romantic christmas eve." he chuckled at your incoherent mumbling.

Renjun

he wasn't proud of his previous actions, but he had glimpsed you naked once or twice... It was an accident — or maybe he had peeked while you were changing. but seeing you fully naked for him now was simply mind-blowing. though he had a mental list of everything he wanted to do with you when the time finally came, he couldn't move. he was too stunned. when your smile began turning into a worried frown, he snapped out of it, walking toward you to cup your face and kiss you passionately.

jun had always shown you his strong and confident side. you never needed to worry — he was there, your super-boyfriend, ready to handle all your concerns. even though he looked small and fragile, he never let that affect your perception of him.

having him underneath you was heavenly. his big round eyes looked at you — especially your breasts bouncing right in his face — like you were the most precious thing in the world. whines escaped his plump lips whenever you rode him too fast or clenched too hard around him. it was all overwhelmingly satisfying and delicious; you wouldn’t want it any other way. turns out his gift was indeed better than yours.

he played with your breasts, squeezing the flesh, pinching and twisting your nipples, even licking his lips, eager to taste them. so you ended his torture. you bent closer and smiled gently at him. "go ahead, love." as soon as the words left your mouth, he took you in. renjun hollowed his cheeks, suckling your nipple, twirling his tongue around the mound, making you gasp when he nibbled it.

your hips rolled lazily on top of his, but his teasing made you pick up your pace. you placed your hands on either side of his head for support and soon you were riding him exactly how you wanted. you lifted your hips until just his tip remained inside, then slammed back down. renjun's whines were muffled by the flesh in his mouth, his eyes rolling back. a heavenly sight.

"jun... baby... i'm—fuck—close..." you whispered, biting your lower lip. he nodded vigorously, gripping your hips, thrusting back into you at a desperate pace until you were the one rolling your eyes back.

as you reached your high, you nestled your face in his neck, breathing heavily, still clenching around him, still hearing his whines. minutes later, his arms caged you as he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder and whispered sweetly in your ear, "merry christmas, my love."

Jeno

he wasn’t surprised to see you like this — offered to him so openly. he’d seen you like this once before, back when you tried to seduce him for the first time. back then, he’d gently rejected you, saying it was too soon. he wanted you to be certain, especially since it was your first time. but now, as you lay before him, beautifully confident and presenting yourself to him on christmas eve, he couldn’t resist. not this time. you looked so sure, so ready to give him everything.

a soft gasp escaped your lips, a sound that sent a jolt straight to his core. jeno was slowly sheathing himself into you, mindful of every inch, giving you time to adjust to his size. your hands clawed at his back, drawing a hiss from him, though the sting was nothing compared to the intoxicating grip your pussy had on him.

“is it okay?” he asked, his voice gentle as he kissed your face. “i can stop if it’s too much.” he nuzzled his nose against your neck, breathing in your scent. “love, if it hurts too much, we can try another day.”

“jeno, babe, please, shut the fuck up.” you replied, eyes squeezed shut. “it is hurting a bit, but that’s fine. i mean, have you seen your size?” he chuckled softly, continuing to pepper your face with kisses, hoping they’d ease the discomfort. “just… move slowly, yeah?” you added, and he nodded, doing exactly as you asked.

his thrusts were slow and deliberate, each movement filled with care. jeno wanted this moment to be perfect for you, something you’d remember with a smile — or maybe something that would leave you aching for him whenever the memory crossed your mind. he wanted to mark you, to make sure no one else could ever compare. you were his.

when the initial pain faded, you urged him to move faster, to stop holding back. and he obeyed — because how could he ever deny his woman? his first move was to pin your wrists above your head, holding you firmly but tenderly in place. he loved the marks your nails left on him, but right now, he wanted to see you fully. vulnerable. exposed. his.

the shift in pace was overwhelming. he fucked you with a fervour you hadn’t expected, every thrust hitting deep, brushing against spots inside you that made your mind go blank. you were soaking, your wetness easing his way into you as his cock found its rhythm, pressing against your cervix over and over. the sensations left you moaning, eyes rolling back, utterly lost in him. jeno — usually so gentle and soft — was showing you a side of him you hadn’t known existed, and you loved every second of it.

when he finally came, filling you with his warmth, your body reacted instinctively. your toes curled, your back arched, and his name fell from your lips in a chant. he relished the sound, savouring every moan as if it were a symphony written just for him.

his chuckle broke the haze, followed by a cheeky question: “do we get more gifts on new year’s eve?” you frowned, opening your eyes to meet his gaze. there he was — your mesmerizing boyfriend, sweaty and glowing, with a grin that could light up the world. he traced his hands down your sides, leaning in close to whisper against your lips, “merry christmas…”

Haechan

you were already his goddess — his perfect little girlfriend whom he'd do anything for. he loved you more than himself and respected you like you were his owner (and you were), but he couldn't help wanting more. he wanted to touch your body and do even more things to you, and you knew that — haechan isn't exactly subtle about his thoughts or cravings. that's why you happily decided to give yourself as his gift. when he saw you naked, he moaned involuntarily, so genuine that you couldn't help but giggle. he tried to hide his growing boner, but it was useless, especially because you were smiling at him with that warm, sexy smile of yours that made him kneel immediately. he licked his lips and took off his shirt, ready to enjoy the best gift anyone could've given him in 24 years.

it was raw, messy, and definitely dirty. haechan was a perverted motherfucker with thousands of fantasies — you knew that — but having sex with him took things to another level.

he was always suggesting beach dates or pool days at his house because he wanted to see you in a swimsuit, or suggesting showering together — "jokingly," according to him— to save water. you caught his hints, obviously, and it just fueled you to tease him more. but now that he had the chance, he wouldn't let it go to waste.

he had you completely open for him, your legs spread — caged by his own — in front of the mirror. the sheets were drenched, as was his face, and you were already drooling, babbling something haechan couldn't care less about. he was too focused on your dripping core, which made obscene noises every time his palm connected with it. your grip was so tight on his thigh that your fingerprints marked his flesh.

"you didn't know what you were getting yourself into, baby..." he grinned, watching your dishevelled reflection. your eyes faltered for a moment, making you close them, and haechan stopped, making you whine. "nuh-uh, what did i say? keep your eyes on the fucking mirror and i keep going." he held your jaw, making you open your eyes and look at yourself. the shame had long since vanished, replaced by pure, raw pleasure and inhibition.

"but... it's too much, hyeok..." you whined, trying to catch his hand on your jaw, but it was futile. you could see his mocking grin.

"yeah? too much? then i should stop, huh? i don't wanna hurt my queen." as soon as the words left his lips, your eyes widened and a single tear rolled down your cheek in desperation. he'd been edging you for the past two hours, filling you with promises of making you feel good, satisfied, and giving you as many orgasms as you wanted — and he did, once. haechan made you squirt the first time and then... left you high and dry, begging for more. this wasn't how you'd imagined your christmas eve to be going.

"chan, please..." you whimpered, feeling his fingers circling your clit. "let me—cum..." you gulped before letting out a stream of pleas. when you felt his lips pressing softly against yours, you knew he'd finally let you release.

"now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" your moans grew louder when he inserted three fingers without warning, moving at a quick pace, curling inside you. "let it go, baby, give me another one. be a good girl and give me another one."

Jaemin

right, okay, you caught him. no handmade or expensive gift could beat yours. he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, admiring the stunning view before him. his smirk wouldn't fade as he walked toward you, ready to unwrap his gift. he wanted this to be the night of your life. fuck christmas at this point — you were his special event, and he would make it unforgettable.

"nana..." you whimpered, feeling your orgasm building. your boyfriend didn't hear, still devouring you like a starved man.

you'd been in this position for almost an hour now, lying in bed while Jaemin had his face buried between your thighs. before that, he'd explored your whole body with his hands, lips, and tongue. every inch of you had been kissed, licked, and nibbled. he made sure you felt special and loved — because you are.

"just one more, baby... i can't get enough of you..." he growled before diving in again. you gripped his hair, moaning loudly when he slipped two fingers inside you, fucking you while sucking on your clit.

jaemin wasn't even fully naked yet, still wearing his pants, having only removed his shirt because you'd begged. you needed to see him, to mark him. and there he was — your masterpiece, your gorgeous boyfriend covered in hickeys and love bites, just as he'd done to you. but you wanted more. you wanted to touch him, feel him, give him the same pleasure he was giving you — even more — but he wouldn't let you. not now. he was just too drunk in you to let you move.

just as he'd learned everything about you, he knew you were close — he'd seen the signs twice before — so he worked to overwhelm your senses. you came, releasing into his mouth once again, gripping his hair and chanting his name. he licked you clean before rising to hover over you, kissing your lips and letting you taste yourself.

"can my baby handle more?" he smirked. "i still have plenty of ideas to make this christmas eve unforgettable." he wiggled his eyebrows, making you laugh and playfully slap his arm. soon he crawled off the bed, stripping off his remaining clothes. you glanced at him, noticing a darker spot on his boxers. "yeah... i might have cum just from tasting you..." you scoffed. "what? you're absolutely fucking delicious, baby. how could i not when i had my face buried in fucking heaven?"

Chenle

fuck. you had just broken him. he’d lost count of how many wet dreams he’d had about you, how many nights he’d jerked off thinking about your scent, your taste. and god, he hated it. he had you. he didn’t need to fuck his fist like some desperate, virgin high schooler. but he couldn’t bring himself to rush you, couldn’t risk making you feel forced. so he waited. and now, this moment? it was everything. it didn’t take much for him to lose control, pouncing on you like a man starved.

from the very beginning — from the day you slapped his face — he knew you were it. his perfect girl. the one he’d love until the end of time, marry, have kids with, and spend forever building a life alongside. it was always you.

and now, having you like this — sprawled out on the bed, back arched, skin glistening with sweat, lips parted as the sweetest, most intoxicating sounds spilled from them — he felt like the luckiest man alive. he was making you his, satisfying you in every way a real man should — your man should.

your legs were wrapped tightly around his waist as he thrust into you with an almost desperate pace. yeah, chenle had imagined making slow, tender love to you, but his urgency wouldn’t allow it. he needed to feel you, to claim you, to pour everything he had into you.

“ch—chenle, fuck!” you gasped, fingers gripping the bedsheets for dear life. his cock was hitting every perfect spot inside you, and the pressure from his thumb on your clit was enough to drive you mad. why had you waited so long to let him have you like this?

“is it that good, baby?” his teasing voice only made you whine louder. he wasn’t even trying; it was almost unfair how effortlessly he could ruin you. you nodded breathlessly, and he leaned down, biting your lower lip before capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. your arms found their way around his neck, pulling him closer — as if he wasn’t already impossibly close. you were on the edge, desperate to fall over with him.

“don’t pull out, please…” you managed to whisper, your voice shaky as your release took over. your walls clenched around him, and you buried your face in his neck, biting down to muffle the intensity of your orgasm.

“not like i planned to,” he growled, his thrusts growing erratic. just a few more, and he spilled inside you, filling you to the brim as you’d begged him to. even then, he stayed, making sure he gave you everything he had.

“do you think we’ll be celebrating three months of our gift next christmas?” his cheeky tone earned him a playful slap on the back, and you shook your head, laughing softly.

“chenle, it’s too soon for that.” you brushed a hand through his damp hair, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. “but merry christmas, love.”

Jisung

boy would be shocked. he didn't even blink for a full minute. the only sign he was "alive" besides his breathing was his quickly growing tent. he didn't notice his body's reaction until you touched him. he whined softly, letting you take control and lead him however you wanted. but when he realized he could fully enjoy his gift, something snapped inside him.

you had been teasing him from the start — whispering sweet nothings in his ear, touching all his sensitive spots, guiding his large hands over your body to untie the ribbon around your chest. when you were fully exposed to him, his hands engulfed your breasts, squeezing them as he prepared to taste them, until you stopped him.

he whined, frowning as he watched you sink to your knees, running your hands along his thighs. "darling, what are you doing, let me—fuck..." the words died on his tongue when you wrapped your pretty lips around him through his boxers. it was the hottest sight he'd ever seen of you, and he was losing control.

you teased him with your tongue while squeezing him, maintaining eye contact as he pleaded for more. you could feel him throbbing against your tongue as he whispered his desperate pleas. he felt ready to burst without proper stimulation. he was begging for it — begging for you. but you weren't ready to give in just yet.

that led to your current position — bent in half, completely exposed, with jisung's tall frame hovering over you as he moved frantically. the thin chain around his neck swayed with each thrust, brushing against your face.

"fuck—sorry, love. am i hurting you?" he whimpered. you managed a faint "no." taking that as encouragement, jisung sat up, lifted your hips, and continued his movements while stimulating your sensitive spot.

you were so aroused that the sounds were obscene and loud enough to make you embarrassed. you'd never been this vulnerable with anyone before, and being this way with your shy boyfriend made you both embarrassed and deeply satisfied. his soft sounds merged with the wet noises, bringing you closer to the edge.

finally, he finished, every muscle in his body relaxing as he let out a satisfied groan, his head falling back. when you opened your eyes, jisung was hovering over you again. "you're so pretty..." he murmured, losing himself in your eyes before adding shyly, "but i finished inside..."

"don't worry. we're safe," you whispered against his lips. "merry christmas, ji."

"merry christmas, my darling," he smiled before kissing you.

did you enjoy your reading? why don’t reblog, like or leave a comment? this way i know you liked what i wrote and surely will keep up with the good content!

masterlist + taglist: @jungaji

[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.

[trashytracktales]

okay I know how everything is always about reader but I need you to write something about giving lando the pleasure he deserves.. like a nasty bj. I’ve seen so many edits of him with the song “dangerous woman” and it screeeeaaams smut. hope you’re seeing this vision and I love your work, i’d be so happy if you could bring it to life bc you’re my fav blog on here <3

Wanna bet? | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── A bit shorter than usual, but I haven’t posted anything in almost 2 weeks, and this request was the perfect excuse. Thank you so much for your support!! Hope you like it 🤍🎀

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✧₊⁺ summary ──── After a particular tiring day at work, Lando comes back home to his girlfriend, happy to fall asleep next to her. Unfortunately, he has a habit of not thinking before he speaks so, next thing she knows, she’s determined to prove him wrong. As many times as possible.

✧₊⁺ pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

✧₊⁺ rating ──── explicit

✧₊⁺ category ──── F/M

✧₊⁺ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, established relationship, descriptive language, oral sex ─ (m)receiving, somnophilia (consensual, implied), teasing and a bit of edging, swearing, mild dominance.

✧₊⁺ word count ──── 2.9k

✧₊⁺ date ──── Feb. 10, 2025

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THEY DIDN’T TEXT much throughout the day, because she knows how busy he’s been at work lately. Instead, she follows the same routine she recently fell into: she wakes up next to him, they have a quick breakfast together, then watches the door Lando rushes out every morning for a good half hour, contemplating. After that, she occupies the rest of the day with her own work, or curled up with a book on the couch, waiting for the same damn door to open.

The moment she hears the familiar jingle of keys, she looks up with the same excitement as yesterday, and the day before, and the day before…

Lando steps inside, looking exhausted. His curls are a mess from the cap he’s been wearing all day, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, and there are faint shadows beneath his eyes, evidence of a long day at the MTC.

He barely manages a tired smile when he sees her, “Hey, pretty,” says Lando, dropping his bag by the door before trudging towards her.

She gets up, arms already outstretched in anticipation. He’s almost melting into her embrace, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her scent in. For some reason, his deep sigh gives away more than words ever could, and she catches it instantly.

“Rough day?” the girl asks, rubbing soothing circles into his back. His muscles are tensed, yet soft under her palm.

Lando groans in response, tightening his hold on her. “You have no idea,” he exhales, relieved that he’s finally home.

“Oh, baby. I think I do,” she teases, pulling back to look at him, “You smell like grease and exhaustion.”

He chuckles, eyes twinkling despite his fatigue. “That bad?”

She scrunches her nose dramatically, “Mhm. Go shower, stinky. I’ll wait for you in bed.”

Lando doesn’t argue. He presses a quick kiss to her temple before shuffling toward the bathroom, stripping his hoodie off along the way. She watches him disappear behind the door, then heads to the bedroom, where she starts fluffing his pillows and making sure his side of the bed is just the way he likes it: neat sheets, a warm blanket, and her, not-so-patiently waiting for him on her side.

By the time Lando steps out of the shower, towel slung low around his hips, he looks slightly more alive. His damp curls cling to his forehead, and he’s rubbing a hand through them as he walks toward the bed.

“You’re an angel, you know that?” he asks with a wide smile on his face, noticing her efforts to make his night a bit easier.

Lando grabs the towel from around his waist, using it to dry his curls, completely unbothered by his own nakedness. She follows his big frame as he crosses the room, mesmerized, while the muscles in his back shift with each movement; in moments like this, she percieves Lando as a man that’s so effortlessly graceful. There’s something almost god-like about him, she thinks, like a sculpture carved by the hands of an artist obsessed with perfection: the sharp lines of his shoulders, the defined curve of his spine and, most distracting of all, the firm shape of his ass.

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as he reaches for a fresh pair of boxers, blissfully unaware of the effect he has on her, pulling them up over his hips in one smooth motion.

Then, he simply slips beneath the blanket with a sigh. “Got the weekend for ourselves, but at what cost?” he chuckles, “I’m so tired, I swear I could sleep through an earthquake,” Lando yawns, stretching out before shooting her a lazy grin. “You could even blow me in the morning, I won’t be moved, baby! Dead asleep for the next couple of days.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes.

Wanna bet?

“Oh, nice,” she ends up saying, trying her best not to sound offended.

“Just saying,” he smiles mischievously, already halfway to dreamland.

The girl shakes her head, humming at his words, but doesn’t contradict him. Instead, she shifts closer once he flips on his stomach, and starts running her nails lightly up and down his back, the way she knows he loves. At that, Lando’s body relaxes almost immediately, a soft sigh of contentment slipping past his lips.

Patiently, she starts drawing lazy patterns over his skin, listening intently as his breathing slows. And suddenly, seeing him falling asleep while she gently scratches his back, she realizes that all the waiting during the day is worth it, as long as Lando will always return to their bed at the end of it.

With a small smile on her face, she watches as his long fingers loosen their grip around the pillow, and the crease between his eyebrows fades.

And, despite his earlier comment, she makes a tiny mental note to prove him wrong in the morning.

THE FIRST THING she notices when she wakes up is how hot she is.

Lando’s entire weight presses against her body, his arm draped over her waist, and his face buried in the crook of her neck. He always sleeps like this, clinging to her even in unconsciousness, as if he can’t stand the thought of being deprived of her touch for one second. His breath is steady against the skin of her neck, while his curls are tickling her shoulder.

She sighs softly, shifting just enough to glance at the clock on the nightstand — it’s almost noon, and as much as she wants to stay like this and let Lando sleep in, cocooned in his arms, her bladder has other plans. So, carefully, she attempts to get out of his embrace, prying his arm from around her waist inch by inch.

Lando grumbles in protest, fingers flexing against her hip, but he doesn’t wake up that easily.

When she finally manages to slip out of bed, she tiptoes toward the bathroom, casting one last glance at him over her shoulder: still dead asleep, sprawled out now, his curls a mess against the pillow. That’s when she remembers his words from the night before, and her lips curl into a knowing smirk.

After she returns, she finds Lando on his back, the sheets tangled between his legs, one arm resting above his head to block the only ray of light that, ironically, landed on his face. She crosses the bedroom to pull the curtains all the way, and the room immediately floods in a semi-dark filter.

Then silently, she slides back into bed, her hands ghosting over his skin as she untangles the sheets. He looks painfully beautiful in the morning, the warmth radiating from his body seeping into her fingertips. She takes her time, letting her touch linger as she traces absentminded patterns over his stomach.

Lando shifts slightly, but his breathing remains even, somehow encouraging her hand to move lower.

The fabric of his boxers is soft beneath her fingers, but what catches her attention is the heat beneath it, and the hardening shape of his cock as she palms him gently. At that, a slow exhale leaves Lando’s lips, his hips tilting just slightly, but he gets sucked back into his sleep like it never happened.

She continues her cautious movements, fingertips pressing more firmly, drawing lazy strokes through the fabric. His body is responding instinctively, his cock hardening beneath her touch with each passing second. The faintest hitch in his breath makes something curl low in her stomach, and her pulse quickens as she slips her hand beneath the waistband, feeling the smooth, hot skin against her palm.

Lando stirs, a muted noise escaping through his lips, but his body is still heavy next to her.

She bites her lip to stop a whimper coming out, watching him closely as she runs her thumb along the tip, feeling the slick warmth there. A shiver rolls through him, Lando’s hips shifting again, just a little bit, as if seeking more of her touch.

Without even realizing, her mouth goes dry, her own breath unsteady now. Her cheeks burn as she looks at him, laid out beneath her. He’s thick and heavy in her hand, the heat of him searing against her palm. She strokes him slowly, teasingly, scanning the way his body reacts even without full consciousness.

The memory of his taste lingers on her tongue before she’s even taken him in — warm, heady, Lando. The anticipation is making her head spin as she pumps him once, twice, three times, feeling the way he throbs while wrapped around her hand.

With one goal in mind, she leans in, letting her lips brush against his hip, just barely, teasing herself as much as him. And then, with intent, she replaces her hand with her mouth — inviting and wet and ready to take him in without hesitation. Her lips are parting around his length, and the first thing that strikes her is the way he pulses against her tongue, the skin velvet-smooth over the rigid firmness beneath. The faint taste of salt lingers, a mix of him and the remnants of her teasing, making her stomach tighten with want.

She moves meticulously at first, savoring the weight of him, and the stretch of her lips as she takes him deeper. Then, without meaning to, a soft moan escapes her, vibrating around him; the sound surprises her, but not as much as the way Lando reacts at the sensation, a deep, unconscious whine slipping from his parted lips. It makes her smirk against his skin, but she doesn’t rush the process. This is about proving a point, about making him regret the words he so carelessly tossed at her the night before.

Her tongue moves with purpose now, swirling over the sensitive skin as she works him up with rhythmic strokes of her hand. She can’t take him all the way in her mouth, but that doesn’t mean she won’t try to ruin him in every other way.

When he throbs against her tongue again, that’s her sign to start sucking, her lips sealing around his cock as her tongue swirls over the sensitive ridge beneath his tip. The slick sounds that follow, a mix of her spit and his pre-cum, are animated by her breath that’s both shallow and eager.

She pulls him out with a wet pop, licking around the head, teasing the slit before dragging her tongue from base to tip, savoring every inch of him. Then she takes him in again, deeper this time, her pace steady, determined to draw out every last reaction from him.

And luckily, a soft sound escapes Lando’s lips — a barely-there whimper, the kind that makes her thighs press together instinctively. He stirs, his hand moving as if to find her, but when his fingers meet the empty pillow on her side instead of her warm body, he shifts, confused. His lashes flutter, brows furrowing just as he blinks himself into consciousness.

Then it hits him.

The wet heat of her mouth.

The torturous rhythm of her tongue.

The way her fingers work in tandem, stroking him with just enough pressure to have his breath catching in his throat.

She should stop now that she managed to wake him up. Nothing would be more satisfying then hearing him begging for release, first thing in the morning. But then, Lando inhales sharply, and exhales deeply with a throaty sound, as his head falls back against his pillow. Seeing what she does to him is better then hear him beg at the moment, so she continues with her movements, as dedicated as ever.

“Fuck,” Lando’s voice is hoarse, sleep-rough and so wrecked already.

She peeks up at him, making sure he’s watching when she takes him deeper, then she makes sure to keep eye contact as she presses her tongue insistently against the sensitive slit at his tip.

Lando’s reaction is instant: a sharp moan, hips twitching involuntarily while his hand finds her hair. His fingers tighten, not pushing, just holding, desperately needing to anchor himself to reality since she’s pulling him under so effortlessly.

“Shit, baby,” he breathes, eyes dark and hooded as he looks down at her.

