#scratch-proof rings

[tailoredrings]

Scratch-Resistant Men's Wedding Rings: Durable and Stylish Choices for Modern Grooms

Choosing the perfect wedding ring is a significant decision for any groom. In recent years, scratch-resistant men's wedding rings have become increasingly popular, offering durability and style for those with active lifestyles or professions that demand resilience. These rings are crafted from materials designed to withstand the rigors of daily wear, ensuring they remain as pristine and beautiful as the day they were first worn.

Why Choose Scratch-Resistant Men's Wedding Rings?

Durability: Scratch resistant mens wedding rings are made from materials like tungsten, titanium, and ceramic, known for their exceptional hardness and resistance to damage. This makes them ideal for men who work with their hands or engage in activities that might subject their ring to wear and tear.

Longevity: The longevity of these rings means they can withstand the test of time, symbolizing the enduring nature of marriage. A scratch-resistant ring maintains its appearance, avoiding the need for frequent polishing or repairs.

Style: Modern designs and finishes make these rings not only practical but also stylish. They come in various designs, from classic bands to more intricate styles with inlays and unique textures.

Affordability: Many scratch-resistant materials are also cost-effective compared to traditional precious metals like gold or platinum, offering an attractive option for budget-conscious couples.

Popular Materials for Scratch-Resistant Men's Wedding Rings

Tungsten: Known for its extreme hardness, tungsten carbide is virtually scratch-proof. Its weight and substantial feel appeal to many men, offering a sense of permanence.

Titanium: Lightweight yet incredibly strong, titanium rings are both comfortable and durable. They are also hypoallergenic, making them suitable for those with sensitive skin.

Ceramic: Ceramic rings are not only scratch-resistant but also shatterproof. They are available in various colors and finishes, providing a modern and sleek look.

Cobalt Chrome: Combining the look of white gold with superior durability, cobalt chrome is a resilient choice that resists scratching and tarnishing.

Caring for Scratch-Resistant Rings

Despite their durability, scratch-resistant rings still benefit from regular cleaning to maintain their luster. Simple soap and water are usually sufficient, followed by a soft cloth for drying. Avoid exposing the ring to harsh chemicals or abrasive materials to preserve its finish.

Conclusion

Scratch-resistant men's wedding rings offer a practical and stylish solution for grooms seeking a ring that matches their active lifestyle and enduring commitment. With a variety of materials and designs available, there is a perfect ring for every man, ensuring both durability and elegance for years to come.

[laceyfaeryy]

MDNI 18+

PRETTY LITTLE SECRET

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ simon riley x reader

big strong farmer simon riley secretly having rendezvous with his neighbour’s wife

cw: cheating, vaginal sex, age gap, size difference, unprotected sex, not proof read

after retirement simon had settled down in the small country side town, a small house in the middle of the greenest fields with sheep and cows running around. his usual days of bloodshed missions were now replaced with small labour tasks around the farm.

simon was a man with strong morals, he was a strict man, consistently following a routine like he did back in the military.

that included having a secret little rendezvous with his neighbour’s sweet wife.

it first started off in the small dive bar, the two of you tucked away in the corner after simon noticed how anxious you were.

you told him about your troubled marriage, how your husband simply refused to show you any sign of affection. simon didn’t understand it, still to this day he hasn’t. you were gorgeous, sweet and caring as he watched you hand out your baked goods during the week to the children. a pure heart and soul, beautiful inside and out.

the conversation then shifted to physical intimacy, which clearly your marriage lacked. you complained about how lazy your husband was, only asking for head and never giving it to you in return, or how he failed to make you come.

without even thinking the words, “i’ll show yer wots it’s like.” slipped out of his mouth.

it was a mistake, well… that’s what he told himself. clearly, his body however reacted differently, his pants now suddenly a little too tight as his mind drifted off to the most lewd thoughts.

he wondered about the sounds you would make, how you would moan his name and not your husband, how you would wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer, your pathetic excuse of en engagement ring on your finger.

and that’s exactly what happened.

but it didn’t stop.

now, your husband away for a business trip out of town, you found yourself in simon’s house - more specifically, his bed.

“doin’ so well swee’heart, s’just us here, no need to be quiet.”

his large hand tugging your hair back in a pony tail as he fucked you from behind, his cock snuggly shoved into your small cunt.

despite being a man of morals, simon’s ego was clearly shown as he watched you turn into a pathetic mess, your body trembling as you dumbly moaned out his name like a mantra. he loved sending you back with your usual post sex glow, but now he had you all to himself.

“‘s a cold winters night hm? can’t have a sweet thing like yer gettin’ cold.”

he manhandled you with ease, turning you back on your back before slamming into your cunt again, your nails scratching his back as he kissed your neck, inhaling the sweet scent he loves so much. his large body caged you in, keeping you warm as he whispered the filthiest things into your ear.

it was wrong, the two of you knew it since he was balls deep inside you, a girl who was married, and a decade younger than him.

but it didn’t stop him from filling up your cunt over and over again, watching your body slowly become limp as you sank deep into the sheets.

tag list:

@happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969 @doubledizzy22 @lucienofthelakes @arabellatreaty @tessakate @kayden666 @ghostsd8s @ama-eve @webmvie @your-internet-tenshi @novthewolf @1ilo @simpingreader @angeldoll1e @avgdestitute @anonymouse1807 @chaieanne @i-live-in-spite

[woniefication]

Third Time’s the Charm NSH.Ni-ki

𝘕𝘪-𝘬𝘪 (𝘙𝘪𝘬𝘪) 𝘹 𝘍𝘦𝘮!𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳﹔𝐹𝘭𝑢𝘧𝑓 | 𝑆𝘭𝑜𝘸 𝘉𝑢𝘳𝑛 | 𝐺𝘭𝑜𝘸 𝘜𝑝 𝐴𝘜 | 𝘐𝑑𝘰𝑙 𝑥 𝐹𝘢𝑛 | 𝗙𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝗼 muse﹔𝐖; slight cursing ~Reblogs ﹠ FB appreciated 𓈒𓈒𓈒 Masterlist. Anon request <3

It was one of those chaotic online fansigns, mid-tour, when everything blurred together. Screaming fans, laggy Wi-Fi, weird fancalls that make him want to rip his head out,neon ring lights burning into his eyeballs.

But then you popped up on screen. Not flashy. Not filtered. Just a person with a crooked smile and a hoodie three sizes too big.

Riki tilted his head, confused at first.

Then you started talking.

And laughing.

And joking around like you hadn’t just won a once-in-a-lifetime chance to speak to him.

“You look tired,” you said, eyes squinting with something like concern. “Do you run on microwaved strawberries or sheer willpower?”

He blinked. “...Both?”

“Drink water or I’ll call your mom,” you deadpanned, sipping your own like it was a PSA.

He choked on his laughter.

You didn’t ask him to wink. You didn’t try to flirt or scream. You just… were. Naturally funny. A little awkward. Kind.

He remembered your name after that. Even when he wasn't supposed to.

Now. A year later, you’re in the crowd at a fansign again—this time in person.

And at first? He doesn't even recognize you.

Because glow up? Is an understatement.

Hair styled, confidence different, something about your posture that screams I found myself and I’m thriving.

And then you laugh.

That same exact laugh. That wheezy, snorty, can't-control-it laugh that stuck in his brain like a song on loop.

Ni-ki freezes.

His pen slips.

His mouth goes dry.

Holy sh— it’s you.

You walk up like you don’t know you just ruined his whole mental stability.

Still in your oversized hoodie. Still with that little sparkle in your eye. Like nothing changed even though everything did.

“Hey,” you say, casual. “You look less tired. Guess the microwaved strawberries helped.”

He stares.

You blink. “What?”

“You’re…” He pauses. “You’re you.”

Your smile falters, confused. “Yeah…?”

He leans forward, eyes wide. “Do you know how long I thought about that call? Your jokes? You literally told me to hydrate or else.”

Your cheeks flush. “You remember that?”

“Duh,” he says, grinning now. “You’re kind of hard to forget.”

And that’s when the staff gives him the wrap-it-up sign and he absolutely ignores it because this is his movie moment, and he’s not about to let it go.

So as you turn to leave, he blurts:

“Hey—same hoodie. Different glow.”

You turn back, raising a brow.

“Still the same me though.”

And damn if that doesn’t make his heart fall out his chest.

Third Fansign. By now, you’re practically a regular. Not in the creepy-sasaeng-fan way—just in that he gets disappointed when you’re not there kind of way.

And today? You show up looking absolutely flawless.

Ni-ki short circuits. Straight-up freezes mid-signature. You’re standing in front of him like it’s nothing, hoodie tucked into a pleated skirt, lip gloss too shiny, and that same chaotic smile that got him obsessed in the first place.

“You again,” he says, barely holding back his grin.

“Guilty,” you shrug. “But you still haven’t posted proof you’ve been hydrating. So…”

“You’re never letting that go, huh?”