She smirks with his cock in her mouth, the curve of her lips sinful as she bats her lashes, feigning innocence. Lando lets out a strangled laugh, but it quickly dissolves into another moan when she presses her tongue more firmly against his swollen tip, sucking just a little harder.

He is panting now, his grip in her hair tightening just as his hips lift slightly, torn between wanting to let her have her way and the desperate urge to fuck her mouth.

“You’re—fuck, you’re divine,” he praises, “So fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth.”

She hums as his thighs twitch beneath her, his chest rising and falling in shaky breaths. She can feel how close he is, his muscles tensing, his grip on her hair turning almost desperate. But just when he’s teetering on the edge, she pulls away with yet another obscene little pop.

Lando whines, his head snapping to glare at her, but she only grins, sliding up to lie beside him. Her hand never stops, though, her fingers still wrapped around his cock, stroking at an infuriatingly agonizing pace.

“Still think you’d sleep through it?” she teases, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Lando groans, hips shifting restlessly beneath her touch. “You’re evil.”

She chuckles, pressing a kiss to his jaw as her hand picks up speed. “And?”

“I love it.”

A couple more strokes, a slight twist of her wrist, and Lando comes with a shuddering moan, his release spilling hot all over his lower stomach. His entire body tenses beneath her before melting back into the mattress, so sweetly spent. He’s beautiful like this — flushed and panting, his curls falling against his forehead.

Lando lets out another shaky breath, chest still heaving, before cracking an exhausted, blissed-out smile. “I never questioned your ability to blow me, you know. I talk trash when I’m tied, but this is the first time I’m glad I did.”

She smiles, leaning in to kiss him, the gesture so natural. By the time she pulls away, he looks utterly wrecked.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says against his lips, smug and entirely pleased with herself.

Lando huffs out a breathless laugh, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. She tries to move, but before she can so much as shift, Lando’s arms tighten around her. With effortless strength, he pulls her back into his embrace, rolling her until she’s straddling his waist.

“Not so fast,” he says, his voice still thick with sleep, lips brushing against her jaw.

The sudden change in positions makes her gasp, her thighs pressing instinctively around him. His hands settle at her waist, warm and firm, holding her like she belongs nowhere else but on top of him. She can feel him beneath her, so warm and solid, the remnants of his pleasure sticky against the soft fabric of her panties.

The realization makes heat raising up her neck and cheeks.

Lando notices, and his half-lidded gaze flickers up to meet hers, dark amusement glinting in his tired yet satisfied eyes. “Yeah?” he hums, tilting his head back against the pillow. He guides her hips just slightly, his grip lazy but intentional, watching the way she shivers at the sensation. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

She doesn’t answer, but the way she bites her lower lip gives it away.

One of his hands slides beneath her shirt, fingers tracing the soft skin of her thigh before hooking around the edge of her panties. He tugs them aside so easily, and the moment the cool air meets her sensitive skin, she lets out a sharp breath.

“Well,” Lando’s voice is barely louder than a sleepy mumble now, raspy and dripping with satisfaction. “Let’s see what can I do for you, baby.”

His fingers tease over her clit, featherlight at first, enough to make her body jolt at the sensitivity. Then, with slow precision, he brings his hand to his stomach and gathers the remnants of his release on his fingertips, using it to spread it over her as he traces slow, torturous circles against her entrance. The sensation makes her body melt, a soft whimper slipping past her lips as her hips rock instinctively into his touch.

Lando groans at the reaction, his own breath stuttering slightly. “So eager, aren’t you?” he asks, letting his fingers slip further, dipping between her folds, feeling just how ready she already is to take whatever he has to offer.

The girl gasps, nails digging into his shoulders as her body clenches around nothing when he pulls his finger out, craving much more. Lando grins lazily beneath her, rubbing agonizing circles over her most sensitive spot before pressing two fingers inside this time, the stretch both delicious and teasing.

She shudders, her thighs twitching as she tries to close them, but he doesn’t let her. Lando’s free hand grips her hip, keeping her open just enough for him to keep teasing.

“Bet I can make you come just from this, hm? What do you say?”

He’s not even trying, and she knows he can do it. He’s done it before, and they both remember exactly how wrecked she was when he did. So, she doesn’t hate the thought and, as she tilts her head slightly, her lips are curling into a smug little smirk.

“Bet?” she asks, knowing she’ll win, no matter the outcome.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[auroralwriting]

٠ ࣪⭑ state of grace

‎pairing: clark kent x reader (6.0K words)

summary: when another metahuman decides to relocate to metropolis, how is it that clark always gets swept up in situations like these? aka, how does clark kent end up falling head over heels for the invisible woman?

warnings & content: metahuman!reader, invisible woman!reader but not sue storm reader just has her powers oops, clark is actually whipped, guy is a d1 hater, significant use of swear words mostly from guy, small mentions of the cw flash show, its canon in my heart, eventual mutual pining, third person but you see both reader and clark's thoughts, some mentions of superman (2025) plot, yes i'm aware national city isn't where flash is from i just chose my favorite city

There was one thing Clark hated more than anything. Yes, more than bad pancakes and mean-spirited people. It was a creature that he couldn't contain.

Defeat is a harsh word. That implies killing—and Clark isn't about brutally killing anyone or anything. Emphasis on the thing.. because what was this thing?

It was giant, standing at the height of the buildings around them. It was sort of like that one creature Lex Luthor set free while he infiltrated the Fortress of Solitude. However, this thing was much, much different. It had zero blind spots that Clark, nor the Justice Gang, could locate. It had keen senses, almost like foresight, and was impeccably strong.

Which lead them all to now.

Hawkgirl was circling what she deemed The Abomination, trying to distract it while Mister Terrific tried to do some digging on what this could possibly be. Guy was just trying to beat the shit out of it, which was failing horrendously, but not that he would admit it. Metamorpho was trying all sorts of different things, fire, water, anything he could conjure to stop it. It also failed. Clark was currently trying to evacuate.

Why did people love to stand around when there was a giant monster crushing buildings and roaring? The world may never know.

"I don't think we're stopping it!" Guy yelled, his green wrecking ball doing absolutely no damage.

"Really?" Hawkgirl sarcastically called back. Clark could practically feel the roll of her eyes from however many hundred feet apart they were.

Once he moved one last person, Clark was back in the sky. "We've gotta distract it. Everyone, take a different side!"

They scattered—Hawkgirl veering left with a sharp beat of her wings, Metamorpho sliding into a pillar of smoke and reforming on the right, and Guy zipping overhead, grumbling something about doing all the heavy lifting around here.

The Abomination didn’t flinch.

Its head swiveled slowly, deliberately. Not like a mindless beast, not even like a predator. Like something aware. Something watching.

Clark could hear it now, the sound it made—not just the booming roars, but the low, guttural thrumming beneath it, like the growl of a world about to crack open.

"We’ve got nothing on this thing,"Mister Terrific said in his comms, breath quick. "Nothing in the archives. Nothing in the Watchtower database. Not even in Kryptonian logs, and you guys usually write everything down."

"That’s comforting," Clark muttered, eyes narrowing. He rocketed upward, cutting through the clouds, then shot back down like a missile, both fists forward, crashing into the creature’s chest with a thunderous crack.

It didn’t move. No stumble. No flinch. Just a slow pivot of its head toward him. Clark froze.

Its eyes—if they were eyes—were pure white, blank and unblinking. And in that second, he felt it. Not pain, not fear. Something colder. Something that reached past muscle and bone and found whatever existed beneath.

"Superman!" Hawkgirl’s voice snapped him out of it. She dove at the creature, swinging her mace with a shriek of battle, striking it across the jaw.

That, at least, made it move. Its head turned with the blow, just slightly, but the rest of its body stayed rooted like a mountain. "Got a reaction," she called, swooping back. "Barely."

"Keep it coming," Clark said, voice firm. He turned toward Metamorpho. "Try acid next. Corrosive. Anything."

"On it," Metamorpho replied, shifting into a sickly green gas and funneling toward the creature’s arm. It swatted the cloud away like an annoying fly and looked at him. 

That was when it happened.

The ground beneath them cracked, deep and wide. And from it, a low hum began to rise, vibrating through the air. Streetlights shattered. Windows exploded in a sharp cascade.

Clark clenched his jaw, fighting the pressure pushing into his skull. Guy grunted over the comms, "Okay, did anyone else get a brain earthquake, or was that just me?"

"Everyone felt it," Mister Terrific said grimly. "This thing’s broadcasting telepathically on a level I didn’t even think was possible."

Clark hovered in place, breathing heavy. "We need to figure out what it wants. Why it’s here."

And then, before anyone could respond, the creature’s head turned again, but this time, it seemed to freeze. It turned its head again, then again. After a moment, it was looking around like it had been blindsighted.

"What's it doing?" Clark turned to ask Mister Terrific.

"I don't know," he slowly answered, just as confused as the rest of them.

"Is it.. blind?" Hawkgirl asked, circling cautiously.

"I didn’t do that," Metamorpho muttered.

"Neither did I," Mister Terrific chimed in. "Something’s messing with its vision. Or whatever that thing uses for vision."

Clark squinted. There—near the edge of a crushed construction site—he caught the faintest glimmer. A shimmer of distortion, light bending around nothing.

And then a voice crackled on the comms. "Maybe stop standing around and hit it while it’s blind?"

Guy groaned. "Oh, fuck off. Not you!"

"You know her?" Clark asked, already diving back into the fray.

"Unfortunately."

The voice chimed in again, dry as ever. "Glad to see your grudge is still going strong, Gardner."

"She’s from National City," Guy burgudgenly explained. "Metahuman. Ran into her last month while I was tracking a dimensional rip. She got in the way."

"I fixed your mess."

"You freelanced! I had it under control!"

"Oh, yeah? What part of screaming and flailing was your strategy, exactly? My city, my problem!"

"Can we do this later?" Hawkgirl snapped. "We have a kaiju that can smell our intentions and slap us into next Tuesday."

The mystery woman didn’t respond. Instead, she acted.

Another ripple shimmered across the battlefield, barely visible. A wave of force shifted under Clark’s feet midair. The Abomination’s foot sank into the street unexpectedly—caught in a trench that hadn’t been there a second ago.

A sudden slam of a dome of force, unseen but solid, locked around the creature’s upper body. Its arms flailed uselessly against the shield.

"Who is she?" Metamorpho asked.

"I don’t know," Clark said quietly. "But she’s buying us time."

A moment passed. Then you shimmered into view, just barely. Still half-cloaked, eyes locked on the beast as you held the field steady with both hands. "I’m not going to hold this long," you said through clenched teeth.

Clark finally saw you clearly. Not one of his team. Not someone from the Watchtower. But she was here, and she was saving their asses.

"Then let’s make it count," he said.

It took an impressive six minutes and thirteen seconds to take down The Abomination. Once it was down, you walked over to the group who landed together like a clique. "Sorry," you said, slowly turning visible before their very eyes. "One of ours."

"Of course it is," Guy scoffed.

You pointed at him, giving him a look of confusion. "Says the one who couldn't stop it until I got here."

"What the fuck are you doing here anyways?" Guy said. "This is Metropolis."

"I'm very much aware of that," you replied, dusting off your hands. "I'm moving here." You ignored Guy's very passionate and loud groan. "National City has no room for me to grow in my career, so I thought I'd give Metropolis a try."

Guy scoffed, "Does Flash know you're abandoning ship?"

"Yes, he does," you confirmed. "And he's very happy for me. Plus, with all the metahumans running around National City after the particle accelerator exploded, I think it'll be just fine without me."

"Shit," Hawkgirl smiled, "I've seen you on TV. You're Invisible Woman; you can make forcefields and turn invisible."

"And she can generate, if I’m reading the residual energy signatures right, concussive bursts with enough kinetic output to level small structures." You tilted your head at Mister Terrific. "Hi, Mister Terrific," he added after seeing the look on your face.

Guy frowned, "She's not that cool, guys."

"The grown ups are talking," you shot back, making Guy's mouth fall open as he sputtered out that's mean! "And I know all of you, which is really cool. Metamorpho, Hawkgirl, Guy, Terrific, and.. Superman. Hi."

Clark swallowed.

You smiled—just slightly—but didn’t hold his gaze long. Instead, you looked back at the now-smoldering crater where The Abomination had been. "His name used to be Frank Albright. Frank here was affected by the accelerator while transporting a truck full of reptiles to National City Zoo. You.. can guess what happened to him after. I've handled him before, but I think you guys accidentally made him stronger somehow. It was like holding down a building with my hands. He's.. also never this.. big."

Clark did not hear a single word you said. He was a little busy watching the way your hair blew in the wind and the way your mouth moved as you spoke.

"You kind of did," Metamorpho said, still catching his breath. "That shield trick? That was nuts."

"She has a name, right?" Hawkgirl asked, glancing between Clark and Guy.

"Yeah," you said, brushing a speck of dust off your jacket. "But Invisible Woman’s fine if we’re staying professional."

"We’re not," Guy mumbled.

"I vote professional," Mister Terrific added quickly.

Clark stepped forward, almost a little awkward. He didn't want to butt in. "You said you’re moving to Metropolis?"

You nodded. "New job offer. Labs in the north end. It’s more theoretical than hands-on, but.. I did not get it, so.."

"And you just happened to show up in the middle of a monster fight?" he asked, not accusing, just.. wondering.

You tilted your head. "I was already here. Interview finished twenty minutes before the big guy was on every Metropolis news channel. Thought I’d walk off the nerves, grab a coffee. Then the big guy showed up and ruined my latte."

Guy let out an exaggerated groan. "She always does this. Shows up, takes over, insults me, and somehow still looks like the reasonable one."

Hawkgirl smirked. "You make it easy."

Mister Terrific pulled up his T-Spheres, scanning the area. "Well, regardless of how she got here, the data doesn’t lie. That blindfield she put around its head? Brilliant. You disrupted its sensory matrix. The force cage? Custom density modulation. Your control over energy structuring is unlike anything I’ve seen. Especially from someone unaffiliated with a league."

You blinked. "I mean, thanks, but I’ve literally emailed you twice about the research at STAR labs."

"Wait. You’re her? The gravity-lens force shell theory? That was your email?!"

"Guilty."

Guy threw up his hands. "Oh great, now he’s starstruck too."

Clark smiled a little at that. He really didn't know you, but gee, did he really want to. Everyone was making you sound fantastic. "Sounds like we’ve been overdue for an introduction."

You held out your hand, giving him your name. "I'm sort of a scientist. I just learned a lot from my friends at STAR labs. I'm really a journalist—er.. trying to be one. I'm a blogger, really."

"Clark," he smiled. "Clark Kent."

The way your jaw dropped was near comical. "Clark.. Kent. Daily Planet journalist Clark Kent? The one with all the Superman—oh my god, that's how you get all the interviews!"

Clark laughed. Not a heroic, public-facing laugh, but a real, honest one, soft and almost shy. "Sorry. I don’t usually lead with that."

"You mean to tell me the man I’ve been quoting in articles is also the man who just suplexed a building-sized monster?!"

Guy muttered, "I tried to tell her that last time, too. She didn’t believe me."

"I thought you were being sarcastic! You said, Clark Kent is Superman, like you were making a joke about his glasses! Also, why on Earth would you actually tell me who Superman is, you idiot!"

Guy threw up his hands. "Because I was trying to warn you! You were going off about how he writes with bias and how it’s suspicious he gets all the Superman scoops—like I was just gonna let you spiral into a conspiracy blog!"

"I stand by that observation," you snapped, pointing accusingly at Clark. "Because it’s true! You were basically interviewing yourself! That’s not journalism, that’s—that's a loophole!"

Clark held up his hands. "In-In my defense, I do ask myself the hard questions." It was hard to ignore how gorgeous you were. Your words had Clark's cheeks turned pink in an instant.

"Oh my god," you muttered, dragging a hand down your face.

Guy grinned like he had just won the lottery. "So, are you gonna apologize for calling me a dumbass when I told you the truth?"

You shot him a glare. "Absolutely not."

Throwing his hands in the air, Guy turned away, literally kicking a rock angrily as he grumbled to himself. Metamorpho just carefully followed behind, almost like a babysitter of sorts. Imagine that, Green Lantern has a babysitter.

"So, you said you didn't get the job?" Hawkgirl curiously continued.

"Yeah, I wasn't what they were looking for," you awkwardly responded. "I'm gonna try some other places, see what I can get. Actually, this is my first day in Metropolis. You guys know any good hotels or anything?"

And that was exactly how Clark Kent found himself with a temporary roommate.

Sure, offering you a place to stay felt like the right thing to do. You were new in town, clearly resourceful, a hero, and let’s be honest—after wrangling a twenty-foot mutant lizard formerly known as Frank, you’d earned a soft bed and some clean towels.

But now, with you sitting cross-legged on his couch, laptop open, typing furiously about metahuman media bias in urban reporting while wearing an oversized Daily Planet t-shirt he swore he didn’t give you on purpose—

Now he was rethinking things.

Because you were brilliant. And sharp. And you called Guy out without hesitation, which was... actually kind of hot. And for some reason, the way you chewed on your bottom lip while editing made it very difficult for him to concentrate on the news broadcast quietly playing in the background.

"I can try and get you an interview at The Daily Planet," Clark blurted out suddenly.

You looked up from your laptop, blinking like you weren’t sure you’d heard him right. "..What?"

Clark cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of how loud the tea kettle wasn’t. "I mean—if you’re still looking for jobs. You said earlier you didn’t get the lab one, and I just thought—since you’re already writing, and blogging, and clearly have a voice—and you’ve already been published online, right? I could talk to Perry. I mean, you probably wouldn't start out as a journalist, maybe something else, but—"

"Clark."

He stopped mid-ramble.

"Thank you," you said softly, a small smile on your face. "You really think Perry would give me a shot?"

"I really think he’d be an idiot not to."

You stared at him a beat longer, then let out a breath, the kind you only exhale when something finally clicks. "Well," you said, stretching a little. "Guess I should update my resume."

Clark smiled at your words. After a moment, he asked, "How did you get them?" You looked up, head tilted at him. "Your powers, I mean. You said they were from the STAR labs particle accelerator explosion, but.."

"That’s a big question," you said.

Clark tilted his head, hands relaxed on his knees. "You don’t have to tell me."

"No, it’s okay." You set your laptop aside, drawing your knees up a little on the couch. "Just.. not something I talk about a lot. Most people assume I got lucky. That I was some random bystander who just happened to walk through a cloud of science and come out gifted."

He didn’t say anything—just waited, quiet and open.

"I was in the sub-levels," you continued. "At STAR Labs. I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was following up on a tip, some whistleblower said the lab was hiding preliminary safety data. I was freelancing then, trying to get noticed, and I thought.. if I exposed them, I’d finally get taken seriously."

Clark’s brows furrowed slightly. "And then the explosion happened?"

You nodded once, eyes distant. "I was right next to the core when it ruptured. Radiation, energy discharge, everything. I should’ve died." You paused, then gave a half-laugh. "I actually did for like.. two minutes. Clinically. But then my heart jump-started itself. Literally. That was the first time a forcefield triggered—my own body keeping everything out."

Clark’s eyes widened. "That’s.."

"Yeah. Terrifying. Weird. Physically disorienting. You know. Super normal." You smiled a little, then shrugged. "After that, it took months to get control. For a while, my hair and my hands kept phasing invisible and wouldn’t come back. The STAR Labs team that remained helped stabilize me, ran diagnostics, taught me how to regulate it, but I never really fit in with them. They became friends, good friends, but really.. I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Clark’s face was unreadable, but his eyes—those damn, kind eyes—held steady. "They were lucky to have you."

You gave him a look. "You don’t even know me."

"I know enough," he said gently. "You risked your life today to stop something no one else could. You didn’t hesitate. And you’re sitting here now, not demanding praise, but quietly updating your resume and thinking about a new job."

Your throat felt a little tight. "I didn’t want powers," you admitted. "I just wanted to write. Tell the truth. Make people listen. Ironically, my powers make me literally invisible."

Clark smiled softly. "Then maybe now you can do both."

You stared at him a moment longer, then looked away with a breathy laugh. "Are you always this nice?"

He looked down, sheepish. "I try."

You stood up slowly, fingers brushing your laptop as you picked it up. "I’m gonna go shower now, before you say something else that makes me question my emotional stability."

Clark grinned. "Third door on the right."

As you walked down the hall, you called back, "And don’t go reading my resume while I’m gone, Kent!"

He chuckled, sinking back into the couch. But the truth was, he didn’t need to read your resume. He already knew you were something extraordinary.

Which was exactly how you got your job as a journalist for The Daily Planet. Clark wasn't entirely sure how you got the job. Maybe it was how you called Perry Perry and not Chief from your first introduction.

Or maybe it was how you walked into the bullpen like you already belonged there, laptop under one arm, confidence under the other, and zero fear in your eyes even as every other person looked you up and down, analyzing your every move.

Maybe it was the way you handed in a trial article the same day you were hired, titled The Myth of Superhero Objectivity: Are We Getting the Full Truth? and still somehow walked away employed.

Or maybe, Clark thought, it was the moment Perry read the piece, raised one eyebrow, and muttered, "Well, hell. Someone finally decided to grow a spine around here."

Clark remembered watching the whole thing unfold from his desk, completely bewildered by how quickly you had settled into the newsroom like you were born for it. One second you were apologizing for stealing his mug—again—and the next you were in a heated debate with Steve Lombard about metahuman ethics and whether or not vigilante reporting should fall under sports or crime.

You won. Loudly.

And now? Now you had your own desk across from his. A stack of post-it notes, coffee rings already staining the edge, and a cracked screen on your tablet because apparently forcefields don’t protect against clumsiness.

"Hey, Kent." You peeked over your monitor, holding up a file. "Does Perry like exposés with footnotes or without?"

Clark glanced up from his own article, lips twitching. "With. But only if you’re prepared to explain every single one."

"I live to explain footnotes."

"You live to argue."

You grinned. "Same thing."

And Clark just smiled.

Because even if he couldn’t quite explain it—how quickly you’d become part of this life, how easily you’d carved out space in both his home and his work—he didn’t question it.

Neither did you.

To you, Clark Kent wasn't Superman. Superman was Clark Kent.

In all honesty, if just a few months ago, someone were to ask you who you liked better: Clark Kent or Superman? You'd say Clark Kent. He was a master journalist with more front pages than you could ever imagine yourself having.

Clark was also never freaked out by your invisibility. In fact, he always chuckled whenever something embarrassing would happen and you'd have to hide some part of yourself that had gone invisible. Slowly, Superman and Invisible Woman were nearly always seen working together to help save the city.

Perry’s front pages even started pairing your names.

Superman and Invisible Woman Prevent Tidal Catastrophe

Justice Pair Save Metropolis from Interdimensional Breach

Forcefield and Flight: The New Dynamic Duo?

Not that anyone knew what that actually meant. Not yet. Not even you.

Because Clark was still Clark. Gentle. Steady. The kind of person who saved the world and still offered to do the dishes. And you were still you. Deflecting with sarcasm, writing exposés by day and deflecting plasma beams by night, pretending like you didn’t feel something tighten in your chest every time he called you partner.

But it was there.

And every time he looked at you like you were more than just part of the job, more than a byline or a backup, you wondered how much longer you could keep pretending.

You told yourself it was just admiration. Just the thrill of working alongside one of the most iconic heroes in the world. Just the adrenaline of sharing a byline with Clark Kent, Superman.

But late at night after the rooftop rescues, the deadline sprints, the spontaneous pizza on the fire escape, there was a part of you that knew better. It wasn’t about the cape. Or the headlines. Or the city that never seemed to stop falling apart.

It was about the way he looked at you when you weren’t invisible. And even when you were.

Because somehow, Clark always saw you. Even in the silence between conversations, in the moments when your forcefields slipped, when you were too tired to be clever or guarded or strong—he saw you. And he never looked away.

"You ever miss Krypton?" You asked one night curiously, a half eaten slice of pizza in your hand.

Clark looked up from his seat across the couch, surprised. It wasn't by the question itself, but by the way you asked it. Casual. Soft. Like it had been sitting at the edge of your tongue for weeks, waiting for a quiet enough night to slip out.

The room was lit only by the lamp near the window and the flickering light of some old black-and-white movie playing in the background, but neither of you really watching it. The kind of night where the city felt quiet.

Clark leaned back, resting his elbows on his knees. "I don’t know if you can miss something you never really knew," he said after a moment, voice low.

You didn’t respond right away. Just nodded slowly, the slice of pizza forgotten in your hand.

"But sometimes.." he continued, "I think about what it would’ve been like. Who I might’ve been. Who my parents were. What they dreamed of. If they would’ve been proud of me."

You turned your head, eyes meeting his across the narrow space between you. "They would’ve loved you," you said quietly. "They would’ve been so proud."

Clark blinked, taken aback—not by the words, but by how fiercely you meant them. He offered you a soft, grateful smile. One of those half-smiles that didn’t reach all the way to his lips, but burned in his eyes.

"You think so?"

"I know so," you replied. "Because I know you. And if they were anything like you.." You shrugged. "Then Krypton was lucky to have them."

The comfortable silence between you stretched. You set your plate down on the coffee table and shifted a little closer, pulling your knees to your chest.

Clark’s voice was even softer now. "You ever think about what life would’ve been like if the accelerator hadn’t exploded?"

You breathed out a quiet laugh, but it wasn’t really funny. "All the time."

"Do you wish it never happened?"

You looked down, fingers brushing along the edge of the blanket draped over your lap. "Yeah," you softly said. "I wish it never happened.. the fact that it happened because someone covered up data and didn’t care who got hurt. But the powers?" You glanced back up at him, catching the way he was watching you again, like you were made of stars and secrets. "I think they found me for a reason. I just don’t always know what that reason is."

Clark nodded slowly. "I think you’re still figuring it out."

"I think I’m terrified of that."

He smiled again, gently this time, like it wasn’t just okay to be scared, it was expected. "I am too."

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Then, after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper, "Do you ever feel.. alone?"

Clark’s gaze didn’t waver. "I think so. Until I met you. Felt like a whole new chapter in my life. You living here, working with me, being my best friend."

The room went still. The movie in the background didn’t matter. The pizza had long gone cold. And suddenly, your heart was loud in your chest.

You swallowed hard. "Clark.."

But he didn’t lean in. He didn’t move a muscle. He wished he had. So did you.

Over the next few weeks, it was almost like the tension was building up.

It sat in the spaces between words. In the brush of your shoulders at the office printer. In the way your mugs were always side by side in the kitchen sink. In the late nights where you both stayed too long at The Planet, pretending the deadlines were why.

It was in the way Clark looked at you a second too long when you laughed. In the way your voice softened when you said his name. In the fact that neither of you ever brought up that night on the couch.

Not once. But the air changed around you.

He stopped knocking before walking into the living room. You stopped apologizing for falling asleep on the couch with your laptop open. He started learning how you liked your coffee—extra cream, no sugar—and you started keeping two spare ties in the hall closet just in case.

You never called it domestic. Neither of you would dare. But it was. Quietly, undeniably domestic.

The missions didn’t help.

Superman and Invisible Woman were a tag team now. The public started calling you the Sky and Surface. There were headlines, photos, footage. A whole Reddit thread dedicated to your dynamic, most of which you definitely didn’t scroll through at midnight while Clark was asleep down the hall.

He would hover close when you took a hit in battle. You would always know where he was before he said your name.

And still, no one moved. That was until now.

It was just some Imp from somewhere across the vast universe, but it was strong enough that you were tired. Clark was frustrated. He wasn’t angry at you. He never was. But he was frustrated because you were tired.

And the Imp—what was it this time, Mxyzptlk’s cousin?—was playing a game neither of you had the patience for. Looping physics, rewriting gravity mid-punch, and cackling like a cartoon villain as your forcefields cracked under the pressure of keeping civilians safe.

"Enough," Clark growled, low and warning.

He blurred forward, a red-and-blue streak of controlled fury, tackling the creature mid-air and sending them both crashing through a billboard high above the city. You landed below, hard on your knees, catching your breath, your fingers buzzing with strain.

"Need some help?"

You sighed, "You’ve gotta be kidding me."

Guy, along with the rest of the Justice Gang, grinned from ear to ear as they hovered above you. He looked as smug as ever. "Seems like this guy’s giving you hell," Guy replied, looking over to where Clark was trying to freeze it with his breath. 

You grunted. "He’s been rewriting the laws of thermodynamics for twenty minutes. I’m working on fumes here."

"Hey, no shame in that." Guy grinned. "I figured you could use a hand. Or five."

Hawkgirl rolled her eyes. "Let’s be honest, Guy’s just here to make snarky commentary."

"Which is emotionally vital to team morale," he fired back.

You shook your head. "Please. Just hit the damn thing."

"Gladly." Hawkgirl launched herself into the sky, a golden streak of righteous fury, and slammed her mace into the Imp’s path just as he tried to blink away.

Mister Terrific landed beside you a moment later, his T-Spheres hovering protectively overhead. He took one look at your face, pale, jaw clenched, hands still trembling from overuse, and frowned. "Stay here," he said, gentle but firm. "Catch your breath. Your field’s flickering."

You opened your mouth to argue, because of course you did. But he raised a hand before you could get a single word out.

"I know you can keep going. That’s not the point." His voice lowered, calm and even. "But you’re running on fumes, and I need you at one hundred percent in case this thing gets worse. So take the break. Recharge."

You hesitated, guilt bubbling under your ribs like static.

"I’m serious," he added. "Let the rest of us carry the next few minutes. You’ve done more than enough."

You finally let yourself sink to the curb, one knee drawn up, fingers pressing into your temples. The cool concrete felt almost good against your skin. Your forcefields wavered, then shimmered out completely. Rest mode.

Clark touched down beside you a beat later, crouching low enough that his shoulder brushed yours. "Hey, hey. You okay?" His voice was soft. Too soft. 

You nodded before you even processed the question, which probably gave you away.

Clark’s brow furrowed. "You’re shaking."

"I’m just—" You inhaled sharply, fingers curling into your lap. "I’m fine. Just hit my limit. It’ll pass."

Clark didn’t say anything right away. He shifted so he was fully facing you now, one knee on the ground, hand braced against the pavement. You couldn’t look at him. Not like this. Not with the exhaustion catching up to you and your adrenaline crashing hard.

"I’ve never seen you drop your field like that," he said quietly. "Not even when we fought Parasite."

You finally glanced at him, your throat dry. "This guy hit different."

Clark’s eyes searched yours like he was trying to read between the lines. "You don’t have to prove anything, you know that, right? Not to me. Not to them."

"I’m not," you said, and it wasn’t a lie exactly, but it wasn’t entirely true either.

He saw it. Of course he did.

"You don’t have to save the whole world by yourself," he added, even gentler now. "That’s kind of.. my thing."

You let out a weak laugh, one that cracked somewhere in the middle. Clark reached out slowly and rested his hand on your knee. Just pressure, presence.

"I hate seeing you like this," he said. "And I know you hate being seen like this."

"So let’s not be seen."

Clark couldn’t even get a moment to protest when he realized a barrier had gone around the two of you, making you invisible. He blinked at the sudden shift in light, the rest of the world fading into a soft blur beyond your invisible forcefield. Just the two of you, tucked inside a bubble of silence and bent light, the chaos and smoke of the battle muffled outside.

He didn’t speak. Not right away. Just crouched beside you, still and steady.

The hum of your field buzzed gently between your palms, the glow faint, flickering—like the heartbeat of something private. Something sacred.

"I just needed a second," you said quietly, finally breaking the silence. "Not to hide. Just.. to be. Without all of them looking."

Clark nodded. "Yeah. I get it."

Your eyes flicked toward him, a hint of surprise there. "Do you?"

He smiled, just a little. "I think we both spend a lot of time being what people expect. Sometimes you just want to take the cape off for a minute."

You let out a breath, soft and tired. "Exactly."

A few beats passed. Your forcefield crackled gently above you, and from the outside, no one would’ve guessed the world’s strongest man was sitting on a broken curb with someone who could barely hold her eyes open.

But in here? It was enough.

Clark shifted just slightly closer, the warmth of him grounding you. "You did good today."

"Barely."

"You did," he insisted, gentler now. "You always do."

You looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, it wasn’t Superman staring back at you. It was Clark. The man who made you tea when you had a migraine. The man who knew your coffee order better than you did. The man who never once asked you to be stronger than you already were.

"I think," you said softly, "this might be my favorite part of the job."

"What part?"

"This. Right now. Just.. you and me."

Clark's gaze didn’t waver. "Then let’s stay a little longer."

Clark sat close enough that his knee brushed yours. His hand was still on your leg, thumb gently moving back and forth like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. You looked at him again.

Not the suit, not the symbol, not the myth. Just the man. With the unruly hair and the soft eyes and the weight of the world tucked behind a smile that was always just for you.

Your voice, when it came, was almost a whisper. "Do you ever get tired of waiting?"

Clark tilted his head. "For what?"

"For the right time."

He didn’t say anything. But his eyes said enough. So you leaned in—just slightly. A test. A question.

And he met you halfway.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, almost cautious, like neither of you wanted to break the moment you’d spent months circling. His hand slid up, resting lightly against your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his suit. And when your lips finally met his, it felt like exhaling for the first time in hours.

The kiss was soft. Sure. Familiar in a way it had no right to be.

Clark pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his smile blooming so gently it hurt.

"Your forcefield is.." You looked up to see what he meant. It was flickering, the rainbow’d look of the energy was dancing around the waves of energy.

"I’ve never seen it do that before," you whispered.

Clark smiled, forehead still resting against yours. "Maybe it’s responding to you."

"To us," you corrected softly.

His hand found yours—fingers lacing without hesitation—and you let yourself lean into him, the exhaustion melting just slightly at the edges of your ribs. "Think it’ll hold a little longer?" he asked.

You looked at the glowing field around you both, then back at him. "I think it’ll hold for as long as we want it to."

Clark smiled, leaned in again. While ignoring the swears from Guy, the screeches from Hawkgirl, and the loud grunts of the imp, the moment was perfect.

You two were perfect.

[kngrose]

do you not write for ambessa 👉🏻👈🏻? cuz your sevika headcanons are *chef’s kiss*

𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

WARNINGS: 18+, sexual content, implied voyeurism, body worship, oral, slapping, spanking, dacryphilia, implied age gap, slave/master if you squint, wlw!

from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : prayers have been answered ^^

SFW

Come, come. Let's talk about it.

I don't think Ambessa strikes anyone as a lovely kind of person. Yes, she is incredibly charismatic, and might even be the love-bombing type, but Ambessa seems to clearly reserve "love" for those closest to her. Well, her version of it anyway.

She won't just walk around with her heart on her shoulder, she's a warrior for hell's sake. And we're all familiar with her opinions on becoming weak at the hands of love.

If you've managed to genuinely catch Ambessa's interest-- not just for her personal gain or a quick fuck-- then you've got a headache coming your way. Like, a migraine.

I want to really emphasize the love bombing because regardless of whether Ambessa is aware of it or not, the relationship will feel this way for a long time. There's a pattern. She's affectionate one day; showering you with praises and soft kisses, sunrise to sunset. You'll have to want for nothing. Gifts and trips, all treated to you by hers truly. Wining and dining, a good fuck. And though all of this is displayed in private, you'll be enamored. Which is exactly what she wants you to be.

And then, she'll be cold and standoffish. Uncaring of your presence or too busy to be bothered. When Ambessa handles business, there's no such thing as making time for you. You'll just have to pacify yourself until she's ready to be bothered with you again.

It'll take you a while to realize, but when you do you can't miss it; she's got an avoidant attachment. She wants to love you and to be loved, but the moment she receives it she's pulling away. She's looking for flaws in you, anything that'll convince herself that you're bad for her, to leave you where she found you.

Constantly creating exit strategies, thinking of petty little arguments to start for no reason, or an insecurity of yours to pick at. She was trained to fight, it's her strong suit in any sense. It's always easier for her to disconnect and dismiss her feelings than to just sit and talk it out. And you'll want nothing to do with her, which is also what she wants.

She just be losing the plot, I fear.

Unfortunately, cycles like this take time to break. Fortunately, she's not going to let you leave! So you have all the time in the world! <3

When you bring this to her knowledge, you'll really have to bring it. Sit her down and let her know she's not moving until she's heard every word that leaves your mouth, wagging a painted finger in her face. And she'll humor you because you've managed to make an impression with her.

She will sit, patiently and leisurely, man spread and all, watching you fuss her out throwing your hands every which way and yelling. And she will have the softest, fondest smile on her face. She'll know you love her at this moment.

She will let you say your piece without interruptions. In fact, she's so quiet that you have to question if she's even listening a few times. And when you catch sight of that little smile you just pause, dumbfounded. And she'll just humor your expression, urging you to continue with a curt wave of her hand.

After this occasion, Ambessa will be relentless. In her mind, anyone willing to fuss her out the way that you have must truly love her. So now, she knows no limits. In the past, Ambessa would have you stay put with some guards while she handled her day-to-day tasks. But now? You tag along with her everywhere.

In meetings, Ambessa has you perched on her lap. Touching you mindlessly as she discusses possible strategies and looks over speeches. Rubbing your thighs, your neck, your arms. You'll find it awkward at first--such a public display of affection-- but you'll have no choice but to get used to it.

She's hand-feeding you everything. Holding your cups to your lips, licking frosting off your mouth. It's a starch contrast to the dynamic your relationship used to have. But, you suppose you shouldn't be surprised at her shamelessness, she's always been a bit... eccentric.

And now, you don't even have to ask her to share her feelings, in fact, you have to tell her that some things are a little TMI because she wants to share everything with you. Everything. EVERYTHING.

Secrets don't exist, she's an open book. Whatever's on her mind, you're going to hear about it. Which in most cases, you can appreciate. She'll open up about her past and all of the things that have led her up to this point. She'll speak of her daughter, Mel, expressing a regret that she's never opened up to her about. And she'll talk about the effects you have on her personally.

These moments are heartwarming, cause it solidifies your bond.

Undoubtably, Ambessa is a very possessive woman. She's very adamant about expressing to everyone that you belong to her. Not necessarily in a verbal sense, but people will know. They'll know when they see the lingering touches she leaves, the elongated glances, the kisses. Again she's very shameless, so don't let these things take you by surprise.

She's also very protective. She does like to have you tag along with her everywhere, but every now and then she'll leave you with Rictus while she goes to handle more trying situations. You know, the ones where she may potentially commit a war crime or two.

She'd much rather you be locked away than have to protect you on the battlefield. Though she's positive you know of her capabilities, she wouldn't like to have you see her in that light regardless. She'll go to great, violent, bloody lengths to keep you safe.

Besides her shameless physical touch, Ambessa likes to show her love with flashy gifts and large bouquets of flowers. She likes to collect things from all the places she's been to gift to you; know that every time she's out, she thinks of what you might like to have.

She also likes to share knowledge. She finds that to be one of the biggest displays of love; sharing one's knowledge of the world and life. Things you can can learn from. She will really appreciate and admire the fact that you look up to her as a mentor, and especially loves it when you ask for her opinion or perspective. It shows that you rely on her.

And she likes to be relied on!

She has a tendency to just walk around naked, and not for any particular reason other than the fact that it’s, “Comfortable, sweet thing.” It doesn’t matter what time of the day it is, if she has leisure time to waste, she’ll be naked. And she likes to be watched; “I worked hard for this body, honey..” She’ll say, flexing her arms at you.

She takes great pride in her form and in her strength. She likes to lift you up randomly just to showcase it. She’ll always pick you up when she hugs you, gripping your thighs loosely or not at all. You could honestly just hang onto her, dropping all of your weight. It wouldn’t make a difference.

She never fails to fluster you at any given chance. Every time you’re having a conversation she’s holding the strongest eye contact, chuckling to herself when you avoid her gaze. She'll randomly grip your chin, or caress your face. Sometimes twirling the hair by your ears. She likes to see you get all flustered because of her. It genuinely makes her day. That's why she does it so much.

She's old! Lol, you'll have to keep her updated with the new slang and terms of endearment. If you're someone who incorporates a lot of slang into your vocabulary, you'll often receive sideways glances of confusion before she stares at you and mutters, "...What?"

NSFW

I’m going to say it again; she’s shameless.

She has no qualms. Like, at all.

She loves to put on a show. She loves to be ogled at, it strokes her— already large enough— ego. More often than not, she’ll shove you down onto the bed, and with a calculated slowness, she’ll begin to undress, maintaining eye contact with you throughout. Her eyes always smoldering with a mix of passion and a touch of dominance.

And she’ll study you closely for your reaction, loving the look of pure awe on your face as she stands nude before you. Her voice, a low and husky murmur, would echo through the room, "See something you like, my dear?" and she’ll hum in approval at the soft, “Yes, Ma’am” she receives in return.

Ambessa appreciates a well mannered slut.

Most times, Ambessa will request that you massage her, all over. She loves it; It fulfills her desire to be worshipped. She loves to watch you take your time and rub every part of her, smirking down at you as you get lower and lower.

Ambessa will lean back slightly, her expression transitioning into a devilish smirk. Her free hand slowly tracing a path along the contours of your body. She watches you like a hawk, a smirk ever present on her lips.

When you start to kiss down her body a contented sigh will escape her lips. She’ll run her fingers through your hair, gently but firmly guiding your movements. Her head will tilt back, her eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. Each touch, each kiss, draws out a low and guttural sound from her throat, her desire evident in the way her body responds to your ministrations.

And the hand in your hair will tighten as she shoves your face in between her legs, a knowing glint in her eyes, “You know what to do.” And her body tenses as you start to eat her pussy, the hand in your hair tightening almost painfully as she groans.

She requires eye contact; she wants you to watch her come undone on your mouth. It’s like a reward, no? Watching the effect you have on her. She wouldn’t want you to miss the way she leans her head back, her hips rutting against your tongue at a steady pace, glancing down at you as she murmurs, “Good girl.”

And she won’t miss the hand that you trail down to your pussy, toying with yourself impatiently. A leisurely chuckle will fall from her lips, “Patience, Darling.” She’ll always say, pulling your hair to angle your head just right so she can fuck your face better. “Patience.”

And soon her breathing will turn shallow, Ambessa's grip on your hair impossibly intensifying, her fingers tangling in your locks as she guides your movements. Her control momentarily slips as she succumbs to the pleasure you're giving her.

And when she cums? She’ll pull your head back playing idly with the mess on your face, “Tsk… now you’re all dirty,” She’ll mutter, before leaning down and licking it off your chin. She’ll meet your lips in a sloppy mess of a kiss, groaning softly at the taste. And when she pulls back she’ll admire the look on your face, taking a mental photo of it. “Pretty…”

I think Ambessa would have a thing for teasing you. She likes to put you in uncomfortable positions. Make you put yourself on display in risky places. Loves touching you under tables. It just warms her core to see you so flustered, really riles her up. Especially so if you start crying, she’ll just squeeze your cheeks in her hand and snicker at you, “Ohhhh, you poor thing,” She’ll chuckle, and peck your puckered lips.

I already mentioned that Ambessa loves it when you’re well-mannered, it’ll quite literally get you anything your heart desires. You ask her nicely to make up cum? She’ll do it in a heartbeat. “With my mouth, or with my hands?” She’ll raise a brow, “Or with something else?” You use your manners with Ambessa like a good girl and she’ll be at your beck and call.

Laying you on your stomach softly to pull your ass in the air and eating your pussy until you squirt all over her mouth, and she won’t let a drop go to waste. She’ll trail her thick tongue from your clit all the way to your ass and back, over and over and over, circling the hole playfully before spitting onto it, the spit trailing back down. It’s truly a beautiful sight, she thinks.

Do you want her to fuck you with her fingers? They’re thick. You’ll hardly need two of them to satiate that churning in your core. Perhaps you want a massage of your own? Want her to suck on your pretty feet? Maybe you want her to talk you through your orgasm and praise you softly in your ear while you cum on her fingers? Everything all at once? No request is too far for Ambessa. She likes to worship her pretty thing; and loves to appreciate your body. Especially when it’s well deserved.

But when you’re ill mannered? Ambessa will show you exactly how she became a warlord.

Don’t expect any pleasure from this outcome. It’ll be hard. It’ll be brutal. And you’ll wish you’d never mouthed off at her the way you did. “What did we learn?” She’ll growl, above you, slapping your ass with a powerful force, “Quickly.” She’ll order.

And she’ll hum as you blubber loudly about being respectful, but her abuse will not stop. She will continue to keep you over her knee, slapping at your ass and thighs relentlessly. And when she’s done with that? She’ll have you on your knees, facing up at her with your hands folded politely over your lap. And you’d better pay extra attention to your posture or she’ll punish you for that too.

You’re never prepared for the swat to your cheek. “What are we not doing in the future?” She won’t falter at the cry that leaves your mouth, her gaze stone-cold and unwavering. She’ll swat your cheek again, slap, “I said, quickly.” And again, she won’t be moved by your blubbering until she’s satisfied-- until she believes you’ve learned a lesson.

And she’ll always be sure to pacify you until you’ve calmed down, offering you water and comfort, but still being stern enough that you remember your place the next time around. She’ll be sure to build you up just as she’s broken you down, affirming you gently. And you’ll fall back into her, blubbering your apologies.

She’ll conceal a smirk.

She loves to see you cry.

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taglist: @opropheticsoul

[cheollipop]

𝙘𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙗𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 (𝙚𝙭𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙙)

navi | taglist

pairing: woosan x fem!reader x song mingi

w.c.: 6.4k

tags: smut, boyfriends!woosan, implied criminal activities, standalone sequel to heists and celebrations.

rating: mature

Weeks passed and the stolen necklace—your only tie to the museum—had long since been pawned away. And yet buzzed, pink hair continued to haunt your fantasies. Until you remembered: Wooyoung was incapable of denying your requests, no matter how sticky they were.

warnings: semi-public sex, van sex, really fucking filthy sex, voyeurism & exhibitionism, unprotected sex (👎), creampie, fingering (f & m receiving), handjobs, oral (m receiving), deepthroating, dom!wooyoung, switch!san, switch!reader, ??!mingi, he's just happy to be there tbh, lots of mxm between all three of them, so much kissing holy fuck, jealous!san, some begging, restraints, everyone gets a little overstimulated, nicknames, san's a cutie when riled up, and he's got a potty mouth, I think that's it ^^

A/N: this one was a wild ride. I'd recommend grabbing a bucket and a mop, just in case. happy reading~

nsfw under the cut—minors dni!! 🔞

“I’m surprised, (y/n). It’s been how long since that day? You’re usually quick to move on,” Wooyoung said with a smile on his lips, pouring hot water into his mug.

“Woo,” you whined, leaning your upper body over the kitchen island, inhaling the fresh scent of instant coffee wafting from Wooyoung’s direction. “You should’ve seen him. I mean, how many men have you seen rock pink hair, let alone a buzzcut?”

“Have you seen Park Seonghwa?”

“Who?”

“Shame. You know Hongjoong? Anyang Group’s boss?”

“Ah, Seonghwa as in that Hongjoong’s sidepiece?” Wooyoung nodded as he sipped his coffee. “Mm,” you mirrored the movement in agreement, lips curling, “wouldn’t mind seeing more of him.”

“Damn right,” he laughed.

He brushed away the image of a slender frame and plush lips to redirect back to your conversation. “You seriously want this?”

“Can you do it?” Tilting your head sideways, you peered at the man before you with wide, hopeful eyes.

Wooyoung’s eyebrows shot upwards, and he walked around the island to where you were sat on a stool, placing his mug down to cup your nape, his voice raspy as he spoke, “you know better than to ask me that, darling.”