“Absolutely not.”

He laughs, looking down for a second to keep himself from staring. And then, before he can psych himself out-

“Hey. Can I get your socials?”

You blink. “...What?”

The table goes quiet. The fan next to you gasps. The staff flinches like someone just broke the rules of the universe.

But Ni-ki’s already pulling out a scrap piece of paper, pen still in hand, scribbling fast.

“Like—your Twitter. Tumblr. Or whatever. I just…” he scratches his head looking away.

“Wanna keep laughing,” he says, voice low. “At your posts. Not at you. I mean—not like—”

He fumbles (a baddie).

You stare at him, wide-eyed. “Are you… serious?”

He nods, looking deadass calm now. “Completely.”

“This is wildly unprofessional,” one of the staff mutters under their breath.

Riki grins. “So is falling in love with a fan, but here we are.”

You choke. The girl behind you screams. Security is like five seconds from jumping in.

But he slides you the paper anyway.

@biscoluvr19

“DM me something stupid,” he says with a wink. “I’ll know it’s you.”

And before you can even process it, he gives you one last look that could melt steel.

“Still the same you,” he murmurs, “but you’ve got me acting real fuckin different.

(♡)-- @orimuraa @douqhnxtss @chrrific @liwinly @fleuryns @leaderwon @pnghoon @manariee

[emacrow]

Dani wasn't the only clone that Danny saved.

There were 3 other clones that were prematurely made, kind of stabled, but didn't look how Vlad wanted and were going to be terminated, in which Dani was desperate in the first place.

Three clones varieties mixed between his dna and ectoplasm between ages of 1-5 The panic danny had felt holding toddler that look like him except for a star birthmark his cheek while looking at Sam and Tucker with big pleading puppy blue eyes along with Dani.

Thankfully, Sam had a backup backup bunker plan already refurbished and full of food using her three month allowance in case things went bad with his parents, along telling jazz because she will full murder him if he kept four little possibly now his children/cousins/clones? away from her.

The juggling and balancing between fighting ghosts, raising little kids, and school alongside the GIW, Beating Pariah King, his future self and revealing to the town that he was Phantom to save the world was brutal to him, Sam, Jazz and tucker.

Thankfully, his parents accepted him, but the paranoia scratched at his brain to hide about his clones/kids and overpowered him to not say anything about his kids to them yet.

Then came clockwork and his crytic words and Crown of Fire and ring of rage nonstop appearing floating rather innocently following him.

He has tried everything at this point, stuffing it in his locker, putting it in a fenton ghost proof chest and dumping it into the distant deep lake, freezing it which only made it a crown of ice that drips snowflakes and the ring of rage into a ring with a aurora instead of a skull.

It took him half a day to figure out he accidentally became King of the Ghost Zone, which is also known as the infinite realm of the dead due to conquest after he accidentally commanded Ghost writer to tell him why the crown of fire kept following him like paulina before she knew he was Phantom.

Apparently, since he was the last one to take the final blow on Pariah King using everything he got, the crown took a liking to his protection/space core and decided that he would be king whether he like it or not.

He was clearly king material after he balanced everything he went through alongside raising 3 baby ghostlings, which was rather proud achievement.

Leaving Danny in control of an infinite realm of the dead alongside a much more infinite amount of paperwork now streaming to him, half of them being complain about a guy name constantine with overdue summonings now set to him instead of Pariah King on paused time.

What's next? Is the Justice League actually real?

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch.2 you may now kiss the bride!!

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, mild love triangle(s), gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 2/x (probably 10)

ᰔ words. 16.8k (i be yappin)

a/n. AHHH thanks very much for 2k followers!! yippeee :”) i had a lot of fun writing this chapter of ihm i feel like there’s a lot of silly but a lot of angsty too and i got to set up a lot of secondary plot lines in this chapter which was fun. i really hope you enjoy!! see ya at the bottom!!

nav. masterlist

“Can you chop down that stupid avocado tree of yours already? It keeps dropping its devilish spawn all over my herb garden.”

“Wow. Good afternoon to you too.”

Gojo scratches the back of his head from where he’s opened the front door of his house, standing in his pajamas and you briefly glance down at his bunny slippers before looking back up at him with a ridiculing face before pushing past him into his house.