You smiled, snaking your arms underneath Wooyoung’s baggy shirt and around his waist, pulling him closer to press tender kisses over the line of his jaw, moving up to his lips while he leaned down until you were at eye-level and giving him a firm kiss.

Pearly whites peeked at Wooyoung, “then I really want this.”

“And you’ll get it,” he moved your head towards his with the hand at your nape, his nose pressing into your cheek as he kissed you until you ran out of breath, pulling away with a kitten lick to your upper lip.

Fingers scratched lightly at the back of your head, Wooyoung leaning closer once again, this time nuzzling your temples, taking in the scent of your shampoo before exhaling contently. “But,” he started, moving back until he could meet your eyes, “what about San?”

“What about him?” You feigned ignorance.

The corner of Wooyoung’s lips tugged upwards at your darting gaze. “You know how he gets. I can’t imagine he’d be thrilled watching you devour another man.”

You pouted, arms retreating from Wooyoung’s waist to cross at your chest. “He can deal with it.”

Wooyoung chuckled, moving to kiss you again, frowning when you stopped him with a hand to his chest. You spoke before he could question the movement,

“What about you? Or do you not get jealous”

His frown melted away, expression softening as you avoided his gaze, hands immediately seeking yours to guide them over his shoulders. “My love,” he peppered kisses over your cheek. “You know well how I treat bastards who dare touch what’s mine,” he craned his neck to follow your gaze, until his dark irises met yours.  “You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

You nodded, flashes of gore and spattered red rushed through your mind and your heart warmed at the memory of his dedication, but you weren’t convinced. “Then why—”

Wooyoung interrupted, “but, my darling, since when have you known me to turn down any of your requests?” Wrapping his arms around your waist, he pressed your foreheads together. “While our precious Sannie might want to keep you all for himself, I certainly wouldn’t mind watching you use another man to satisfy a craving,” he moved to brush his lips against the shell of your ear, “especially if he’s as hot as you described.”

You heard San’s ringtone go off, followed by a short exchange of words before his voice echoed through the suite, “jagi, Youngie’s on his way.”

San’s socked feet padded over the carpet when you didn’t reply, stopping at the bathroom doorway to admire your form, leaning over the sink while blinking into your mascara wand. He leaned against the doorframe, watching you move back to examine the drying coat of black for a second before using the tip of the wand to brush over the outer corners of your lashes.

You dropped the tube into your makeup bag and zipped it shut. Meeting San’s gaze through the mirror, you smiled—almost shyly—while smoothing down your dress, its hem resting just below your behind.

“Who are you all dressed up for?” San teased, eyes flitting down to the burgundy colouring your lips.

You turned to face him, smile still stretching your lips as you leaned back against the counter behind you. “Woo said he had a surprise for me before your match tonight.”

He raised an eyebrow, taking a few steps closer, “a surprise? He didn’t mention anything to me.”

You simply shrugged, hoping he’d let it go before the excitement in your eyes betrayed you.

“Ah, I forgot to wash this for you last night,” you shifted the subject, hooking a finger under the hem of San’s singlet, the drops of dried blood staining the collar a memoir of his victory a couple nights ago.

The suspicion in San’s gaze faded, replaced with fondness. His hands reached for yours, balling them in his palms and bringing them to his lips. He pressed a kiss on each of your knuckles, “my perfect girl.”

You frowned; eyes fixed on the flaking blood smirching the white.

San breathed out a laugh, craning his neck to meet your eyes. “I’m serious, my love. It’s okay. It’s gonna get dirty again anyway.”

Seemingly unconvinced, San took your chin between his thumb and pointer and tilted your head upwards. He muttered a breathy “jagi” before his lips crashed over yours—desperate, hungry, wanting. Hands roamed up and down your sides, squeezing at your waist and ass and pulling you impossibly closer to his body. You felt dizzy, arms wrapped around San’s waist and palms splayed over the toned muscle of his back. His breath was hot as it blew over your skin, tongue moving with yours and spit melting the burgundy off your lips.

San’s ringtone sounded in the other room just as strong arms lifted you onto the counter, a disgruntled groan vibrating over your lips before he pulled away to answer, planting a quick peck on your mouth before scurrying out the bathroom.

Giggling to yourself, you slid off the marble to fix the makeup San kissed off you, wiping the product that bled past your lip-line before sliding the applicator over the slightly stained skin.

San showed up at the door once again, hopping on one foot while squeezing the other into his sneakers. “C’mon baby, Youngie’s waiting for us down the street.”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you packed your makeup. “Why not pick us up from here?”

“Fuck if I know,” San sighed, swinging his backpack over his shoulder and grabbing his keycard.

The elevator ride was tense, the other passengers averting their gaze upon noticing San’s unabashed groping, a blank expression on both your faces while his hand disappeared under the back of your dress. You elbowed him when the landing doors opened at ground level, finally letting out an airy laugh as the other guests scurried out with hung heads, a cocky smirk forming on San’s lips.

‘Down the street’ was a much longer walk than originally anticipated, San’s grumbling indictive of his irritation, and yet his hold on your hand remained gentle, fingers tangled with yours and squeezing softly with every few steps he took.

After what felt like hours, you took a sharp left into a dark alleyway—tall buildings on either side blocking the sunlight—vivid graffiti overlapping on the damp walls, mould forming where they met the cracked pavement. The familiar white van appeared as you turned the corner, newly painted to refresh the previously peeling lettering, though the various dents in the metal remained.

Wooyoung stood leaning back against the van with a lit cigarette hanging off his bottom lip. The lit edge burned bright orange as he sucked in a breath, pushing off the cold metal to face the two of you.

“Why’d you fucking make us walk so far?” San spat, swinging his arms outwards for emphasis.

Lidded eyes met yours from a few feet away, and you attempted to maintain the faux irritation furrowing your eyebrows.

“Relax, I didn’t want anyone seeing our special guest,” he smirked, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Even if he came here voluntarily."

San looked as heated as he was confused, “the fuck are you talking about?”

Sensing another series of string of curses coming his way, Wooyoung put his hand up to stop him. “Calm down, kitten. Here, see for yourself.”

He exhaled a final cloud of smoke, dropping the expended tobacco onto the pavement and crushing it with the toe of his boot. He stepped towards the van again, pulling the back handles until the double doors swung open. Faded pink hair peeked at you from the back corner of the small space, longer and less vibrant than you remembered, though his defined features were just as captivating; though, you’d argue the full lips looked far more alluring spread apart by the rag Wooyoung had gagged him with.

Your gaze lowered, checking him out while he sat there, staring back with his wrists tied behind his back. You wondered whether Wooyoung had surprised him while getting ready, eying the top three undone buttons of his white shirt, and those missing from his open vest.

A snicker sounded behind you, “sorry, darling, I couldn’t help but inspect the goods while waiting.”

Your shared laughter snapped San out of his trance, turning to face Wooyoung. “Isn’t this the security guard from the last museum? Wooyoung, what the fuck is this?”

Wooyoung’s calm demeanour only seemed to irritate San further, as did the dry chuckle he gave towards his alarm. “Seems like distracting the dog wasn’t enough for our pretty (y/n), she wanted to take him on a walk.”

San’s eyes widened, his head snapping to your direction only to find the space you’d occupied beside him empty.

Your knees dug into the mattress laid on the floor of the van, the used, stained fabric holding the round indent you’d left behind for a few seconds before returning to its original shape. Crawling towards your target, you realised just how much the pink had faded since you last saw him, roots retouched but his grown-out locks closer to being blonde now. He didn’t seem afraid or confused—and you’d thought Wooyoung was only trying to enrage San by hinting Mingi wanted this encounter to occur. The doe eyes that checked you out in the museum were instead replaced by a sharp gaze drowned in an unknown emotion, something sultry, dangerous. But despite the thoughts churning in Mingi’s mind, the fact remained that he was helpless in his current predicament, tied up and unable to touch the woman he so desperately wanted, the threatening presence of her two partners lingering only a few feet away.

Wooyoung watched you closely, both his and San’s eyes shifting to the exposed, pretty black lace of your panties as you crawled towards the bound man. He could sense San’s jealousy simmering beside him, his eyebrows in a deep furrow and fists clenched at his side.

“Want me to untie him?” Wooyoung poked his tongue out between his teeth as a failed attempt to hide his growing grin, awaiting San’s beratement.

Though, your voice stopped the unkind words at the tip of his tongue.

“Uh-uh,” you turned down his offer, settling on your knees, “no need.”

Turning to face the two men still outside the van, you extended a hand towards San, smiling as the crease between his eyebrows softened and he scurried towards you. Grabbing your reaching hand, he led the open palm up to his mouth and pressed five kisses onto the soft skin, inhaling deeply with each one. You smiled, waiting until he’s had his fill before leading him closer. San’s arms wrapped around your waist, his body attaching to yours like it was second nature: front flush with your back, his face buried into the side of your neck until he could smell nothing but your scent, and a faint hint of your shampoo.

You felt the van dip slightly as Wooyoung climbed into the driver’s seat, the engine sputtering before coming alive. You craned your neck to the side to meet San’s eyes, smile dripping with mischief as you spoke, “just want him to watch for now.”

—

San almost couldn’t keep up, his knees digging into the mattress to keep himself steady, arms around your waist keeping you both upright as you threw yourself onto him, lips hungry and desperate as though you’d been craving his taste for days. Teeth clashed against each other, content hums and breathy moans vibrating in the air between you, your hands squeezing at the exposed muscle of his biceps, moving over his chest and down his abdomen.

Moving a few inches back, you dragged the white tank over San’s head and threw it to the side. “C’mon, Sannie,” you pressed a kiss to his lips, hooking your fingers into his waist belt to tug him closer, “don’t you wanna show our guest how good you can be for me?”

Fingers tangled in the hair at your nape, pulling roughly until your neck craned backwards. San’s voice had a rasp to it, dripping with lust he desperately tried to conceal, “don’t push it.”

The corner of your mouth curled, “that’s not being good,” a choked scoff blowing against San’s face, “maybe Mingi here can do better?”

You twisted your head sideways despite the resistance, meeting Mingi’s wide eyes for merely a second before your gaze was forced forwards once again.

“(Y/n),” his tone dripped with warning.

You swiped a finger over San’s bottom lip, protruding yours slightly to egg him on further. “Sannie,” you purred, smiling at the faint flutter of his lashes upon hearing the pleasant sound. “C’mon, baby, show Mingi how good you make me feel.”

Your eyes locked on Wooyoung’s through the rearview mirror while San manhandled you onto his lap, perhaps a little too calm as his gaze travelled over your bare skin and the thin sheet of sweat reflecting the sunlight peeking through the windshield. Your dress tossed somewhere behind you, back stuck to San’s chest and your legs hooked over his thighs, you could feel a flush creeping up your chest upon noticing your position—sat in San’s lap, spread open and bare while Mingi’s eyes roamed over the expanse of smooth skin.

Two fingers circled your clit, and you sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden touch, exhaling a content sigh when he didn’t waste time sliding them past your pulsing hole. San leaned closer, nuzzling his nose into the junction of your neck as he pumped his fingers slowly.

Sensing the unusual warmth of your skin, a smile stretched his lips. “Oh darling, isn’t it a bit too late to be feeling shy?”

“Shut up,” you moaned, tilting your head to the side to make room for San’s peppered kisses.

Your cunt squelched with every thrust, and you kept your eyes trained on Mingi while it spat slick around San’s fingers. He curled them into your sweet spot, soft ‘ah’s leaving your parted lips as pleasure soared through your body, eyes lidded and head lolling to the side, San’s fingers fucking you open and simultaneously dragging you towards the edge of your release.

“San, Sannie, right there, baby—hnngh, yeah,” his name dripping like honey off your lips.

You grabbed onto his wrist, tight yet not restraining his ministrations, your back arching off his abdomen when his free hand slapped your clit.

“So close already?” San teased into your ear, though his eyes were sharp and contemptuous upon meeting Mingi’s over your shoulder. “I see the audience has got you all worked up.”

His palm landed onto your clit again, and again, content watching your hips jump then fall back onto his lap with each slap.

“Sannie, please,” you panted, hips rolling towards his hands as he played with your cunt, nearly crying out when he pinched your clit between his thumb and pointer, vision blurring when you finally came.

San’s fingers continued pressing your g-spot, languidly to extend your orgasm, his other hand cupping your inner thigh and taking in the tremors shaking your form. His lips found their way back to your neck—blossoming bruises of red and blue scattered over the delicate skin—while his eyes remained on Mingi, as though an unspoken challenge was being communicated between the two men.

Slipping his fingers out from between your clenching walls, San readjusted your position on his lap, moving you sideways so your legs dangled off one of his thighs, an arm around your back holding you upright with your head resting on his shoulder. Mingi watched silently as San leaned down to press a delicate kiss to your lips, checking up on you through whispered questions while massaging the tired muscles of your thighs. It was like he was non-existent, merely a prop in the small bubble enveloping the two of you.

It wasn’t until your tired eyes met his that the bubble popped, and Mingi snapped out of his thoughts. You sat up, your gaze suddenly alert and glimmering with hints of mischief, beginning to crawl towards the man merely a few feet away after San had begrudgingly let you go.

With just a few inches separating your faces, you pulled the wet rag between his lips down to hang around his neck, “did you enjoy that?”

Mingi began nodding before you could finish the question, “yes,” he cleared his throat, the rasp in his voice sending a wave of heat down to your core, and San could see your pussy clench from where he was sat behind you.

“Mm,” you hummed, “I could tell.”

You smiled, tilting your head down to drag your attention to Mingi’s crotch, his cock hard and straining against the constraints of his dress pants. You brushed your fingertips over his zipper, smiling wider at the displeased groan sounding behind you, looking back up at Mingi when a chocked moan left his full lips, a thick gulp following it.

He rested his head against the back of the driver’s seat, taking you in wordlessly through hooded eyes, watching as you reached between your legs to swipe your fingers through your sopping cunt only to bring them back to hover in front of Mingi’s face.

“Be a good boy,” you whispered, and pushed your fingers past his plush lips.

Mingi didn’t need to be told twice, taking them like a starved man and moaning unabashedly as your slick met his tastebuds, rolling his tongue around the digits and sucking them deeper into his mouth. You felt yourself getting wetter, squeezing your thighs together while running your fingers down Mingi’s tongue until he gagged. His whine when you slid them out nearly made you cum, his head moving to chase your retreating fingers, your lingering taste alone driving him halfway to madness.

So, you brought them back, this time hovering around and over his lips despite his attempts to take them inside his mouth. Brushing your thumb through the spit soaking his lips, you shoved it past them to hook behind his bottom teeth, tugging his head forward and removing your hand just before your lips crashed. It was sloppy, way too much teeth and saliva and tongue, and yet your pussy ached, skin buzzing and your need growing the longer your mouth moved against Mingi’s. Lust guided you, your fingers squeezing around Mingi’s cock through his pants while your tongue ran across his teeth, the raspy moans reverberating against your skin fanning the fire burning within your core.

Warmth spread against your back, San’s body covering yours and his hand closing around your chin to pull you off Mingi, pausing to take in the gloss covering both your lips before his irritation grew once again, “don’t slobber on another man’s face when I’m the one fucking you.”

You visibly shuddered at his words, arching back against his torso and leaning forward to catch his lips, barely brushing against then when Mingi’s voice startled you away,

“You’re cruel, miss,” he mumbled, as though talking to himself, yet his eyes fixed on your flushed face. Noting your confusion—and San’s glare—he continued, “I called that number so many times,” he breathed deeply between each of the last three words, his voice dropping at octave as he mumbled the rest of his sentence “’kept wondering whether you tasted as sweet as you smelled.”

San felt the shiver shaking your body, and your pussy getting wetter against his cock where it lay slotted between your legs. He was so occupied with this sultry exchange he didn’t notice the engine’s silence until the doors behind him swung open. A quick peak over his shoulder calmed his reflexes, arms relaxing around your waist as Wooyoung crawled towards him.

Just as he turned his attention back to the pink-haired man admiring you with heart eyes and a tongue heavy with honey-laced words, the string of curses nearly leaving San’s mouth got interrupted,

“Oh come on, Sannie, loosen up a little,” Wooyoung ribbed, dragging his fingertips up San’s spine. “Our friend Mingi here was so excited when he heard (y/n) wanted to see him.”

“Youngie, stay out of this,” San growled, feline eyes narrowing in warning.

Scoffing, Wooyoung left San’s side with a gentle squeeze to his shoulder and a whispered “suit yourself,” moving towards your guest. You both sat back and watched as Wooyoung grabbed Mingi’s defined jaw and smashed their lips together. It was almost like watching your prior kiss from a new perspective—Wooyoung was clearly leading, sucking the plush of Mingi’s lips into his own, digging his tongue into his mouth to seek out more of him, and sneaking his hand lower to palm over his cock. His touch was rough, rendering Mingi unable to do anything but groan against Wooyoung’s mouth, the gravelly sound travelling right to your core.

“More,” he recited, tugging against the restraints at the small of his back while simultaneously fucking up into Wooyoung’s palm. All the while, Wooyoung’s kisses remained relentless, teeth digging into Mingi’s bottom lip and tongue roaming within his mouth, wanting nothing but to manhandle the taller man and take him however he wanted. He held back, though, your excitement in the back of his mind while he enjoyed what he could have.

San was starstruck, his irritation with Mingi long since fizzled away, wholly incapable of moving his eyes off the scene before him, so turned on he imagined a fire would burn less than the heat spreading under his skin.

He hissed as your fingers wrapped around his length, bringing him back to the present and aligning him with your entrance, a nonvocal appeal in the lookback you’d given him. So he slid inside you with a muttered curse, throwing his head back as your heat engulfed him, pleasure soaring through his body at the tight squeeze of his throbbing cock between your walls.

You felt so full, satiated with San finally inside you. Lowering yourself onto your elbows, you allowed your head to hang limp while San thrusted experimentally, jolting you forward with an airy ‘ah’ leaving your lips.

Wooyoung finally parted from Mingi’s now-swollen mouth, glancing behind him at the sound and missing how the other man had leaned in for more. Pretending as though he hadn’t shaken Mingi’s world and possibly given him a sexuality crisis, Wooyoung moved his attention to you and San. He watched shamelessly as San’s hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing and pulling until you sat upright on your knees, tits jumping and lips parting as ecstasy blurred your vision. He was so deep, so heavy where he sat within you, sheathing his full length inside your cunt before pulling out once again.

Following the minute shifts in your expression—brows furrowing then relaxing, lips parted and spit pooling at the reddened corners, your lashes fluttering each time San drove his cock into you—Wooyoung couldn’t stand still any longer. His lips were on yours before you could even register him moving, fingers tangling with the hair at the back of your head to push your faces impossibly closer. He inhaled deeply where his nose dug into your cheek, pulling away slightly only to press wet kisses onto your mouth, allowing you to breathe while he continued satisfying his hunger.

Mingi gulped, also sat up on his knees now and staring directly at San. And as much as San attempted to look away, to focus on his partners making out in front of him, he couldn’t take his eyes off the other man’s lips—somehow fuller than ever, red and slightly chapped from Wooyoung’s relentless nips. Walking a step forward on his knees, Mingi now sat a few inches away from San’s face, and he took the opportunity to lean even closer, frowning when San flinched backwards on instinct.

Noticing the exchange in his peripheral, Wooyoung untangled a hand from your hair to wrap around San’s head and push him forward, successfully ending his resistance when his lips touched Mingi’s.

San could taste you both on Mingi’s lips, nearly shying away them as the other man towered over him, acting as though he’d wanted to put San in this position ever since he’d gotten in this van. Spit-soaked teeth closed around his bottom lip, dragging it with them as Mingi pulled away, only to move back in for more.

You could feel San throbbing inside you, his thrusts sloppy and desperate, losing his rhythm while Mingi was on him. They sounded downright sinful, and one look over your shoulder clamped your pussy down around San, a throaty moan vibrating over Mingi’s lips.

Wooyoung left you with a tender kiss, sneaking around the tangled bodies to reach San’s posterior and bending forward to graze his lips against the shell of his ear, jolting him away from Mingi.

“Seems like our dear Sannie is finally enjoying himself,” he sneered, running his pointer over San’s pert hole and smiling wider at his startled gasp.

Drowning out the conversation behind you, your eyes fell on the tent in Mingi’s pants. You peeled San’s limp fingers from your throat and bent at your waist, placing your palms on his thick thighs to push him into a seated position. It didn’t take long to free his cock from its constraints, Mingi’s eyes wide and wanting, leaning his body back on his elbows, wrists violently tugging against the cloth around them until Wooyoung’s dark glare over San’s shoulder ceased his attempts.

You pumped his length once, taking in Mingi’s rough groan while in awe at the sheer amount of precum coating his reddened skin. You paused before taking him in your mouth, squeezing your fist around the tip and forcing Mingi’s eyes to roll back momentarily, though your head hung low and an elongated moan dragged off your tongue as San adjusted his angle, fucking up into your g-spot until splotches of white spread across your vision.

“Fuck, Sannie— So good,” you tilted your head back, lips parted as another moan slipped past them.

Mingi’s cock jumped in your hold, and you didn’t waste time lurching forward to suck the tip into your mouth. The tang overwhelming your tastebuds goaded you to take him further, flattening your tongue against the underside of his length and lowering yourself until his cockhead nudged your uvula.

“Fuuuck,” Mingi moaned on an exhale, his hips moving upwards in light thrusts to meet your mouth halfway, eyes fluttering shut each time he bottomed out within your tight channel.

You felt lightheaded, Mingi’s taste on your tongue and the deep baritone of his voice driving you to take him further inside. You could barely breathe, the backs of your thighs on fire, San’s slamming against your skin as he fucked into you like a crazed man, pushing you forward until Mingi’s cock bumped the back of your throat.  Tears blurred your vision, gagging around his length before pulling off to rest your head over his quivering thigh, but San remained relentless, pumping his cock inside you until your moans went quiet, your mouth open helplessly while burning pleasure overtook your senses.

It took you a few seconds to regain your breath, and you were sucking Mingi’s cock back into your mouth before he could even check up on you. He fought against his restrains, wanting nothing but to tangle his ringed fingers through your hair, to guide your head over the length of his cock until your spit ran down the sides.

“You can do better,” Wooyoung’s voice startled San away from his thoughts, noticing his hand going limp around Wooyoung’s cock. “Look at our pretty girl taking the both of you so well,” he compared teasingly, curling his fingers inside San while he spoke.

“Youngie, ah—fuck, ‘want a turn?” San asked, ignoring the provocation in Wooyoung’s tone and squeezing around his leaking tip.

“Mm,” he hummed into his ear, leaning some of his weight on San’s side and planting a kiss over his shoulder, “fill ‘er up for me,” another kiss on the back of his neck, “I’ll have my fun with you later.”

The purposely harsh thrust Wooyoung gave prodded right at San’s prostate, his cock jumping inside you at the stimulation and his mind going hazy.

“Fuck me, ‘m gonna cum,” San panted, squeezing around the other man while he jerked him off before letting go, instead reaching back to grab his wrist to stop his fingers from driving him off the edge.

“Ah, Sannie, feels so good,” you mumbled while kissing over Mingi’s cockhead, digging the tip of your tongue into the slit to watch his eyes roll back.

You clamped down around San when Mingi spoke suddenly, “please, please, please, miss, oh god—I’m so close,” his head hung sideways to rest over his shoulder as he watched you swallow his cock through lidded eyes.

Your pussy squelched loudly around San, slick running down the inside of your thighs, and jealousy panged painfully within his chest as he watched you deepthroat the man sat in front of him. He let go of Wooyoung, bowing forward to wrap an arm around your shoulders and pull your body towards him, Mingi’s cock slipping out of your mouth with a whine and falling heavily against his lower belly.

“San, what—”

“Don’t you even think about coming in her mouth,” San interrupted to address Mingi, balancing on one hand with the other tucking you closely against his chest. “You haven’t earned that yet.”

Yet.

The word alone made precum drip down Mingi’s cock, his voice a higher pitch as he whined disgracefully, “please, ‘wanna cum so bad,” he thrust his hips in the air involuntarily.

San paused inside you, as though contemplating for a few seconds before his hips stuttered and regained their previous pace, your hand flying to wrap around San’s hand where it dug into the mattress. And just when you’d thought the pleasure had completely dumbed you out, San slowly withdrew the arm around you and waited until you settled onto your elbows, pressing his lips to your crown before shifting his attention back to Mingi.

Wordlessly, he reached towards him and wrapped his fingers around his cock, Mingi’s sharp hiss sounding in the stuffy van as San began getting him off.

“Go on then, cum.”

Despite the animosity in his tone, you could feel San grow thicker inside you, stretching your cunt out even further. Squeezing San’s free hand, you laid your top half on the mattress and waited until Mingi absentmindedly scooted closer, resting your head on his thigh to watch San’s fist pumping his girth. San’s pace slowed while he focused on the cock in his hand, and you couldn’t complain, Mingi’s rasp in your ear and his thighs shaking underneath you, thick ropes of cum spurting from his angry tip and splattering onto the side of your face.

San waited until he’d drained Mingi completely before letting him go, his eyebrows raising when your hand took his place, squeezing around his base to hear him hiss in sensitivity. But you kept going, lifting your head and squeezing his wet cock until he began spasming, the overstimulation stretching his vocal cords until he sounded thoroughly pathetic. He panted like a dog even after you’d let him go, and you couldn’t help but wonder how he’d act when pussydrunk—your hole dripping with his load, his airy begging echoing in your ear while you slid down on him yet again, fucking yourself full of his softening cock.

An abrupt change in position paused your forming fantasy, eyes fixing on the van’s roof before San slipped into your field of vision, dimpled cheeks and warm smile lighting a gentle fire in your chest.

“Where were we?” He whispered, your familiar bubble forming around you once again as he leaned down to kiss you.

His lips were soft, moving leisurely over yours as though you were a hallowed treasure, an invaluable jewel he’d set out to heist. His cupped your jaw, burning palm against your heated skin tilting your head so he could move impossibly closer, deepening the kiss until you feared he’d devour you. Reaching between your bodies, San aligned himself and pushed inside you once again, his groan and yours mingling in the negligible air between you.

He started off slow, letting out a shuddered moan as the tight heat of your pussy sucked him in, so deep he considered never pulling out. San fit inside you like he was born to fuck you dumb, his cockhead pressing your sweet spot every time he buried himself within your cunt, pushing more of your slick out and down past where he stretched you out.

San’s hips stuttered just as he’d built up his pace, the feeling of sneaky fingers prodding at his hole again dragging his attention off your face, his features contorting when Wooyoung easily slipped two fingers into his ass. A guttural moan left his lips, eyebrows furrowed and eyes squeezed shut as he got stretched open, his hands squeezing around your waist while he adjusted.

“Is it too much, Sannie?” Wooyoung provoked him, and you knew it was his own wicked way of getting back at San for leaving him out. You could tell by the violent throbbing between your walls that San was close, and Wooyoung loved playing with San when he was desperate to cum. “’You gonna cum before our girl?”

San snapped his head towards him, glaring despite his predicament—two fingers pumping inside him and your pussy squeezing around his cock. He was in no position to glower at anyone, and yet your small giggle set him off further. He turned his attention to you, moving back to meet Wooyoung’s fingers and forward to piston his cock into your sopping hole. You sensed your orgasm building back up, arching an extra inch off the stained mattress each time San drove into you, lowering himself even more to wrap his lips around your nipple, biting and sucking it raw before licking a strip up your cleavage to the dip between your collarbones.

“Need you to come, baby, let go for me,” he wrapped both arms around you, whining between desperate groans, the stimulation from both sides almost too much for him.

You nodded wildly, a repetition of his name falling off your lips like honey-laced poison; San’s heart nearly arrested.

He untangled one of arms from your quivering form to reach for your clit, frantically flicking and rubbing until you began spasming in his arms, the whites of your eyes showing before you’d squeezed your lids together, jerking away from San’s touch yet rolling your hips towards it. Fiery pleasure blinded your senses, oxytocin rushing through your veins while your orgasm crashed into you like a cyclone wave, twitching uncontrollably within San’s hold.

It didn’t take long for San to follow, deep, breathy ‘ah’s leaving him while your pussy clenched around his cock, barely able to move as you held onto him while you came. Behind him, Wooyoung remained mostly impassive, humping San’s hip while his fingers massaged his prostate, opting to hurriedly jerk himself off instead when San’s thighs began shaking.

San could feel his sanity slipping away, Wooyoung’s fingers milking him of all he had. His cum spurted out of him in hot ropes while he hysterically grinded into you, stuffing your womb full of his seed. His moans lowered an octave, dropping himself over you while still coming, a stream of liquid squeezing past his cock and down to seep into the mattress below you.

At the first uncomfortable whine from the overstimulated man, Wooyoung pulled his fingers out, fucking his slick-covered fist until white ribbons painted San’s back, a few drops landing over his pulsing hole. He could help but reach forward to run a rough thumb over it, pushing his cum inside until San reached back to swat him away with a curse.

Wooyoung took you in from where he towered over you— sweat covered your entire body, skin sticking to San’s as he laid on top of you, head resting on your shoulder; your tits were bitten and bruised from his rough mouth, a bitemark circling your nipple, and cum dripping out of your cunt which San’s softening cock still resided within. Moving his eyes back to your face, they softened at your relaxed features, hooded eyes peering back at him and a warm, grateful smile on your lips. His cock twitched in interest upon noticing Mingi’s drying cum splattered over your face, his tongue poking the side of his mouth, aching for a taste.

Wooyoung grabbed San’s discarded singlet to wipe off the slick wetting his fingers, figuring the man wouldn’t mind another fluid staining the fabric. It was only then that he noticed your guest’s presence, fucked-out with flushed skin and blown-out pupils slowly lifting off your stretched hole to meet Wooyoung’s. Mingi’s own cum coated his toned abdomen, the muscle shaking as he took a shuddering breath in.

Wooyoung’s lips curled with something dangerous, and Mingi nearly flinched. His words, however, lit a treacherous wildfire within him and spread to his core.

“Be good, Mangi,” the nickname coming naturally, “and who knows? Maybe you’ll get the chance to taste her someday.”

please reblog/leave feedback if you enjoyed~ ^^

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

Quirk(less) Marriage

Pairing: Dark/Yandere Keigo Takami/Hawks x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

SUMMARY: As Endeavour Todoroki’s quirkless daughter, you’ve been labeled as a burden your entire life. To your luck (or the lack of it) Hawks is more than willing to take care of you. 

WARNINGS: Arranged/Forced Marriage; Toxic/Abusive Relationship; Noncon; Implied Forced Breeding.

Reader takes Fuyumi's place, but ignoring the age logistics. You're around 20/21.

AN: Proud of myself cause this is the longest work I've written. Thank you for waiting, really hope you guys like this. Please, reblog and give me feedback 😊 enjoy!

--

The call gets disconnected, just like the previous one and the one before that.  

‘The number you have called is currently–’

Biting your lip, you tap on the call button, pushing the phone against your ear once again. Please, pick up. Please, pick up. 

Your prayers are successful as the call finally gets accepted, too many moments later. 

“Dad?”

There’s a low scoff on the other side of the line. With a swift glance behind your shoulder, you enter the large bathroom and fumble with the lock of the door.

“Dad? I– It's me.” 

The soft click provides you with the tiniest amount of security and you hope the walls are thick enough to muffle down the sound of your voice. 

“What is it?” the annoyance in Endeavour's voice is clear as day. Your dad has never had the time or patience to waste with you, much less now. “I’m busy. Make it quick.”

“I don’t like it here.” you start, holding onto the phone like it’s a lifeline. “Can you come pick me up?” 

“What nonsense is this? Have you lost your mind, like your mother did?” the words are cruel and sharp - a combination that your father does like no other. “It’s only been a few hours and you’ve started complaining already? Ridiculous!” 

“But I don’t know him. I don’t feel comfortable here. With him.” you try again, desperate. “Dad, please, don’t make me do this. Please, please, I don’t to–”

“Enough!” you flinch at the harsh tone. “End this nonsense right now. There’s no place left for you at my house. You are exactly where you belong. Ungrateful brat. Be grateful that Hawks accepted to have some quirkless trash as a wife.”

The venomous insult has you recoiling. Many are the times that the words ‘quirkless’ and ‘trash’ have been hurled your way and yet the dull ache in your heart never lessens. 

Your dad pays no mind to your pained silence, continuing with his angry frustration. 

“I’m warning you for the final time, so listen carefully. You are Hawk’s wife now, so behave like one. Do not even think about returning home, you hear me?” he hisses sharply. “Do not drag the family name through the mud just because of your pathetic whining.” 

The call abruptly disconnects. 

You stare at the wall, apathetic as cold emptiness slowly consumes you, inch by inch. You feel lost. Empty. Brain hardly able to acknowledge what’s happening to you. God, why is this happening to you?

You don’t want to stay here. In another man’s house - a man you hardly know. Hawks. Keigo, like he asked you to call him when your dad’s driver dropped you off like a delivery package. A mail-order bride.

You don’t know what to do. What can you do?

Running away is out of the question. It’s not even an option, not when you’re the daughter of Japan’s Pro-hero Number One and your husband sits on the second rank.

But the truth is that there’s never been much of a rebellious streak inside you. No, you are docile and simple. Being rebellious was a trait more present in your brother's disposition. Natsuo. Shoto. Touya. 

The thought of them has you hesitating for a moment, but you quickly dismiss the idea. No doubt they would try to help, but to what extent would they truly be successful?

Their relationship with dad was a strained one, so tense that it could break at any moment. You’d hate to be the one to tear the family apart. 

You wonder what dad will tell them - that he just sold you off like a broodmare? Or will he make a more elegant explanation?

Will your brothers even believe whatever strange justification your dad comes up with?

You haven’t seen them for a while. Natsuo spent most of his time on his college campus and Shoto lived in the U.A dorms. All while you took care of the house. 

Would they believe you married Hawks even though there’s no wedding? 

No grandiose wedding ceremony to marry off the only daughter of the great Endeavour, no. Only a legal contract binding you to him, papers that you barely got a chance to read properly before your dad demanded for your signature. And just like that you’re married on legal terms.

It’s hard to believe it happened this morning, less than two hours ago when it feels like a nightmare that is dragging out for too long. 

A knock on the door snaps you out of your brainstorm session. 

“Hey. You good in there?” 

Keigo. You really hope he didn’t catch the hushed phone call. That makes you tuck the phone into your back pocket. 

You make a little noise with your throat, clearing your voice. “Hum, yeah. I… Just a minute.” 

You wait a moment in the spacious bathroom, taking the opportunity to check out your reflection in the mirror on top of the impeccable white marble vanity. 

There’s nothing different about your face, despite the storm of emotions that devastates you on the inside. Nothing indicates the horror you’re experiencing, maybe except for the light downturn of your lips. 

Your hands smoothes down the wrinkles along your silk blouse. Your dad had barked at you to change into a proper dress, something more elegant than a blouse and pants, but there had been no time to alter outfits.

The last hour you spent at home was total chaos. Hurrying to pack your stuff and now that you think about it, you didn’t even get a chance to pack your favorite clothes. Most of your belongings stayed behind, unable to fit the two suitcases the maids helped you fill with whatever you could find. Clothes. Shoes. Skincare. Makeup. Some jewelry. 

Oh, you even forgot your laptop! Well, you suppose that’s the least of your concerns. 

Straightening your back with a deep breath that does little to calm your nerves, you finally reach for the door.

Keigo is casually leaning against the adjacent wall with his hands chuffed inside the pant’s pockets, fluffy blonde brows rising as you close the en-suite bathroom. 

“Took you long enough in there. Was getting worried you had fallen down the toilet or somethin’.” he jokes. He’s not wearing the yellow Pro-Hero costume, just a tight shirt and pants.

Casual. Comfortable. 

 He pushes himself off the wall, nodding towards the room door. 

“C’mon, let me show you the rest of the penthouse. It’s yours now as well.” he pauses, looking at you with a knowing expression. “Unless you wanna go back to hiding in the bathroom to beg Endeavour some more?”

Your face falls, eyes widening with shock. 

“Oh, I…” you stammer, like a deer caught in the headlights. “I’m sorry. I just–”

Keigo stops you with a wave of his hand, walking over to you. You gulp as a reflex when he stops, standing right in front of you, his red wings ruffling behind him. 

Hands are placed over your shoulders, warm and firm. The proximity has your body tensing up, nerves prickling you.

It’s the first time you’re seeing him up close, eyes shyly noticing the small details. The faint scars scarring his cheek. The short blonde stubble around his chin. The small piercing on his ear. There’s a gentle scent emanating from him, maybe a body lotion or soap, you’re not sure. 

“Hey. It’s fine. I’m not mad.” he gently says, one finger tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his golden ones. “I know you must be scared. I’d be too if I was in your shoes.”

“Getting married is a huge deal. I’m also pretty sure this was kinda... unexpected, right? You probably weren’t expecting any of this. Were you? Hm?” 

Your silence elicits his fingers to dig deeper into your shoulders, and you hesitantly nod. A bad feeling pools in your belly. 

“C’mon, there’s no need to be so shy. You can speak to me. It’s just me, Keigo. Your husband.” a shiver follows down your spine when one of his hands slowly slides down your naked arm, calloused palm touching over the length of your skin.

The heat of his palm, albeit gentle, feels scorching hot when it lands on your wrist. Burning your skin. Marking you.  

“... and that means no secrets between us. Cause a good wife always tells the truth to her husband. All that stuff about having bling trust on your husband, ‘kay?” 

Keigo’s tone changes in the slightest as he speaks, a more serious undertone coating his words. His peculiar behavior has often reached your ear, mostly by the angry complaints of your father, but this… this seems insane.

He’s insane. The way he talks to you makes you uneasy. It makes you want to evade his touch and run back home, back to the safety of your room - your little heaven of peace.

The situation that has you trapped is far too weird, too abnormal for you to even know what to say or what to think. 

“So, what do you say?” his lips curl into a small smirk. “Will you be my perfect little wife?” 

There’s no other option other than nodding, a shaky movement of your head. That doesn’t satisfy Keigo, his lips pouting dramatically.  One hand cups the side of your face, rugged fingers scratching your gentle skin. 

Your heart skips a beat when his thumb reaches for your lips, the tinted lip gloss smudging as the pad of his finger drags over your lower lip. Heat burns in your cheeks, your whole face blazing warm at his touch. 

Keigo’s eyes are fixed on your lips, captivated by the shiny moisture coating them. You don’t dare moving a single muscle, as frozen as a porcelain statue. Too scared that one move might trigger him into kissing you. 

It happens anyways despite the little hope you harbored. Keigo leans forward and there’s barely time to think - or to dodge him - before his mouth is pressing against yours, soft lips applying minimal pressure into the kiss. It’s tender, gentle. It’s your first kiss. 

A hum rumbles through his chest and his hand slides to the back of your head, fingers stretching to keep you in place. Not allowing you to run away from him. Oh gosh. 

The kiss deepens, more pressure being added as Keigo teasingly nibbles your lower lip. There’s no other option but to gap your lips, allowing access to your mouth.

Keigo takes full advantage, sneaky tongue tracing the shape of your lips before pushing past your lips, almost making you gag at the sensation. It’s slimy and wet, and it feels weird to have roaming around your mouth, touching and feeling around. 

Before you even realize what you’re doing, your hands are pushing against his chest and Keigo accomplies, pulling away with a breathy chuckle. 

You exhale, wiping the smear of saliva and gloss with the back of your hand. 

“Sweet like candy.” Keigo says, eyes fixed on you as he licks his lips. “And a virgin, right? At least, that’s what your dad told me. Pure, untouched virgin and all that.”

You gulp at the hunger in his eyes. 

“Don’t be scared. I’m not a monster, I promise.” the corner of his lip curves, giving away the unsettling smirk behind. “Promise to take good care of you tonight. Scout’s honor.”

---------------------------------- 💍 ----------------------------------------

Physical touch is a concept you’re hardly familiar with. Anyone that looks carefully into your family can quickly realize that they are not one for effusive displays of affection.

Hugs, kisses, cuddling - none of that. If you think hard enough, there might be some vague memories of your mom wrapping her arms around you, back when you were a little child. Cradling you into a sweet although chilly embrace, gently rocking your body into sleeping.

But those memories are so distant, so fuzzy that you can’t even be sure they are real. The ones that remain are your dad and brothers. 

And if your mind doesn’t fail you, the last time your dad gave you any sort of physical attention wasn’t a pleasant situation, one that resulted with you receiving a nasty slap for being so loud and rowdy that you woke him up on his day off. 

So, no. Showing love through touch is not something you know about. But Keigo sure does. His touch is the only constant throughout the apartment tour.

As he guides you through the different rooms, his hand never leaves yours. Warm and somewhat gritty. Solid enough to keep you attached to him, even when you take small steps away from him. Could be considered a sweet gesture, if only your mind wasn’t finding it so suffocating. 

When finally you reach the last division left, Keigo wraps his toned arms around your waist, pushing you flush against his body.

A gasp escapes from your lips, both surprised and shocked at the sudden gesture and your hands immediately fly over to his, pushing for a moment before you realize that you can’t do that so directly.

You can’t push him away. He’s your husband. 

“... and this is where you’ll be spending most time. The kitchen. Had it remodeled especially for you.” Keigo proudly says, chin slotting on top of your left shoulder. “Endeavour seemed pretty confident in your cooking skills, he even bragged a whole ton about that. Delicious, traditional food and all that. Works well enough cause I’m sort of a glutton, y’know?”

He pecks the side of your exposed neck as you take in your surroundings, drinking in every single detail.

The amount of sunlight coming from the large windows is impressive, the bright and warm light cascading down on the large middle island and the long counter made of white marble. Every piece of equipment and machine looking like it belongs to a restaurant’s kitchen, modern and brand new. 

Everything is so impeccably shiny and clean, without a single speck of dust, that you wonder if the kitchen has ever been used before. Likely not. 

“Used to eat fast food everyday. Easy and cheap.” Keigo confirms your assumption. 

His arms tighten around you, squeezing you tight enough to leave you a bit breathless. 

“But that’s in the past. Cause now I have a pretty wifey who’s gonna spoil me with yummy food, right, babe? My little housewife.” he coos, similar to how one would speak to a little baby. “You’re gonna be real busy. Cooking everyday for your hard-working husband.”

The more Keigo speaks, the more uneasy you get. Why is he being so weird about it? 

He’s always had sort of a peculiar personality, you know that much from the tabloid’s fixation on documenting and discussing the every public interaction of the popular Pro-Hero that occupies the second position in the rankings but it was your dad’s angry ramblings about the younger man that gave you the confirmation of Hawks’s eccentric and unique personality. But you didn’t think he’d be a… freak.

The uneasiness that is slowly taking over you only gets worse when something - something that grows hard with every passing moment - pokes against your lower back, firm and insistent. 

A yelp gets stuck in your throat and you jump without thinking when a calloused hand delves underneath your blouse, warm fingers pinching the soft skin of your stomach. 

“C’mon, don’t be shy. I wanna hear you say it.” his mouth hovers over your ear, teeth playfully biting the sensitive earlobe. His hand graduatelly slips lower until it reaches the hem of your pants, giving it a playful tug. 

“You’re gonna cook for me, right?” 

A shudder travels through your body, raising goosebumps over the expense of your skin. 

“I’ll…cook for you, yes.” you stammer the words out, but Keigo isn’t done with you yet. 

He tuts, tongue swiping as light as a feather across the shell of your ear. “You’re gonna cook for me and what else. Go on, say it.” 

The knot lodged on your stomach won’t stop twisting and warping, making you experience things like never before. Stress, anxiety, fear. Everything at once. 

“I’ll…” you hesitate, voice so low that it breaks.

Keigo encourages you further. “Hm hm, keep going. I’m all ears.”

“I’ll..” you start, tongue feeling too heavy to move. “I’ll be your housewife.”

Keigo rewards you with a nasty growl and much to your horror, he pushes himself harder against you, pulling you against the kitchen island. Trapped between the cold marble and Keigo’s firm body, there’s no way to slip away from him. 

There’s no way to escape Keigo as he sets up a slow rocking motion, shamelessly dry humping you in the middle of the kitchen. 

There’s nothing for you to do except to push back the disgust that grows with each breathless moan that resonates over your ear and accept your destiny. 

---------------------------------- 💍 -----------------------------------

A few years ago, when you were a somewhat silly dumb teenager, you’d have fantasies about your wedding night.

Rosy and dreamy fantasies about how perfect that night was supposed to be, how romance and love would fill the atmosphere until you were dizzy with emotions.

A strong and handsome husband that would have the softest lips, peppering kisses all over your body. Gentle hands whose touch would be enough to make you see stars. He’d be sweet and kind and he would take his time with you. 

Now, on your first night as a married woman, you realize just how unrealistic your teenage fantasies were. 

Your body writhes on its own as Keigo slowly pushes his hips forward, forcing his cock all the way inside your cramped pussy. The problem isn’t his size. He’s not too big or too small. Just average, you suppose.

But the problem lies in the painful fact that this is your first time and Keigo seems more focused on getting as deep as he can instead of going easy on you.  

“Oh, fuck. You’re really tight, huh.” Keigo pants, forehead pressing against yours. One of your hands instinctively reaches out to push on his chest, desperate for some distance, for some much needed relief.

But Keigo is fast in stopping you, grabbing your hands with his own, forcing each hand to lay flat near your head. 

“...it hurts.” 

Your whining gets smothered down by Keigo’s lips, insistent in keeping you quiet. His hips rock against you, pulling halfway out before drilling back inside with impressive determination that earns a muffled distressed gasp from you everytime. 

Your walls sting despite the unhurried pace Keigo sets. Not too fast, but not too slow either. Probably the best middle-ground tempo he could find. But it’s not enough for you. Your pussy aching with each thrust, struggling to accommodate the foreign intrusion.

Keigo pulls away from the kiss, with a breathless groan that feels overly graphic. His face hovers close enough for the ragged breaths and pants to hit you, leaving a warm cast of air.  

Keigo releases one of your hands and his now free hand travels down, expertly hooking under your knee before pulling the leg up to your chest. Opening you up. Discomfort flares up in your leg at the uncomfortable position, cramps start to form in your muscles and there's a malicious grin forming in Keigo’s face at the sight of your struggle. 

“C’mon, don’t be a brat, you can take it.” he purrs, face bending down to press a kiss on your knee. “You’re already taking my cock like a champ. Keep that tightness up and you’re gonna make me cum soon. Fuck.”

He grunts, strands of honey hair hanging in his forehead, his skin dewy with sweat. Behind him, the wings won’t stop twitching and shaking, adding more weight as Keigo falls on top of you, crushing you against the bed with his solid weight.

He fucks you faster, going deeper with the new angle that has you wincing everytime. The erratic pace rocks both you and the bed in a way that feels like an earthquake, headboard banging with such force on the wall that you won’t be surprised if tomorrow there’s a dent.

You also won’t be surprised if there are visible dents littering your body as well.  

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he moans, chasing his high like a madman. “You’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Take my cum like the good, little wifey you are. Fuck, yeah!” 

The symphony of groans rises in volume just like the growing urgency in the few thrusts Keigo punctures right before he buries his face in your neck, an animalistic sound rumbling deep from his chest as his body comes to a halt, every inch of cock buried deep inside you. 

After that, the room is strangely quiet. 

Keigo’s warm breathing hits your neck, irregular and shallow as he takes his time getting himself back together. He takes no initiative to move away from you and you lack the necessary strength to push him away, so there’s no other option but to remain on your back, smothered under his weight, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Feeling the soreness seeping through the soft muscles while realizing how sticky your skin has become. The dull cramps that start building up in the lower part of your body. Leg still hoisted up over Keigo’s arm, settled into the stiff position. 