Gojo’s house is almost the exact mirror of yours, as are most houses in the neighborhood, but it’s been a while since you’ve been inside of it and so you take an indulgent look. A cozy family room to the side, which you see he’s decorated with a coffee table and a loveseat, and the staircase is visible from the entrance. A modest dining table sits where the carpet turns into wood, and you’ve noticed he’s made the effort to place real hardwood on his floors contrary to the laminate in yours. Ok, show off. Your eyes take in the paintings on the wall, and you remember how his house almost looks fake, like in the way he sets up props in open houses he’s showing for clients, as if someone lives here and yet somehow there’s no real living proof of it.

And because it’s pretty much the exact same layout as your house, you know exactly where the pantry room is, and you grab a bunch of Doritos and Pocky from his secret snack drawer.

“Oh yes, go right ahead. Please,” he says sarcastically as he leans against a support pillar near the dining room and watches you stuff your face with his snacks.

“So,” you say, muffled, “did you grab the paperwork?”

“No, I didn’t.” He glances at his watch. “My friend’s a family law lawyer, and he’s gonna be here soon to help us out with the prenup.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh my god, you’re being serious about the prenup? You really think I’m trying to gold dig at the cobwebs of your bank account? How little self respect do you think I have?”

“...do you really want me to answer that questi–”

The doorbell ringing startles you, and you quickly wipe at your face to clear any crumbs before setting the wrappers in your hands onto a bookshelf as you watch Gojo head to the door and open it.

You hear another distinct masculine voice ring in the air as Gojo exchanges pleasantries with him in the form of a handshake and a familiar hug with a few pats on the back, and then the angle Gojo twists his body reveals the man standing outside the door. He’s a bit shorter than Gojo with a lean build, clad in a fiercely formal black suit and tie with polished shoes. His hair is well-kept, short and raven black, and his eyes are sunken with what you can only imagine is fatigue. And it’s kinda hot to you, unfortunately, after years of working the night shift, you’re starting to find dark circles under people’s eyes to be extremely attractive.

“Uh, y/n, this is my friend, Higurama. Hiromi Higurama,” Gojo says, gesturing between the two of you,  “and Hiromi, this is y/n. My obnoxious neighbor. Careful though, if you get too close she’ll bite off your fingers.”

“I’ll bite off a different appendage of yours if you don’t shut the fuck up,” you snarl at him, and Higurama takes a step inside the house to greet you with an outstretched hand. 

“Hi, it’s lovely to meet you,” he says, and you’re a little startled by the politeness, but aptly shake his hand and nod before squawking out a likewise!!

You look past Higurama at Gojo who’s got an eyebrow raised at you, and then your eyes are on Higurama again as you watch him set his briefcase down on the dining table. “Are we ready to discuss?” he asks, brown eyes darting between the two of you. You nod and take a seat across from him, and Gojo first grabs everyone some glasses of water before he takes a seat at the head.

“So,” Higurama starts, “I take it you two are madly in love and would like to enter a marital agreement to declare your affections for one another in the court of law under just circumstances?”

You blink at him. “Y-Yes. Very just circumstances. Nothing shady going on here, we are indeed very madly in love and would like to get married.”

“Why the fuck would you say it like that?” Gojo chirps in but not before sighing. 

“T-The way he asked was really nerve wracking!!” you counter. And then your eyes widen when you look at Higurama again, who has a slightly amused tug to his lips. “...oh, you already know this marriage is a fraud.”

“I was just testing you,” he casually says, “in case they mention any suspicions in court. Seems you should just let Satoru do the talking.”

You pout a little and sink further into your seat, then bring the glass of water up to your lips. 

“Well, in any case,” Higurama says, and then he goes on into the details of what to expect in the courtroom. He pulls out paperwork for the marriage license application and starts to walk the two of you through the prenuptial agreement. 

“It’s my understanding you’re both desiring a prenup for this marriage?” Hugurama asks, brow furrowed slightly as he rustles through the endless papers in front of him that he was drowning in.

You briefly glance at Gojo, who’s also looking through all the papers with a concentrated look on his face, his features tense and he’s slightly worrying his bottom lip through his teeth. He’s thinking way harder about this whole prenup thing than you would, and you realize he’s genuinely taking this very seriously. 

“Um, yes,” you acquiesce, suddenly feeling a little guilty. And you remember who’s the one in need of the favor here. “I’m okay with the prenup.”

Higurama tells you two about the implications of the prenup, what can and cannot be included under state laws, and stresses the importance of full financial disclosure and fairness in the agreement to ensure its enforceability in the event of a divorce. Basically, don’t fucking lie about anything or else you two could sue each other to hell for it should divorce occur. You both agree, and you’re feeling sick to your stomach with anticipation. 