You wince at the member lodged inside of you, turning flaccid with each passing moment. What is impossible to ignore is the fluid that oozes from your hole, slowly trickling downwards. 

“That was insane. Fuck, I even think you’re officially the best fuck of my life.” he declares with a satisfied sigh, voice hoarse. 

Finally, after what it feels like an eternity - even if probably only has been a few minutes - Keigo moves his arm away and you sigh in relief when your leg falls down to the bed, stiff and sore.

He pulls back on his knees, a soft grunt escaping from him when he removes himself from inside you and you can finally breathe properly without his weight pressing you down. 

He heads for the bathroom, feet padding on the floor as he walks away with a yawn. 

You doze off, exhaustion making your eyes finally close as you find some thin peace in the darkness. 

---------------------------------- 💍 --------------------------------------

The marital troubles begin less than two days after you become Keigo’s wife. 

You figure it to be a good moment to ask for permission. Your husband - it still feels awkward to say that, even in your mind - is happily munching on the dinner you rushed to cook after he wasted nearly the entire afternoon by keeping you in bed, performing other marital duties.

He’s insatiable when it comes to sex and you’ve come to realize that his appetite is only satisfied when you end up with a sore, achy pussy that leaks copious amounts of cum he fills you with. 

The reality of your situation is slowly falling upon you, forcing you to realize that this isn’t just some phase of your life. No, it’s not a phase. This is your life now. 

Your father never called back, not even a single message to check up on you. Part of you thinks that he must’ve blocked you. He did make it abundantly clear that you’re no longer a part of his family. 

So now, you’re trying to find a way to make things better for yourself. Online college had been the only compromise your dad accepted at the time, so at least you have a degree.

Keigo’s short leave is almost ending, you only know this because Keigo complains about it all the time, which means that soon he’ll be going back to his agency, the patrols, the rescue missions… 

Sure, Keigo did blabber some stuff about you staying a housewife, but you do hope that he can be convinced otherwise. 

“How’s the food?” you ask, catching some vegetables with the fork. The question is pointless, given that the answer lies on the plate before Keigo, mountains of teriyaki chicken and mashed potatoes stacked on the plate.  

Keigo grins, shoving more food into his mouth. “Think cookin’ might be your quirk after all, babe. Those Michellin-star chefs got nothing on you. Trust me.” 

A chuckle leaves your lips before you even realize it. That might be the first time Keigo actually made you laugh. 

“I was meaning to ask, you’re going back to work tomorrow, right?” you ask as casually as possible, pushing the fork to your mouth. 

Keigo hums, before he stops and shakes his head. “Nah, I changed the dates so I can get a few more days with you. Probably heading back on sunday. Maybe monday if I can pull it off.”

“Oh okay.” you nod. 

He looks at you, the edges of his lips curling into a small grin. “Why? Want me to take more days off? I’m sure I can make it work, if you really want me to.”

You pause, mushing down some broccoli with the fork for a moment before you answer. 

“Well, I… I was wondering…” you hesitate, trying to measure your words. “...that when you go back to work, maybe I could get a job? If it’s fine by you, of course! It’s just, well, you’re gonna be busy with work and I’ll be home alone all day. So, if I get a job then I’d be doing something useful, right?”

The teasing grin slowly dies down as Keigo stares at you, eyebrows arching. “A job?” 

Your nod isn’t as assertive as you wish it was and to make it worse, Keigo doesn’t answer right away, taking his sweet time chewing another mouthful of food before taking a few sips from his beer. 

And then he explodes in laughter. 

Eyebrows arching in amusement while Keigo wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. 

The expression on your face must be transparent enough to show your feelings, you realize so when Keigo coos at you, hand settling on top of yours. 

“Did I hurt your feelings, doll? Aww, c’mon, don’t be sad.” he says with a pouty lip, not a trace of seriousness in him. “You’re all delicate and nice. You wouldn’t last a single day working a nine-to-five job. Those things are brutal. Trust me when I say that you’re not cut out for that.”

You stare at him, stunned. He’s making you look weak and pathetic. Something your father would too. 

“But I–”

“Besides, if you really wanna be busy that bad, I’m sure we can work something out.” Keigo doesn’t give you the chance to speak before he’s cutting you off, his grin growing wider - and sinister. “I’m sure a baby would keep you fully booked.”

---------------------------------- 💍 ---------------------------------------

Being Endeavour’s only daughter hadn’t been the glamorous life assumed by the tabloids. Sure, you lived in the comfort of a huge house filled with staff that was more than willing to satisfy your needs.

Not a single day in your life went by struggling for money or food. You had enough designer clothes to overflow your room’s closet and more jewelry than needed. Safety, comfort, money - you had it all. 

But materialistic luxury and comfort hardly meant anything when so many restrictions were imposed upon you.

Your dad was strict - even more considering the quirkless failure he claimed you to be. Not to mention that you are a girl. That alone downgraded your value by a ton, at least to your father’s eyes. That meant being homeschooled for the better part of your life, with harsh tutors and teachers that demanded nothing less than perfection from you.

Leaving the house for whatever reasons may be meant begging your father for permission and his answer was always unsurprisingly negative. Your brothers, despite being nice, were too busy with their own lives. 

In the end, you were left alone - no social life and no friends. 

But as bad as it was, you grew accustomed to it. It was your life and granted that it could be much worse. 

Marrying Keigo - as frightening as it was - isn’t as bad as you expected. He’s not violent. He’s not abusive. As peculiar and bizarre that Keigo is, he’s not entirely a bad husband, you reluctantly admit. 

He takes care of you, through both big and small gestures. You don’t even have to ask for gifts before they are given to you. Books. Jewelry. Clothes. 

He makes an effort to get to know you. Your likes and dislikes. Always eager to know more about you. About the things that make you happy or sad. 

He shows you affection - something that used to be so foreign to you. He kisses and hugs you, his touch always so warm and soft as he drowns you in affection. 

But Keigo is not a saint either. Far from it. 

He doesn’t like it when you talk too much about your family. The way he firmly steers away the conversation when you mention how badly you miss your brothers is enough proof that your husband wants nothing but distance from your old life.

His own family remains a mystery to you, with Keigo setting up boundaries at that sensitive topic. The only family he’s interested in is the future family that the two of you will build together.  

He hates when you do anything that doesn’t suit him. Cooking anything other than his favorite meals always ends up with him giving you the cold shoulder. Choosing a movie or a show that he doesn’t like has him instantly taking over the remote control, changing the TV to whatever he wants to see.

Keigo doesn’t give in easily and there’s no attempt of an amicable compromise or whatsoever. You do what he wants, not the other way. 

In the end, it dawns on you that marrying Keigo wasn’t a salvation. It never was. It was merely exchanging from one prison to another and a part of you believes that your dad knew that. 

---------------------------------- 💍 ---------------------------------------

A few days after Keigo restarts his work schedule, you take the opportunity to leave the apartment. 

However, grocery shopping takes far longer than you anticipated and the sun is already starting to hide in the horizon when you finally make your way back to the apartment. 

You get inside with the bags full of groceries, struggling to close the door when a voice resonates from behind. 

“Where were you?”

You yelp at the frightening sight that the living room has become. Red feathers are sprayed all over the room - the floor, the couch, the furniture - creating a confusing mess of crimson that awfully resembles a murder scene. And in the center of it all, Keigo stiffly stands with arms crossed over his chest.

But what’s more frightening is the solemn expression on his face. Blank and devoid of any humor, serious as a stone. His golden eyes are sharp, raking over you like you’ve committed a serious, immoral crime. 

A cold shiver runs through your body. You’ve never seen Keigo this serious, without the usual friendly grin and the humorous jokes. That makes you a bit nervous. 

“Did your dad not teach you any manners? Cause I asked you something and I’m still waiting on the answer.” the harshness of his voice makes you feel cold, despite the soft heat that comes with summer. 

“Uh, I went to the store….for groceries.” you tentatively raise one hand, showing the heavy bag hanging from it.  

Keigo just stares at you, unfazed. 

“Which store?”

You look at him, confused. 

“The one down the street. Right in the corner of the-”

“To buy what?”

“We ran out of carrots yester–”

“With whose permission?”

“I-”

“With whose permission?” he repeats with a silver of irritation, taking a step towards you. “Cause I sure as hell don’t remember you asking me about this. So, I’d like for you to explain why you left the apartment without talking with me first.”

Your lips part with shock, shoulders slumping in the slightest. 

“Did you check your phone? I texted you, even called you a few times. But I guess you were too busy to answer your husband, right? Nah, you just went out there, not a single care in the world. Who cares if I was here, waiting and worried sick ‘bout you. ” he spits the words, bitterly chuckling before he turns around, stomping his way down the hall. 

Anxiety builds inside you, layer after layer until you’re overflowing with it, chewing your lower lip.

You don’t understand. He never mentioned anything about not going out and you just assumed Keigo wouldn’t object to it. It was just grocery shopping, nothing much. 

But maybe you should have asked. Maybe you should’ve been more careful, more attentive. That’s what a good wife does. You can practically hear the echo of your dad berating at your stupidity. Stupid. Useless. Quirkless. 

You stay frozen in the same spot, brain thinking too slow and too fast at the same time but without providing you a solution.

Slowly moving, you take the grocery bags to the kitchen, putting away all the food with a heavy guilt-prickling mind. Hopefully you can appease Keigo's irritation by cooking his favorite dish. 

Dinner takes place an hour later, the tense mood highlighted by the heavy silence that is only broken by the scraping of the cutlery. Keigo doesn’t bother looking at you, a light frown still engraved in his face. 

Apologies are stuck in the tip of your tongue, just ready to spill at any moment but somehow they don’t. You just can’t bring yourself to speak. Keigo matches your silence, eyes trained on his phone as he eats. 

He barely glances your way when his food is finished, leaving his plate on the table before he goes back to the room. 

The coldness remains for the rest of the evening. Keigo doesn’t speak for the rest of the night, nor does he touch you - the first time since you got married. 

The next morning you rise earlier than usual after spending the entire night mulling over the argument.

It weighs uncomfortably in your mind, repeating itself over and over again till you’re lost. Intrusive guilt settles in your mind, making you both sad and insecure about your actions. 

The kitchen is swallowed by gloominess and darkness when you enter it but you don’t mind. It matches your mood. Sleep-deprived and stressed out. 

You’re putting together the ingredients for a white chocolate cake - Keigo’s favorite - when suddenly arms wrap around your waist, frightening you.

Your shriek echoes through the kitchen before you get the chance to turn your face around and realize it’s only Keigo. 

He chortles for a moment before burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. You remain paralyzed, unsure of what to say despite the turmoil that takes place inside you. 

“I’m sorry. About yesterday.” Keigo mutters, face buried in the crook of your neck. “I might’ve had…overreacted a bit.”

The tension melts away from your body and mind, releasing all of its heavy weight. Everything is gonna be fine. You feel so light and free suddenly. 

Keigo must’ve noticed that because he gently swirls your body around, making you face him. His hand cups your cheek, thumb gently rubbing the skin underneath. 

His expression is apologetic until he starts speaking. 

“I shouldn't have said those things. I hurt your feelings and I’m really sorry for that.” he apologies, “I was upset and worried and those emotions took the best of me. But…”

You raise your head, eyes searching for his. 

“... you have to admit that some of the fault goes to you as well. You really shouldn’t have left the apartment without asking me first.” the words are coated with a softness that doesn’t seem all that genuine. Some of the tension returns. 

“I’m your husband, that means I get worried ‘bout you. Can’t make me be the bad guy just for tryin’ to look after you, can you?”

Keigo looks at you, sighing. 

“Listen, I just… if anything happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. You’re the most precious person in my life, you’re my wife and I love you. A lot.” his fingers tighten up almost imperceptibly around your face. “So can you really blame me for trying to keep you safe?”

Your fingers weakly try to pull his hand away from your cheek, without success. 

“But I was fine, Keigo. Nothing would’ve happened.”

He chuckles, a dry sound with no amusement underneath it. 

“If you saw the amount of fucked up shit I see everyday, you wouldn’t be saying that.” his words stun you, but Keigo doesn’t seem to mind. “Women getting robbed, raped and murdered left and right, all the time. And guess what you are? A woman. A defenseless, quirkless woman.” 

There’s a cold shudder running down your spine, giving you goosebumps.

His tone, demeaning and derogatory, sounds awfully similar to the one your father used with you every time he was forced to address you. 

“Not to mention that you’re my wife. Hawks’ wife. That makes you a target to all the bad guys out there. And trust me, they won’t hesitate to use you to get to me. You get what I’m saying, right? Sweetheart.” 

You gulp with a dry throat, practically sensing Keigo’s patience wearing thin with each moment. Head moving without your consent to nod at him. Yes, you hear him - loud and clear. 

“Yeah…yes, I understand that.” 

Keigo nods, apprehension plastered in his face, clearly not convinced by your words but he drops the matter. Doesn’t matter if you agree or not, if you’re happy or not, as long as he gets his way. And of course he does. 

He pulls you into his arms, pushing your face to his chest while pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head. 

“No more outside trips, alright?” his question is merely rhetorical. “Not without running it by me, at least.”

You nod once again. Not because you want to, but because it dawns you that there’s nothing else you can do. This is your life now, whether you like it or not.

---------------------------------- 💍 --------------------------------------

The first anniversary of your ‘marriage’ is a bittersweet day.

You wake up to a strange tingling over the expanse of your neck, similar to the brush of a soft feather against your skin. Your eyes flutter open at the ticking feeling, the low chirping of birds revealing the early hour of the morning. 

A yawn slips from your lips as you rub your eyes, fighting back the drowsiness. You feel like you’re running on fumes, unable to have a decent night’s sleep in months.

The pain that stretches across your back and torso only adds up to the exhaustion, your muscles somewhat sore. 

“Rise and shine, sweetheart!” 

You look up just in time to catch Keigo crossing the threshold of the door, a small round cake precariously balanced in one hand and a wrapped gift in the other. His red wings spread out almost majestically, carrying him through the air until he softly lands by your side in bed. 

Keigo immediately ditches the gift and helps you sit in the bed, fluffing out the pillows against your back. 

“Happy anniversary.” his lips press against yours, roping you into a warm kiss, before depositing the cake in your lap.

White chocolate, as usual. You’ve eaten so much white chocolate these past months that your mind has developed a genuine disgust for it. Still, you force out a grateful smile, his morning stubble scratching your lips as you kiss his cheek. 

“For you too.” 

Keigo grins, digging into the cake with a spoon before offering you the first bite. It’s delicious but nauseatingly sweet at the same time. 

“Can you believe that it’s been a whole year since we got married? Feels like it was only yesterday that we got together.” he muses, taking a spoonful of cake for himself this time. “Looks like it’s true what people say, time does fly by when you’re living the time of your life.” 

You refuse his attempt to feed you another piece of cake, the hints of nausea starting to turn your stomach. You wish he had come with a normal breakfast tray instead of cake. 

Keigo takes your left hand into his own, thumb stroking the ring decorating your annular finger.

“And to be honest, this has been the best year of my life. Never been happier than this.” he confesses. “I love you, so so much. And you love me back, right?” 

Your lips part, a resigned ‘yes’ ready to spill from your mouth. And then a loud squeal cuts through the air. 

Repressing back a tired sigh, you start pushing yourself out of bed when Keigo shakes his head, stopping you with a hand. 

“Nu-uh, I got it. Just sit back and relax, babe. You deserve a break.” 

The promised break lasts about a minute as Keigo seems hell-bent on spending every moment with you. Soon, he’s walking back inside the room with the small baby nestled in his arms, choosing to stand near your side of the bed. 

“Little baby bird over here wants to celebrate the occasion with mommy and daddy.” Keigo uses that special soft tone with your daughter, peppering small kisses over her tiny face. She giggles and coos, crying fit already forgotten. 

You watch them with a faint smile tugging at your lips.

Despite every flaw of Keigo, you can’t help but be grateful for his doting nature when it comes to your daughter. Sure, Keigo never changes her diapers or deals with her during her occasional meltdowns and tantrums but you recognize that it could be worse.

She’s the apple of his eyes and he spoils her rotten, not afraid to shower her with love and affection. You could never imagine your dad kissing or hugging you the way Keigo does with your kid. 

Only takes two minutes for the little princess to tire herself out by laughing and soon her little eyes close as she settles down once again. Keigo makes sure to tuck her better inside the little pink blanket, rocking her in his arms with gentle rhythmic movements. 

Finally, he remembers the long forgotten gift from the bed, offering it to you with a grin. 

“A little something for my gorgeous wife.”

From the small rattling sound inside the box, it’s easy to predict that a new necklace or bracelet is gonna be added to your jewelry collection. 

Your brows press together, fingers feeling the smooth texture of the box. 

“I don’t have a gift for you, sorry.” you mutter, suddenly conscious of your mishap. 

Keigo coos at you this time. 

“Aw, don’t say that. I’m holding in my arms the best gift you could’ve given me. Our little baby bird.” he says, shifting the baby into only one of his arms while his free hand comes to rest atop of your belly, still not fully recovered from birth and yet ready for the next batch.

“Besides, the second gift is already on the way.”

[yummycastiel]

yes, chef! - ryomen sukuna

pairing: reader x modern!Sukuna, f!reader x Sukuna, chef!reader x chef!Sukuna

synopsis: you get hired for an unpaid internship position at three michelin-star restaurant owned by none other than world-renowned chef, Ryomen Sukuna. you're obviously attracted to him, so now you gotta juggle that and also try to survive through your first three weeks.

content/warnings: MDNI, enemies (?) to lovers, pining, mutual pining, workplace romance, power dynamic, implied age-gap sorta, Sukuna is an asshole, swearing, workplace harassment, light smut, heavy petting, kissing, arguing, use of she, no use of y/n

word count: ~8.3k

~ ~ ~

Malevolent Shrine. That was the name of the three-Michelin star restaurant you found yourself standing outside of, neck craned back, stomach feeling queasy as you gripped onto your bag tightly. At first glance, the name was kind of off-putting, a little too sinister for such a popular spot, but it was indeed very popular, one of the best restaurants in the country with a waiting list of three months. 

You opened the double doors, and stepped inside, putting one shaky foot in front of the other. It had a dark industrial interior, blackened steel, furniture made of charred wood, with crimson accent lighting lining the walls. The decor consisted of repurposed butcher hooks hung up high, art pieces of twisted cuts of meat and old-school butcher diagrams. Dark blues rock played softly in the background, adding to the dusky ambience. You’d never seen a restaurant quite like this before, used to all the fancy, fine-dining spots you frequented in culinary school when you were doing research. This was why you wanted to be here, to stand out, to do something different. 

You waited at the front of house, feet shuffling nervously as employees bustled around, preparing for service, laying down napkins, polishing cutlery. All the workers fit the vibe of the place perfectly, wearing black aprons with blood-red stitching and sporting heavy combat boots. Each one of them sported piercings, tattoos of some sort, or dyed hair. You swallowed thickly as you toyed with your own piercings, inwardly hoping they’d be enough to fit in the crowd. 

Someone finally noticed you, a rather important looking individual, no doubt the restaurant manager. You recognized them from your interview for the unpaid internship position a while ago, but they seemed to not recall. They had milky-white skin to match their white hair cut into a bob, a splash of dyed red hair on the back. They hurried you over with a flick of their finger. 

‘’New cook right?’’ They said, eyeing you up and down with a hint of disdain. You nodded quickly as you introduced yourself. ‘’Uraume. General manager.’’ They replied, introducing themselves again, ‘’You’re early.’’ 

‘’My mom always said, being on time means you’re late!’’ You chirped without thinking, and you immediately wanted to slap yourself as Uraume arched an elegant brow. Awesome, embarrass yourself, why don’t you?

‘’Choso, our floor manager, will give you a quick tour, show you everything you need to know. Service is in five hours.’’ Uraume stated, ignoring your little quip. ‘’Sukuna will be around for the staff meeting, you can meet him then.’’ 

Ryomen Sukuna. The executive chef and owner of Malevolent Shrine. A world-renowned chef for his talents with bold and dark flavours, having won his first Michelin star the same year he opened this restaurant. He had been in the top ten best restaurants twice, in the top fifty nearly every year for ten years, named Best Chef four times by Restaurant Magazine, and a dozen other accolades won internationally. He was an artist. A god amongst chefs and restaurateurs alike, and you’d be lying if you hadn't almost pissed your pants when you got accepted as a cook after a grueling, multiple-interview process. He was the man you wanted to meet.  

You nodded at Uraume, and turned to see the man who was no doubt Choso making his way over. He had dark, spiky black hair tied up in two buns, a tattoo across his nose, and dark-eyebags. He looked exhausted, but he was giving Uraume his rapt attention as they introduced you to him. 

‘’Nice to meet you.’’ Choso said in a low, calm voice as the two of you shook hands, ‘’Let me give you a tour, yeah?’’ You followed him, trying to absorb as much information as you could as Choso drifted around the restaurant. 

‘’I’m sure you know our concept already,’’ Choso was saying, ‘’This is the front of house.’’ You just kept nodding as you took in your surroundings. Tables with no white tablecloths, just wood and iron tables stained dark from years of meat and fire, open kitchen concept with visible flame-grilling and meat cleavers for diners to enjoy. It was intimidating to say the least, but you couldn’t ignore the spark of excitement thrumming in your veins. 

‘’This is our maitre d’, Jogo.’’ Choso introduced quickly, pointing to a short man with brown hair and one eye, the other covered by a patch. You waved, and Choso swept on, taking you into the back of house. The kitchen was cold, clean, silver steel, and other cooks were already at work, busy prepping for service. Choso took you to each station, introducing you to each cook, showing you where the walk-in was, the pantry, the bar, and pretty much everything that was to be known about the restaurant. You wished you had a notepad, a dozen names and places swirling around in your head. 

Choso eventually got to the end of the tour, ending off with introducing you to the Sous-Chef, Sukuna’s second in command and half-brother, Jin Itadori. He gave you a kind smile as you told him your name. He was tall, with pink hair and gentle eyes, a stark contrast to his brother who you’d only seen in magazines, newspapers, and on the internet. Jin gave you a more in-depth run-down of the kitchen and stations, and you listened with rapt attention. If there was one thing you weren’t going to do, it was fail. Not here. 

‘’Tonight, you’ll be stagiaire, chef.’’ Jin explained. Bottom of the brigade hierarchy, where intern-chefs often started, with everything to prove and everything to lose, on trial to see if they’d eventually get hired. ‘’You’ll be assisting Hanami, our grillardin.’’ Hanami was a tall, stern-looking woman, with ivy-tattoos snaking up her long arms. Assisting the grillardin on your first night at Malevolent Shrine almost made your heart sink. Grilled items were Hanami’s job, and in a restaurant like this, a carnivore’s haven, it would be argued to be one that would put the most pressure on your shoulders. You squared your shoulders as Hanami gave you instructions. You could do this, you could do this. 

‘’I’m surprised Uraume picked you.’’ Hanami said suddenly as the two of you worked together, making your cheeks flush. There was no malice in her tone, just a calm observation. ‘’I don’t doubt your qualifications were sufficient, chef, but they typically choose the best of the best, who also fit with the concept of the restaurant.’’ You chewed the inside of your cheek. You knew you probably stuck out like a sore thumb, but you’d be damned if you let that hold you back. You were talented, you knew it, even though every restaurant like this was a proving ground, you were ready to work your ass off to show you belonged here. 

‘’Guess Uraume had some slim pickings, chef.’’ You joked nervously as you sharpened your knife. Hanami didn’t smile. 

‘’No such thing in this place.’’ Hanami said simply, ‘’Don’t be nervous, or pretend you’re not. Any sign of weakness and you’ll get killed in this place, chef.’’ You knew Hanami spoke figuratively (hopefully), but it didn't stop the shiver running up your spine. 