“Alright,” Higurama interjects your thoughts, “I will begin to draft the document then. Let’s start with assets.”

Gojo drones on about his tangibles, intangibles, cash equivalents, stocks, yada yada and you open up with yours too, but you can barely hear anything you’re saying and you can hardly hear what anyone else is saying either because you’re just dreadfully awaiting for Higurama to finally bring up—

“How about debts?” he asks, mindlessly as he types away on his laptop, as if the question doesn’t make you want to throw up. 

Your breathing picks up in speed, and you’re nervously fidgeting your hands over the surface of the table. You glance over at Gojo again, this time startled to find his eyes are on you too. His gaze briefly flickers to the shuffling of your fingers, then it meets yours again as he tilts his head slightly in a silent ask of you good?

“Uh–” you start, when you feel Higurama’s eyes on you too now that the silence has stretched on for too long, “I’m…well, I’m in a bit of…debt. From nursing school, a little bit from undergrad still, actually…”

“Okay,” Higurama says, “how much would you approximate? I’ll need the official loan statements soon, though.”

“Well, I’m paying off slowly…but last month I have around seventy-thousand still to pay off.”

“Alright,” Higurama accepts, “and you, Satoru? Student loans?”

“Oh, I don’t have any,” he says, “I paid them off a while ago.”

You feel like you’re being opened apart at the seams, and suddenly feel ashamed.

“Alright, what about other debts? Credit card debts? Any loans to know about?”

You figured you just needed to rip the bandaid off.

“Um,” you say, “I’m about three hundred thousand dollars in medical debt from my mother’s treatment loans.”

The room goes quiet, there’s no more rustling of papers or the mechanical jumping of keys on a keyboard, hell, even the birds outside stopped chirping to display their disbelief. 

“Wha–” Gojo starts, like he can’t help it, before he catches himself out of politeness, but he’s still looking at you with concern and shock. “y/n…what happened?”

You look over at Higurama too, and he’s completely turned away from the document he was drafting on his laptop, full attention on you, and his brow is creased with the same amount of concern. And you feel like you’re in therapy. You also feel like you’re about to cry.

“Well…it’s just,” you start, throat feeling raw, “my mom couldn’t qualify for medical loans because of years of poor credit, and insufficient income, and her cancer treatments became really costly, and so–” you suck a breath in, because your voice cracks slightly at the end. You were not about to cry in front of them right now. “And so I decided to cosign on her loans so she could receive treatment, and stuff kept coming up, and I had to work reduced hours for a couple of years when she was first diagnosed, and…some payments got away from me, and so then…there was interest, and…it’s…I guess over five years, things just…accumulated.”

They both sit there in stunned silence, shifting uncomfortably in their seats, like they understand your situation is so fucked in its entirety that they can barely even bear to put themselves through the trouble of even imagining themselves in your shoes, let alone fathom that you’re living in them.

Higurama clears his throat and redirects his attention to the computer. “That’s… no problem for the prenup. Thank you for being honest.”

“Hey,” Gojo interjects, and his hand reaches out to lay over your fidgeting hands over the table. His eyes are serious. “Why didn’t you–” he starts, and his face softens slightly when you can’t help the small sheen of tears that reaches your eyes, “...why didn’t you say anything about this? I mean, anytime we’ve talked.”

It’s your turn to look at him with a tense expression, and you slowly withdraw your hands from the hold of his palm to place them in your lap under the table. “Uh, why would I share about my financial woes to my neighbor? Don’t most people just act like shit’s normal with their neighbors?”

“I guess, but I didn’t know it was that ba–”

Higurama’s phone starts to ring, and he glances at the Caller ID before sighing slightly. “Sorry, I have another client I need to see soon. We’ll have to wrap this up, but I’ll continue drafting this document. Please send me your relevant statements for any loans and–” he glances at you, “...associated debts.” He starts to gather his things at the table, then neatly tucks his papers into his briefcase before placing his laptop in there too. He reaches to shake Gojo’s hand first, then shakes yours, and holds onto your hand a second longer to gather your attention. His eyes are almost solemn.

“I truly hope your mother gets better soon,” he says to you, tone contrite. 

You slowly nod and thank him, and then Gojo goes to see him out the door.

The house feels quiet when Gojo closes the front entrance, and he stays facing the door for a few seconds before slowly turning around to face you, back leaning against it as he crosses his arms in front of his chest, and just when he opens his mouth to speak, you cut him off.

“I really–” you say, “...I really don’t want to talk about it.”