You continued working, doing a decent job of keeping up with Hanami. She was quiet, and spoke in a monotone-bored voice no matter what was happening, but she guided you along the way, showing you the ropes of her station. You appreciated it, thankful to whatever higher power was out there that you hadn’t been shoved with the typical asshole chefs that were abundant in the restaurant industry. 

As the time ticked closer to service, you met the other chefs du partie. Mahito, the blue-haired saucier with scars all over his body. Dagon, the garde manger, Toji Fushiguro, another grillardin, and Suguru Geto, the poissonier. All experts in the kitchen, all well-known in the culinary world. The best of the best, and somehow you’d found yourself among them. Other line cooks milled about, taking a seat next to you as the entirety of the restaurant staff sat in the front of house, the meeting starting soon. Uraume was talking in a low voice to Choso, and Jin was busy talking on the phone frantically. You played with your fingers as you looked around, tugging at your chefs coat as you felt the nerves start to set in within you. 

The room went silent when a hulking figure stepped through the front door. Ryomen Sukuna. When he walked into the room, he commanded it, and you were a bit surprised that people weren’t falling to their knees to worship him. He was tall, impossibly tall, taller than Jin, with black tattoos coiled around his muscled forearms and lining his wickedly handsome face. One deep, crimson-red eye surveyed his staff, like he was looking down on some ants, the other side of his face scarred from a cruel burn he’d gotten in a kitchen accident many years ago. His lips twisted into a scowl as he stood in front of everyone. 

All you could do was gape at him, and you had to check to make sure your jaw hadn't dropped to the floor. Sukuna, in the flesh, and startlingly more sexy than you had anticipated. God, the idea of making a fool of yourself in front of him made you want to throw up. Uraume startled you out of your thoughts as they began the meeting. 

‘’Okay, so we got several VIPs dining with us tonight-’’ They began, rattling off the names of celebrities and actors that made your eyes widen in shock, ‘’Unfortunately Satoru Gojo made a reservation too, so it’s very important that everything is perfect for that little twat.’’ You blinked. Satoru Gojo? He was a new, up-and-coming chef, close to winning his first Michelin star at his own restaurant to which he worked as the Executive Chef, the Six Eyes. People saw him as Sukuna’s biggest competition. 

Sukuna growled, a deep sound in his chest. ‘’Who let that asshole make a reservation?’’ He asked. His voice was a rasp, heavy and grating. You wanted to hear it again. Jin gave his brother an apologetic glance. 

‘’You crashed his restaurant without even bothering to make a reso, you know.’’ He said, his jovial tone the complete opposite of Sukuna’s. Sukuna just rolled his good eye and crossed his arms, muttering something below his breath. Your gaze followed his every movement, his every breath, as if you could absorb some of his greatness just by being in his orbit. 

Uraume kept going; ‘’On the menu tonight, servers listen up, bone-in tomahawk rib-eyes, charred leg of lamb, pork shoulder, and whole-smoked quail, if you have any questions, ask Jin, not Sukuna.’’ Sukuna seemed uninterested in the meeting, thoughts clearly elsewhere, and as soon as Uraume was done, everything covered, everything perfect, he turned and shouldered his way into the back of house. 

Service started in thirty minutes, and as you diligently prepared Hanami’s station, you felt a hand land on your shoulder. You turned to see Jin, smiling down at you, and only a couple paces away, Sukuna. You felt your heart drop to your stomach, mouth going dry as you glanced between the two brothers. 

‘’This is our new chef, Ryomen.’’ Jin said, saying your name, ‘’I’m sure you know my brother?’’ 

Your entire life and culinary career flashed before your eyes. You wanted to make a good impression, no, you needed to make a good impression. This was it, this was your chance to show Sukuna that you belonged here, that you were the right pick for the job. 

Obviously, as you lifted your hand to shake Sukuna’s, you fumbled with your knife, and it clattered to the ground. Your face burned as you scrambled to get it. Idiot, idiot, idiot! You leaned up, biting your lip as Sukuna shook your hand, his rough hands making your heart beat faster. He regarded you with an unimpressed look, a hint of disgust. Okay, ouch. 

‘’Sorry, uh-’’ You mumbled, letting your hand drop to your side, ‘’I’ll clean that, um, it’s such an honor to meet you chef. A huge honor. It’s an honor for me to be here, a real privilege-’’ 

‘’Her? Uraume picked her for the internship?’’ Sukuna’s voice cut through your babble, and you felt your blood run cold. You felt small, tiny, the size of a gnat as Sukuna looked down at you. Was it over? Was Sukuna going to crush your dreams of getting hired here at this very moment?

‘’Come on, Ryomen,’’ Jin tried to smooth out, ‘’It’s her first day, and you know Uraume doesn’t pick people who aren’t qualified to be here.’’ You wanted to throw yourself at Jin’s feet for standing up for you, but all you could do was chew on your lip, holding back tears of embarrassment. No weakness, not in front of him, or ever. You’d long been told you were too sensitive for this world of chefs, and for the most part they were right, but you’d proved them wrong, you’d proved every mentor and classmate wrong. However now, standing under Sukuna’s judgement, you felt the cracks start to show. Get it fucking together, you told yourself. 

Sukuna just grunted, giving you one last once-over before he turned and stalked to his office. Jin turned to you, patting your shoulder in an attempt to comfort you. 

‘’Don’t take it personally. Ryomen is like that with all the new chefs, you should’ve seen Dagon on his first day.’’ Jin said, laughing, even though you found none of it very funny, ‘’You held it together pretty well, kid. Just tough tonight out and Sukuna will come to…tolerate you. He tolerates us all.’’ And with that, Jin sauntered off. You stood there alone, too scared to wipe the misty-tears in your eyes. You took a deep breath in, then out, calming your heart as best you could. If you were going to survive in this place, you were going to have to put your tough-guy face on, even though you weren’t sure if it felt like you at all. 

~ ~ ~ 

Service at Malevolent Shrine could only be described as organized chaos. The kitchen was alive with shouting, cursing, prickly jabs, flailing arms, but the food was getting pushed out fast. Everything was cooked to perfection, under the watchful eye of Sukuna. All the chefs moved like a machine, Jin running the expo like he was born doing it, calling for hands, the servers filing in and out of the kitchen. 

You kept your mouth shut, head down and hyper-focused on your station, following Hanami’s every order, reading her movements and learning as much as you could. Your attention was often ripped away, eyes flickering over to Mahito, who shot condescending insults in your direction at every hesitation in your hand. You took the verbal abuse with a yes chef and a no, I’m not going to fuck up chef, and you kept your head in the game. Once you were in the zone, you were in the zone. 

Sukuna barely spared you a glance, thundering commands and inspecting every dish. You weren’t sure what you expected, definitely not Sukuna showering you with encouraging praise, but it would have been nice if he at least gave you a nod, something. You tried to count your blessings that he wasn't yelling at you or breathing down your neck with that dark-red, judgmental gaze. 

Then, everything came crashing down around you, literally. 

You didn’t know Mahito was behind you. He didn’t warn you, he didn’t say the obligatory behind! So when you took a step back, Hanami’s plated and ready tomahawk rib-eye’s in your hands, you only felt Mahito’s foot behind yours at the last second. You stumbled back with a yelp, dropping the plate, and it crashed to the floor with a terrific crack as the food went everywhere. You landed on your behind, the air knocked out of you, and Mahito let out a shrill cackle. Embarrassment flooded through you, hot and sick, your face flushing red as you scrambled to your feet. You were sure your heart was about to fall out of your sore ass as you mumbled out trembling apologies, your throat starting to close up. A gaggle of servers leapt in to help clean, practiced movements as they quickly and methodically gathered up the plate and the ruined food. 

‘’I’m sorry chef,’’ You rasped out to Hanami, who was already re-firing a new rib-eye. You wanted the floor to open up underneath you and swallow you whole. Every eye in the kitchen was on you, the fucking intern who’d messed up, who didn’t belong. You could almost hear their whispers. 

‘’The hell are you doing?’’ Sukuna snarled from the front of the kitchen. He was leaning over the table, knuckles white as he shot you a terrifying glare. ‘’Get back on the line. If you drop one more thing, you’re done.’’ You nodded enthusiastically, trembling hands grabbing your knife as you tried to focus again. You saw Mahito out of the corner of your eye, slinking back to his station. You knew he was an asshole, but sabotage? He’d tripped you, just to torture you, putting the whole kitchen back by a full minute. You risked a glance at Sukuna, who was still glaring daggers into you. 

You knew Sukuna saw everything. Anything that happened in his kitchen, he knew about, so how come he wasn't yelling at Mahito too? That prick had ruined the flow, not only yours, but everyone’s. This has to be some sick joke, an elaborate plan to get you to run out of the restaurant with your tail between your legs. You choked back a sneer as you avoided Mahito’s gaze. Whatever. You knew every kitchen had a guy like him, you could take it. You’d just cry about it later. 

Service finally finished, and you were completely spent. You had managed to keep it together for the most part, not dropping any more plates, but your performance wasn't exactly stellar. Sukuna had only yelled at you a couple times, pointing out your sloppy work, your slow hands. You sighed deeply, from your chest, as you closed the bathroom door behind you. You trudged to the lockers, sore fingers undoing your chef’s coat. Frustration followed you like a cloud. Your first day hadn’t gone at all like you wanted, your job even harder to do with Mahito looming over your shoulder with his sharp tongue. Momentary doubt flickered in your mind. Hanami hadn’t gotten upset with you, but you worried that she was already thinking you didn’t deserve to be here. Negative thoughts ran through your mind, and you found it hard to ground yourself in reality, when suddenly you heard voices around the corner. You froze, keeping out of sight as you heard Mahito’s voice.

‘’I’ll give it two days for the fresh meat to start bawling and just quit.’’ He snickered. You clenched your jaw. You knew he was talking about you. Toji and Jogo’s chuckles echoed in the hall.

‘’Did you see her face? Goddamn pathetic.’’ Toji taunted, and you weren't even there to taunt.

‘’Don’t know what Uraume was thinking when they picked her. She’s never gonna make it.’’ 

That was the last straw on the camel's back. 

You tried not to run, your legs taking you out the back door, leaving your belongings behind. Leaning against the cold, brick wall of the building, you let yourself fall apart. Breaths came out in choked, tiny gasps, hot tears running down your face. You wrapped your arms around your trembling shoulders, trying to give yourself some comfort as you cried. 

‘’Fucking glad you didn’t cry in there.’’ A growl came from the shadows. You yelped in shock, stumbling back and hitting your head against the wall. The dim light of a cigarette lit up Sukuna’s scarred face, shadows painting a sinister look in his eyes. Just what you fucking needed. Ryomen Sukuna getting a front-row seat to you cry like a damn child. 

‘’Chef.’’ You gasped, wiping at your watery eyes. ‘’I didn’t see you there, I’m sorry.’’ 

Sukuna looked at you, his usual arrogant gaze gone. He looked bored, but that was better than looking angry. 

‘’Mahito giving you a hard time?’’ He asked, smoke billowing from his mouth like a fire-breathing dragon. You considered your options before responding. In any normal workplace situation, you might say yes, tell your boss about how Mahito purposely tripped you, that it wasn't your fault that the kitchen was set back, it was his. Dissolve yourself of blame. But this wasn't your typical workplace.

‘’No chef.’’ Was all you said as you met his gaze. You weren’t about to go crying to Sukuna about some bully. Not today, or ever. Sukuna tilted his head up, dropping his cigarette and crushing it under his boot. He stepped forward, into the light of the street lamp. 

‘’You need to toughen up.’’ Sukuna told you, crossing his beefy arms in front of his chest. ‘’Or you’ll never make it.’’ Irritation flared up in you at his words and you bit back a sharp retort. You’d gone past the point of angry tears and were just plain pissed. 

You just laughed softly, putting your hands on your hips. ‘’I think I toughed it out pretty well in there, chef.’’ You replied. You weren’t one to yell, not one to scream out insults or fight back with a sharp tongue. You didn’t need to, because it didn’t feel like you, and because you proved you were better, every single time. Sukuna’s eyes flickered over your face, analyzing you, as if he had expected you to lash out at him. 

‘’You can back out now if you want.’’ He drawled, ‘’So what if you don’t fit here? You’ll fit somewhere else.’’ There it was, that condescension and arrogant tone that seemed to be automatic for him. Already counting you out. Sukuna took a step closer to you, looking down at you from his full height. It irked you a bit, how hot he was. Not only was he a prick, but he was a hot prick, and if you were someone else, and he was anyone else, you wouldn't hesitate to jump his bones. 

But that wasn’t you. 

‘’All due respect chef,’’ You began, squaring your shoulders, ‘’It’s been one day. I’m gonna keep going, and deal with it how I deal with it.’’ You smiled at Sukuna, hoping you could pass it off like you had your shit together. Sukuna stared at you for a moment, eyes narrowing, then he clenched his jaw. Something that looked like annoyance flashed over his face. 

‘’Don’t think a girl like you knows what she’s getting yourself into.’’ Sukuna muttered. You didn’t bother asking him what he meant by that, you didn't want to know. 

‘’Doesn't matter, because I’m gonna find out, chef.’’ You replied easily. 

‘’We’ll see about that.’’ He said in a low, rough voice. Sukuna took a step closer to you, towering far above you. He smelled like smoke and fire, heat rolling off him in waves and you felt your skin tingle at how close he was. His eyes burned into yours, practically breathing the same air. ‘’Have a good night, chef.’’ The last word rolled off his tongue, almost teasing, and he moved past you, brushing against your shoulder as he left you standing there. 

~ ~ ~

Your first week at Sukuna’s restaurant passed both quickly and agonizingly slow. You survived through every service, a couple fuck-ups here and there, but you were learning. Your skills had improved, not that you heard it from Sukuna, but a couple encouraging words from Jin and Hanami were enough to get you through the day. The most you got from the pink-haired executive chef was a nod, the occasional approving grunt, but they made you beam with pride all the same. 

Mahito continued to be a major pain in the ass, doing everything he could to trip you up, to catch you off guard. The blue-haired chef didn’t let up on the insults and barbed comments, but you took it on the chin with a silent glare or a heard, chef. There wasn’t much else you could do about it. Sure, you could yell back, maybe give him a taste of his own medicine, but you were too busy trying to keep afloat you definitely couldn't manage that. You avoided most confrontation, so enduring Mahito’s endless torture was just something you had to suck up. 

You knew Sukuna noticed. His crimson eyes would flit between you and Mahito, face as impassive as ever or with a hint of entertainment in his cocky grin, like he was watching a pair of chihuahuas go at it. Honestly, you were just happy that it wasn't Sukuna himself making your life a living hell. You saved your tears of frustration for the privacy of your walk to the bus stop at the end of the night, pulling yourself back together on your own with a tub of ice cream or a greasy take-out meal. 

Other than that, you were starting to slightly settle into the environment of Malevolent Shrine. Hanami gave you a thumbs-up once, and Choso would sneak you some of the bar’s curated whiskey you’d been eyeing. Even Toji started to tolerate you, clapping you on the back with a huge hand, saying that you weren’t as terrible as he thought. Yeah, you were pretty damn proud of yourself. 

It was Monday night, service finally over with, and mostly all the staff had left, leaving you alone in your rumpled and stained chef’s coat hunched over your notebook you carried with you everywhere in case inspiration struck. You’d been drawing food since you were young, both imagined and actual plates you’d made in high school and in culinary school. If you saw something that got the cogs in your mind turning, you whipped out your notebook, pencil at the ready as you sketched out your idea. You went in with colored pencils after, in the hopes of one day making them into reality. You mostly kept the drawings to yourself, your own little creations that you spent hours pouring over. 

While you leaned over your drawing on the silver service table, you heard heavy footsteps approaching you, and looking up, you almost snapped your pencil in two as Sukuna gave you a strange look. He was in his crisp, white chef’s coat, unbuttoned to reveal a toned chest covered by a black wife-pleaser. You chewed the inside of your lip. Did he really have to look so damn good all of the time? Your stomach tightened as you tried to find words that wouldn’t embarrass you. 

‘’Hey chef-’’ You began, but Sukuna raised a tattooed hand, silencing you. 

‘’What are you doing?’’ He rumbled, his voice deep in his chest. 

‘’Oh, uh, nothing-’’ You stammered, putting down your pencil, ‘’Sorry, am I not allowed to be here?’’ Sukuna ignored your question as he made his way over to stand behind you, looming over your shoulder, his manly smell wafting into your nose and making your heart constrict. Your hand went to cover your drawing automatically, without thinking, and Sukuna reached down, hand pushing yours to the side so he could see. 

‘’You drew this.’’ He said, not so much a question but a statement. You tried to ignore how your skin burned where he had touched you. Shifting nervously in your seat, you nodded. 

‘’Yes, chef.’’ You said softly, a little embarrassed, ‘’I hope it’s okay…it’s just I felt a little inspired and I like to draw out my ideas, you know?’’ Sukuna leaned against the table, still very close, and he took your notebook from your grasp without even asking. You bit your lip, panic rising in you, not because they were private, but because they were all your work, your ideas, and now one of the best chefs in the world was flipping through them. This was definitely a nightmare scenario for you. You could see it now, Sukuna would scoff, toss your notebook on the floor, snap at you and tell you they were garbage and that you should never touch a pencil or a pot again. Your heart raced in your chest, closing your eyes, waiting for the hammer to drop. 

‘’They’re beautiful.’’ Sukuna rasped, and you whipped your gaze up to stare at him, mouth opening in shock. He was turning the pages with care, care you didn’t think he possessed in those huge mitts of his. Sukuna almost seemed frustrated with you, or himself, you couldn’t tell, but still…

He said your drawings were beautiful. Your heart soared, up into the sky, into the clouds as a beaming smile grew on your face. 

‘’You think so?’’ You breathed, then you blinked, ‘’Uh, I mean, thank you chef.’’ Sukuna’s eyes shifted to your face, expression still unreadable. He set your notebook down, fingers tracing over your newest creation. 

‘’Yeah, a bit dainty for my taste but, they look good.’’ He said grudgingly, ‘’There’s some decent ideas in there.’’ Good. Decent. Sukuna gave you crumbs but you gathered them up like gold nuggets. This was the most praise you’d received from him since, well, ever. 

‘’Thank you chef, I really appreciate it!’’ You couldn't help but grin up at him, ‘’See this one? I thought of it tonight during service, so I had to draw it out as soon as possible. I know we don’t do a lot of desserts, but I was thinking of something like this-’’ You pointed at your drawing you’d been working on, ‘’Smoked chocolate torte and-’’

‘’Bourbon-blood orange bread pudding.’’ Sukuna finished for you, leaning in closer as he examined your drawing. You nodded excitedly, he’d read your mind. 

‘’Yes, chef! I was about to draw some bacon-maple ice cream too, you know, thought it’d be a good pair with the pudding.’’ You explained, and Sukuna sighed. 

‘’Those…sound pretty good.’’ He forced out through clenched teeth. Why did compliments leave his lips like it pained him to choke out? You had to suppress a laugh. ‘’Quit all the smiling, chef.’’ Sukuna growled, leaning back and crossing his arms. You blinked, bringing your hand up to cover your winning smile. 

‘’Sorry chef, just excited.’’ You replied, your voice betraying your glee. Sukuna scratched the back of his neck. The kitchen was silent, and it was just you two. You’d never been alone with Sukuna before, and something heavy hung in the air between you. The way he was looking at you made your stomach do a flip, his eyes burning in the dim light. 

Sukuna grunted. ‘’How long have you been drawing?’’ He asked finally, tilting his head, extending a hand on the table to lean on it. Your eyes flickered to his hand, noticing it was inches from yours. Was Sukuna really making conversation with you? Asking you personal questions? You had to be hallucinating. 

‘’Since I was seven, I think.’’ You shared, having to break eye-contact with Sukuna lest you burst into flames, ‘’I always drew food. It was awful at first, but the more interested in cooking I became the more I practiced and I never stopped. It’s my form of journaling I guess, since I’m too impatient to write things out.’’ Sukuna chuckled, low and fucking sexy. 

‘’Funny, since jotting down some ideas definitely takes less time than these damn gorgeous pieces of art.’’ He murmured, a hint of humor in his voice. Your face burned, the word gorgeous slipping from his lips sounding like sin, and you had to remind yourself he was talking about your drawings and not you. As if. 

‘’Well, I think words just don’t quite capture the same as the drawings.’’ You mumbled, avoiding his gaze, ‘’Besides, I half the time I can’t even think of the proper words, so the only way to get my thoughts out is with this.’’ Your hand smoothed over your notebook, suddenly finding the pages much more interesting than Sukuna’s stare. 

‘’I know what you mean.’’ He said. You felt a sudden rush of warmth as his hand reached up to grab your chin gently, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. Your eyes widened at the sudden contact, but before you could move, Sukuna pushed your head to the side, pointing with his free hand to the art on the wall. ‘’Those are mine. I paint sometimes too.’’ 

‘’You’re kidding…’’ You whispered, staring at the artwork, a picture-perfect painting of a smoking dish that looked so real you could almost smell it. ‘’You painted the art around here, chef?’’ Sukuna’s fingers tightened on your chin for a moment, thumb rubbing over your skin before he dropped his hand from your face. Butterflies erupted in your chest as you returned your gaze to his. 

‘’I did.’’ Sukuna replied, cocky, but not too arrogant. You groaned, rolling your eyes playfully.

‘’Of course you’re amazing at that as well.’’ You joked, tilting your head up towards him. ‘’It’s not even fair at this point, chef.’’ It was Sukuna’s turn to roll his eyes, mouth twitching into a ghost of a smile. ‘’When did you start painting?’’

‘’My parents thought it might keep me out of trouble in middle school. Figured I could ‘harness my passion in a healthy way.’’’ He told you, ‘’Guess it ended up working out.’’ 

‘’Yeah, that’s putting it lightly, chef.’’ You laughed, resting your chin on your hand, ‘’Maybe you could give me some pointers.’’ 

‘’Think what you need pointers in is your cooking.’’ He pointed out with a raised brow, and if his eyes weren’t glittering with humor you’d feel a little embarrassed. As you and Sukuna chatted a bit more, you noticed the time. With a mumble, you excused yourself, grabbing your things to stuff into your bag, but as usual your clumsiness made you make a fool out of yourself again, colored pencils clattering to the floor. 

‘’Oh shit-’’ You sighed, dropping to your knees to grab them, but you were met with a large hand reaching for them. You chanced a look up to find Sukuna’s face inches from yours, his hot breath fanning over your cheeks as he bent down to help you. You felt your fingers brush against his, the soft contact sending electricity through your veins as you found yourself trapped in his eyes. He was staring hard, frozen like a statue, and for a second, his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was reflexive, how you bit your lip under his hot gaze, and you let your eyes drift down to his lips. They looked soft, inviting, calling out your name. 

The sound of another pencil rolling off the table and hitting the floor broke the heavy tension, and Sukuna blinked, rising to his feet quickly and taking a step back. His eyes flashed with annoyance as his jaw clicked, and you scrambled to your feet, mouth too dry to say anything. What the hell just happened? You quickly gathered up your things, shoving them into your bag. 

‘’Have a good night, chef.’’ Was all you managed to croak out, hurrying out of the kitchen, ears burning as you fled. Sukuna didn’t say anything, and you didn’t look back. 

~ ~ ~ 

You wouldn’t say it was awkward as you stumbled through your second week of service at Malevolent Shrine. Sure, you and Sukuna didn’t find yourselves alone for any awkwardness to happen, and your shy glances in his direction didn't help, but it wasn’t bad. 

Except it was. It was bad, really, really bad, because Sukuna was sporting a chip on his shoulder and all his rage was directed at you. Service was torture, and even Mahito couldn’t find the time to step in and add his own abuse between Sukuna berating you, telling you that you were moving too slow, plates not plated perfectly enough, making you do them again, and again, and again. Sukuna zeroed in on any slip-up and went on a tirade about how you were doing a terrible job, even when you weren’t doing a terrible job. He made up things to call you out on, and even Jin had to tell him to take it easy. Dagon and Toji gave you pitying looks, and Choso would try his best to be positive, but it was still awful. You just squared your shoulders and took it, but confusion clouded your nights, making you toss and turn in your bed as you dreaded the next day. 

Had you done something wrong? Had you pissed him off when you shared your drawings? Did he hate you? When he looked at you that night, the two of you on your knees and leaning in close, it didn’t look like hate. In fact, if you were encouraging your delusions, you could even assume he’d wanted to kiss you. You were an idiot. That week, you avoided Sukuna like the plague, hiding whenever he came stomping down the hall, ducking out of the restaurant as fast as you possibly could. It sucked, because you wanted to be around him, you wanted him to be close to you, to look at you again like he’d looked at you that night. 

Running your hand over your face in one exhausted motion while sitting on the bus one night, you mentally kicked yourself. You were crushing on an asshole. A total, grade-A, painfully handsome asshole who hated you, and who also happened to be your boss.

It was Friday night. Service was long and gruelling and you were stationed with Mahito, of all people, no doubt Sukuna purposely putting you there to give you a last kick up the ass. As you stood there, stirring the same pot for hours because that’s what Mahito ordered you to do, you considered quitting for the first time since you’d started there. Sukuna had it out for you, Mahito too. Why put yourself through this? It wasn’t like Sukuna was going to hire you after your trial run anyway. 

Then it happened. Mahito messed up. The sauce he’d prepared was too acidic. Way too acidic. You made a face as you tasted it, and Mahito gave you a glare. You knew Sukuna noticed because he was stomping over to you, but luckily for you, you’d prepared a second-batch. You shoved the handle into Sukuna’s hands, mumbling that you’d made a back-up, just in case, and if you weren’t so damn tired, you would’ve jumped for joy as Sukuna grunted out something that sounded like approval, still giving you an icy stare as he snarled at Mahito to get his shit together. 

The win didn’t last long though, even though Mahito grudgingly thanked you for saving his ass, and even went so far as to be nice to you, Sukuna managed to find something to bully you about later. Your plating of the sauce was too messy, were you completely incompetent? Did you even pass culinary school? 

You were alone in the locker room, hunched over with your head in your hands, trying to find the energy to pick yourself up and head home, when suddenly you heard him. 

‘’You’ll get a hunchback sitting like that.’’ His rumble echoed in the room. You slowly lifted your head to look at him, just about ready to blow up. This fucking guy. 

‘’Excuse me?’’ You muttered, grinding your teeth as you sat up. Sukuna regarded you, leaning against the wall, dressed in a tight, black shirt, chef pants hanging low on his narrow hips. 

‘’You did fine tonight, by the way.’’ Sukuna said, ignoring your question. You felt like you were gonna pop a blood vessel. Your hands tightened into fists as you stood up, glaring up at your boss. 

‘’Fine? I did fine?’’ You hissed, ‘’That’s real funny because the entire night, no, the entire week, you’ve been riding my ass even when you didn’t have a damn reason to.’’ You expected Sukuna to start going off on you, for anger to flash in his crimson eyes, but instead he just looked at you, almost cautiously. 

‘’I’ve been doing a damn good job Sukuna, and you know it. Everyone knows it. I’ve kept going, excelled wherever you put me, and yet you’re still treating me like I don’t belong here, and I don’t get it. I don’t fucking get it!’’ Your voice shook with anger as you rambled on, ‘’So why the fuck are you going so hard on me, huh?’’ You didn’t even realize you’d called him by his name instead of the honorary chef, but you didn’t care. Sukuna growled, pinching the bridge of his nose. You knew you were red-faced and angry as you faced off with him, but you were surprised he wasn’t hitting back. 

‘’I’m pushing you.’’ He rasped, eyes screwed shut like he had a migraine. You scoffed. 

‘’Pushing me? You don’t even give me any feedback! How the hell is that pushing me?’’ You challenged, taking an angry step forward. 

‘’Because you need to adapt. You need to change. You have to.’’ Sukuna replied in a low voice as his gaze settled on you. You stared, confusion bubbling up inside you. 

‘’Change?’’

‘’You need to toughen up. Get meaner. Like me, like everyone else here.’’ He explained, his hands falling to his sides where they curled into fists. You rubbed your face, closing your eyes and shaking your head in frustration. 

‘’That isn’t me.’’ You whispered, just loud enough for Sukuna to hear, ‘’That isn’t me and it’s not gonna be me. I’m not gonna bend and break, turn into someone I’m not just to fit in. I’ve come this far being who I am, and I’ve done a hell of a good job. I will excel as a chef being me, and you’re not gonna convince me I have to change. I’m not going to change. I won’t.’’ You gave Sukuna a hard stare as you finished your little speech, hoping you’d gotten your message across. Sukuna said nothing as he looked at you, but his jaw tightened, something simmering below the surface.

‘’You don’t understand.’’ He said in a dark voice, ‘’I need you to change.’’ You blinked, jerking back as hit words hit you like a train. 

‘’Sorry?’’ You hissed, heart pounding in your chest. Sukuna groaned, and he pushed himself off the wall. He moved quickly, like he was desperate for something, and in a second he had you pushed up against the wall, both his huge arms caging you in, his head hanging over you as he scowled. His closeness made you shiver, but you were too shocked to move, to even utter a single word as you stared up at him. Sukuna’s eyes found yours, glaring down at you, angry, but his lips were parted, twisting into a plea. 

‘’I need you to change because I can’t fucking handle you.’’ He uttered roughly, ‘’I can’t deal with you, who you are, how goddamn…soft, and-and kind you are, how pretty…’’ His hand came down to brush over your cheek gently, like you were made of glass, sending your heart in a spiral. Sukuna’s eyes were hazy, like he was in a dream as his eyes bore into yours with intense longing that brought the softest of sighs to your lips. 

‘’I can’t handle how brilliant you are, and I hate how much I can’t handle that I want you.’’ 

Oh.  

Sukuna’s eyes fell to your parted lips, his imposing body pressing up against your own, and you could feel the heat of him, his taut muscles feeling like a brick wall. You wanted to say something, anything, but you were scared that if you opened your mouth your voice would shake. The two of you stood there in silence for a moment, and you swore you could hear Sukuna’s heart beating in his chest. Both his hands slowly fell to cup your cheeks, sliding down to your neck, burning-hot palms making you swallow hard. 

‘’Can you handle how much I want you?’’ You finally said, voice weak and soft. Sukuna blinked, then huffed out a rough, almost crazed laugh, and then he kissed you. 

Sukuna’s lips seared your mouth, hot and tasting of smoke as he pressed you up against the wall. Your head was spinning, engulfed by his smell, his touch overwhelming you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting more, needing more. Sukuna’s hands fell to your hips, pulling you flush against his chest, growling into your mouth as his tongue swiped across your lips. You moaned softly, fingers tangled in his salmon-colored hair, melting into his arms as you felt his knee push up between your thighs. The kiss was hungry, tight desire coiling in your stomach and as if he could read your mind, Sukuna’s hands went to your chef’s coat, tearing off the buttons with ease. 

‘’You’re so damn distracting.’’ Sukuna growled in frustration as his mouth left yours and travelled to your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, ‘’Can’t focus with you around me, fuck-’’ He swore as you rolled your hips, grinding on his knee, desperate to quell the tight longing in between your thighs. You tilted your head back as Sukuna’s teeth sank into your soft skin, nipping at you, filthy moans tumbling from his mouth, like he was getting off on just tasting your skin. 

‘’Really? I couldn’t tell.’’ You whispered, breathless, barely managing to form a sentence as your hands ran over Sukuna’s muscled, tattooed arms. God, he was strong. Sukuna’s deep laugh reverberated down his chest as his lips fell back on yours. He tugged off your chef’s coat to reveal your tank top, huge hands running up your torso to cup your chest, squeezing, and you whimpered. 

‘’Didn’t think such a sweet mouth could make such filthy sounds, doll.’’ He hummed, lips crashing back down to yours, forcing your mouth open as he hitched your leg around his waist, fingers gripping your thigh tightly. ‘’Shit, we shouldn’t fucking be doing this.’’ 

‘’Don’t care.’’ You mumbled, face flushed red. 

‘’Watch it.’’ Sukuna hissed, one hand gliding up underneath your shirt, feeling your skin with calloused fingers, and you shuddered. He pulled you off the wall, and you both stumbled into his office, his mouth never leaving yours, as if he needed the taste of your lips to function. Sukuna showed no hesitation as he kicked the door shut, pulling you onto his lap, one hand wrapped around your neck, the other sliding under the waistband of your pants. ‘’You taste so fucking sweet.’’ His breaths were coming fast, panting as he bit your lip. ‘’Driving me insane, girl.’’ 

You giggled into the kiss, your thighs opening for him, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt. ‘’Sorry chef.’’ You teased as you leaned back, breaking the kiss, and Sukuna almost pouted at the loss. A wicked grin spread across his lips, flashing his canines at you. 

‘’Come back here.’’ He growled, pulling you towards him. As you kissed him, your hands blindly fumbled at his zipper, shaky but sure. His hand came down to grab yours, stilling your movements. ‘’You sure you want this?’’ He asked you, crimson eyes studying yours, ‘’Because I want it. Want it really fucking bad, doll.’’ You shivered, biting your lip as you nodded eagerly. 

‘’Good girl, good fucking girl.’’ He mumbled, his hands diving under your panties, fingers reaching the wet spot between your legs and you let out a pathetic moan as you felt the warmth of his hand finally give you some release of tension. Sukuna let you unzip him, feeling how hard he was for you and you almost paled as you felt how damn big he was. Sukuna smirked, cocky as ever. ‘’See what you do to me, doll?’’ 

“S-Sukuna-“ you gasped out as white-hot pleasure flooded your vision, Sukuna’s fingers expertly curling into you. Sukuna grinned as he stared up at you, mouth open, eyes awe-struck. 

“Yeah, that’s it baby.” He groaned, “Fuck, if I knew how much you wanted me I’d have done this sooner.” 

The office was filled with the sounds of heavy moans and whimpers, but it came to a crashing halt when the sound of footsteps sounded outside. Sukuna and you froze just as you had raised your hips to sink down onto him, your heart racing as you strained your ears to hear. Sukuna growled when he heard a knock at his door, his fingers clenching tightly over the soft skin of your thighs.

‘’You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me-’’ He muttered, giving you a glance, eyes flickering over your flushed face and kiss-stung lips like it pained him to stop what he had been doing. ‘’Keep your mouth shut, hm?’’ He said quickly, voice quiet, giving your cheek a quick kiss before he helped you off his lap. You shrank away, trying desperately to not let out a groan of frustration at the loss of contact with Sukuna, your core aching as you tugged up your pants. Sukuna cracked open the door just enough to peer through and see who it was. 

‘’The fuck do you want?’’ He grunted, and you could see his hand tightening on the doorframe, knuckles flexing. 

‘’Wanted to see if you wanted to join us for a drink.’’ Toji’s voice carried through the entryway, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. Here you were, hiding in your boss’s office, like you were a couple of teenagers getting hot and heavy in a school broom closet, seconds away from getting caught red-handed. 

You could almost hear the eye-roll Sukuna gave to Toji. ‘’No thanks, now fuck off.’’ 

The door slammed in Toji’s face without giving him a chance to reply, and Sukuna turned back slowly, resting his back against the door as he took a deep breath. His crimson eyes found you once more, his mouth turning up into a sly smirk. You couldn't help but smile too, cheeks heating up now that the heat of the moment had been interrupted. 

‘’This is your chance to walk away.’’ Sukuna said, running a hand through his hair as he watched you squirm under his hot gaze, ‘’Walk away before we make a mistake.’’ You tilted your head, gazing up at him as he took a step towards you.

‘’Doesn’t seem like you want me to walk away.’’ You teased, voice shaky as Sukuna backed you into his desk, huge hands going to your hips as he lifted you easily onto it and slotted himself between your thighs. 

‘’No,’’ Sukuna whispered softly as he leaned in, kissing your neck gently, sending shivers up your spine, ‘’I don’t want you to walk away. Want you here. With me.’’ You hummed in satisfaction as your hands smoothed over the huge expanse of his back, feeling the tightening of his muscles beneath your fingers. Sukuna peppered your neck with kisses, nipping at your skin and leaving marks you were sure you’d have to cover up the next day. His fingers brushed across the bare skin of your torso, digging in once he found his hold and gripping you tightly, like he was afraid you’d run. 

‘’Does this mean I’m getting hired now, chef?’’ You asked, laughing as Sukuna buried his face into the crook of your neck. Sukuna sighed. 

‘’You’re fucking unbelievable.’’ He grunted, but you could feel him smiling against your neck, then after a moment, he took your face in his hands and kissed you again.

~ ~ ~

a/n: been rewatching the bear...got sukuna chef brainrot and this is the result, let me know if u like ;)

[carnalcrows]

BREATHLESS - CHEONGSAN

pairing: lee cheong-san x power bottom reader

synopsis: You just can't get enough of him <33

content warnings: 18+, straddling, dry humping + grinding, making out, implied sex at the end.

word count: 0.7k

Cheongsan was already trembling beneath you, but you weren’t satisfied yet.

His grip on your waist was so tight that his knuckles had gone bone-white, fingers pressing in like he was terrified you’d slip away. His breathing was a mess—ragged, uneven, little gasps spilling past his lips every time you shifted. His whole body was betraying him, reacting to every tiny movement you made, and the best part? He was still trying to fight it.

"You're so tense," you murmured, dragging your fingers up his chest, feeling the way his muscles twitched under your touch. His breath hitched—so sharp, so audible, and your smirk deepened.

"What's wrong baby?" you asked, tilting your head. "You look a little… overwhelmed."

He was overwhelmed. You could see it all over his face—the way his brows were drawn together, his mouth parted just slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out how to make the words come out.

"I—" His voice cracked so hard on the first syllable that he physically winced. His grip on your waist faltered for half a second, but when you rolled your hips against him—slow, teasing—he choked on a breath and yanked you closer.

You laughed. "Thought you didn’t want me?"

He made a sound—high, desperate, embarrassing. "Shut up."

You clicked your tongue, leaning in just enough for your lips to brush against his ear. "Not very convincing," you whispered. "You’re holding onto me like I’m about to disappear."

His fingers twitched, nails nearly biting into your skin.

"You like this," you continued, lips ghosting down to his jaw. "You like when I’m in control, don’t you?"

Cheongsan squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head—but the second you rocked against him again, he gasped so sharply that his whole body jolted.

"That's not a no," you teased.

His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven motions, his breath coming out in these tiny, wrecked little gasps. He was trying so hard to keep it together, to keep some shred of dignity intact, but you weren’t going to let him.

Not when he looked so perfect like this.

"Say it," you murmured, dragging your lips along his jaw. "Tell me how much you like it."

He turned his head away, jaw clenched, but you weren’t having that. You grabbed his chin, tilting his face back toward you.

"Say it," you repeated.

His lashes fluttered, lips parting, but no words came out. Just a shaky, hitched breath.

You smirked. "Too embarrassed?"

When he still didn’t respond, you leaned in—brushing your lips over his, teasing but never quite giving him what he wanted.

He gasped again, grip tightening on your waist, like he was trying to pull you in, but you pulled back before he could.

His eyes flew open, wide and dazed, frustration flickering behind them. His fingers dug into you hard, and he opened his mouth, about to say something—

—but you cut him off with a kiss.

Or—more like, you devoured him.

Cheongsan gasped into your mouth, and you swallowed the sound greedily, deepening the kiss before he could even process what was happening. His lips parted so easily beneath yours, body shuddering under your hands, and when you rolled your hips again—grinding down just right—he let out a noise so pathetic that it sent a thrill straight down your spine.

"Mm, see?" you hummed against his lips. "You’re such a mess f’me."

He let out a soft, broken whimper, and god, it was so cute how easily he fell apart. His hands had started trembling, grip desperate, like he physically needed to hold onto you or he’d completely lose himself.

You nipped at his bottom lip, tugging it between your teeth before licking into his mouth again, taking everything, making sure he felt just how much control you had over him.

By the time you pulled away, he looked wrecked.

His lips were kiss-swollen, glossy with spit, his pupils blown so wide that his eyes looked nearly black. His whole body was still trembling, his chest rising and falling in these quick, uneven breaths.

You grinned, tracing a finger over his cheek. "Still think I’m mean?"

Cheongsan swallowed hard, blinking up at you, dazed. He opened his mouth—then closed it. Then opened it again, struggling for words.

You tilted your head. "Aww. Did I break you?"

He shuddered, gripping you even harder, like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

You chuckled, dragging a thumb over his bottom lip. "Good," you whispered, voice dark, smug. "Because next time, I want you begging."

The way he whined sent a shiver straight down your spine.

And you couldn’t wait to ruin him all over again.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[asxgard]

I absolutely loved your In the Wreckage, but I can’t help but wonder what your thoughts about roles being switched and it were Robby instead of Jack. Logically, I know they’re different people who’d be in the same situation, but I wonder what his reaction would be. (Like I’m thinking they hooked up a couple times after PittFest, and Robby completely dismisses her after he starts to catch feelings.)

This doesn’t have to be a fic (unless you want to do one…), but I’d love to just catch your thoughts on the subject.

Thank you!! So in the wreckage actually inspired a short multi I’m planning for Robby! Currently planning on calling it casual, based on my current vague outline lol.

My thoughts are:

A Fresh Start | one shot

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!nurse!reader

[ Masterlist ]

Note: I intended for this to be a quick drabble lol whoops

Word Count: 1.3k

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content.

Warnings: afab!reader, ex-situationship, implied age gap, foul language, hurt/comfort, mild references to smut, unplanned/surprise pregnancy, not telling robby about said pregnancy (reader being in the wrong oof), single mom!reader, hospital settings, medical inaccuracies, mild injury to a friend, angst with a happy ending, fluff

not beta read

You had not intended to show up in the ER of your previous employer, but there you sat in the waiting room while your friend was escorted into the back. Beth had tripped and taken a nasty fall while you two were out to lunch, ripping a gash open on her arm.

Your toddler fussed in your lap, having been dropped off by your babysitter who had been unable to stay home with him. You thought about leaving briefly, if it hadn’t been for the fact that you had used your friend's car to get you both to the Pitt. You resigned yourself to wait a bit longer.

McKay’s friendly face greeted you when she called for the family or friends of Beth’s. You stood to greet her with a small smile. You hushed your son while he gurgled, grasping onto the necklace that hung low on your neck.

“Hi, Cassie, how are you?”

She smiled warmly, “I’ve been okay. It’s been forever! I didn’t know you had a son.”

Your eyes moved to your son and you smiled, “Relatively new thing, he’s about to be ten months old.”

“Well, congrats.”

Beth sat on the edge of her bed, hand stitched up. She was waiting for discharge paperwork.

Your luck seemed to sour as Robby walked by, catching sight of you and stopping short. You had left quite some time ago, crushed under the pressure of a situationship that didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Robby had buried his feelings in the warmth of you and you had tried to believe it was enough.

His eyes settled on the child in your lap, then back to you. Shame flushed through your system.

You had never told Robby you had gotten pregnant after you had fled. Part of you was hurt that it never really worked out, ashamed you hadn’t been more careful, and overall panicked when the test results had come back positive. After Pittfest, Robby seemed in no place to truly care for himself, let alone a baby.

So you kept it to yourself.

One glance at his son, and it was like he knew. Those brown eyes could only be his.

You set your son onto the gurney next to your friend, whispering a quick, “Gotta go to the bathroom!” before rushing to meet Robby in the hall. You held each other’s gaze for a long moment.

“Please tell me that’s not—that you didn’t—“

“Robby, let me explain.”

His wide eyes met yours, mixed with a terrible panic and a painful, reserved sadness. He grabbed your arm and pulled you into an empty room a few paces from where Beth’s had been.

“Is he mine?”

You swallowed, “Yes.”

His face scrunched up like you had slapped him.

“Robby, I was leaving this job anyways. You were—fuck—you were bad. I couldn’t throw a baby into that mix with you.” You said in a whisper, then almost as an excuse, “It wasn’t like we were serious.”

He winced, “Don’t you think that was my decision to make?”

You clenched your teeth and tried to swallow your tears.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

Guilt stewed in your stomach, and your face scrunched up as you began to cry.

“I—I don’t know.” You were able to get out. “I kept putting it off…and then the longer I did, the harder it became.”

He stepped away from you, running a hand down his face, blinking away his own tears. He took a few deep breaths before looking back at you.

“I’m so sorry, Michael.” You told him, taking a hesitant step forward. “I didn’t really think about how my decision might make you feel, and I’m really sorry. I clearly made the wrong choice.”

“What’s his name?”

“Matthew.”

“Matthew.” He repeated, like he was testing it on his tongue. “I—I—”

“Do you want to come by after your shift? Meet him properly?”

“Yes, please.”

—

Robby’s anger came in bursts, flared whenever you referenced something from before he had known, like he was always ready to accuse you of the time he lost out on. You could hardly blame him, though you still felt like your choice to leave him had merit.

When you learned he was now in therapy, your own doubts began to quiet. Perhaps he would be able to do it and not run away, or be emotionally distant from your son.

“I can’t really change the past, Robby. I would if I could. I fucked up, I know that.” You said, trying not to yell.

Matthew was sitting in the other room, on his playmat, completely unaware of the tension that sat between his parents. You needed to keep it that way.

“I can’t ever get that time back.” He said, tone hard.

You frowned, “I know that.”

Silence echoed between you, stiff and uncertain. Guilt clawed up your throat.

“Maybe he could stay with you this weekend.” You offered lightly, hoping you might bridge the gap.

There was no official arrangement between you as Robby steadily got to know his son, not wanting to force anything, or rush a bond. However, Robby began paying for the daycare without asking, and turned his guest room into a bedroom fit to Matthew’s needs.

He blinked at you while he processed your words, “Really?”

You nodded, though tears burned the back of your eyes. “He needs to get used to this place being his home, too.”

Robby was stepping forward to hug you before you even registered that he had stepped toward you. Despite the fact that he could be a very physical lover, he rarely was physically affectionate with you outside of the bedroom back when you had been sleeping together before Matthew had been born.

So the arms wrapped around you spoke volumes of his gratitude.

—

It was roughly half a year later that Michael had completely softened, and told you he forgave you. You had been lingering more often at drop offs, and Michael found any reason to stop by your apartment. It felt like something was beginning to spark at a fire that had grown cold.

Though, in his wandering gazes and lingering touches, you realized the embers had always been there. They had never gone anywhere, just simply slipped into hibernation.

It felt easier to fluster around him, skin growing hot while your heart raced. Or how an overwhelming warm feeling will fill your chest at the sight of Michael with his son, playing or reading to him, quietly always there whenever he needed him. You blinked away tears.

“I was thinking I could take Matty to the zoo,” Michael said one night when you had come to pick him up.

“Oh? Okay.” You said, deliberating it, “What day were you thinking? I don’t mind giving you this Saturday—”

“I was actually hoping we might go together?”

“Together?” You stared at him. “As in like…”

“Like a family.” He said, like he was skirting around something else.

“I’d like that.” was out of your mouth before you even thought about it.

He smiled at you, wide and warm.

Michael had picked Matty out of the stroller not long after you had gotten to Pittsburgh Zoo & Aquarium. Matty was eagerly pointing at the elephants, grinning ear-to-ear, an expression that matched his father’s face. It warmed your heart.

You stepped into pace with Michael, looking at the animals with mild interest, more focused on engaging with your son, pointing and clapping with him.

For the first time, the quiet felt comfortable. Michael’s hand found yours and he intertwined your fingers.

Your breath caught and you looked over at him.

“This is what I want.” He told you, squeezing your hand. “This is how I want to move forward.”

An easy smile overtook your features, “Together?”

“As a family.”

It was a fresh start and you weren’t going to waste it.

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