His face contorts into confusion, and it looks like he’s about to protest, but you allow yourself to show the slightest amount of the hurt and the worry on your face, and he realizes that means he shouldn’t try to push it.

“Okay,” he says, and quietly. 

Things are awkward in the air for a second, so you waltz over to the window and watch through it as Higurama gets into his car, some type of sleek old black Mercedes Benz but it’s polished to perfection, and you let out a content sigh.

“What?” Gojo asks you, tone a little short. 

“Ohhh, nothing,” you say, bringing your hands up to cup your cheeks to feel their warmth as you take in the image of Higurama’s slender legs in his business attire, “I just…” you sigh again, “I just loooove men in suits. I wish I knew more men that wore them often.”

A beat of silence. “Um. I wear them often?”

You turn on your heel to face him. “Yeah, but you wear them in, like, a slutty way. Higurama,” you say, pointing with your thumb facing the window, “wears them in the actually respectable workplace way. Hence why it’s hotter on him.”

He scoffs. “And yet you’re always staring at my ass from afar when I’m wearing my tailored trousers.” 

“I seriously wonder what it’s like to be so fucking delusional all the time,” you shake your head at him and he looks like he’s got a comeback on his tongue but you sshhhhhhhh him and walk back into the heart of the house. You look over your shoulder briefly, and see Gojo’s standing where you were standing at the window a few seconds ago, looking out onto the street, and he’s grumbling something under his breath you can’t quite hear. And then you hear the sound of Higurama’s car driving away. 

You circle around the dining table, and take a seat to look through the marriage paperwork Higurama left behind for the two of you to fill out.

“Bring the paperwork over to the kitchen island,” you hear Gojo say as he makes his way to the kitchen, “I’ll fix us some coffee.”

The island has a seated side to it with bar stools that raise high and turn in fully 360 degree fashion, so you swirl around in your seat to make yourself dizzy while Gojo brews some coffee with his espresso machine. 

“Mm…smells nice,” you comment, still swirling.

“Milk? Sugar?” he asks you, and you stop swirling to answer him.

It’s not the first time you’ve been to Gojo’s house. When he first moved in next door, you brought him a plate of cookies as a welcome to the neighborhood! gift and he had invited you inside and fixed you a cup of coffee then too. The house was mostly empty back then, he’s made a lot of good work in filling it with furniture in that sort of IKEA catalog fashion, and you can clown on him for it all you want, but it still looks nicer than most homes you’ve been in. Anyways, you only visited him in his house a couple times after that before you realized you hated him. Because he blasts loud music at the most random times, which you’re convinced he’s just trying to show off the sound system he probably spent an unnecessary amount of money on, not to mention an unnecessary amount of time installing. He also always forgets to mow his fucking lawn, and it drives you nuts because then the weeds spread over into your lawn, but it’s not like it matters because you hardly mow yours either, but still. And that fucking boat. That fucking boat he keeps right at the edge of your driveway that taunts you and your ability to pull into garages after every single one of your dreadful night shifts. One of these days, you might just steal it and drive it into the ocean so it drowns. Wait, boats don’t drown. That’s the point of boats. They’re buoyant. It’s okay, you’ll find another way to get rid of it. The boat, you mean. 

“Here you go,” he says, sliding a cup of coffee to you across the island. You peer inside at the brown liquid, and the scent alone awakens your senses.

“So, logistics,” you say.

“Logistics,” he repeats after you as he stirs a spoon in his mug. 

“We need to make this believable,” you say to him, “otherwise the marriage could be invalidated, and we could face criminal charges, and I could lose the insurance benefits for my mom, and potentially get sued by said insurance companies, and get thrown into jail for life, and—”

“And how much sleep have you lost thinking about this?” he asks you with a sigh as he brings his mug up to take a sip. 

“I’m being serious, Satoru,” you say to him, “I…would just rather err on the side of caution. It’s a small town, people talk. And sometimes those people know the law.” You shudder.

“Who the fuck is out there that would be so pissed about us getting married just so you can help out your sick mom?” he asks.

Your eyes flicker downwards slightly in consideration. You can think of one person, at least. And when you look up at him, you’re surprised to see there’s a similar look on his face, as if he could think of a particular one person too. But before you can dwell more on the expression on his face, he grabs the paperwork in front of you and looks through some of it. “You should get started on your paperwork. Higurama filled most of mine out for me already, so you’re the one he’s waiting on.”

You groan and stretch your arm out across the island counter, then lay your head on your upper arm. “Sigh, why couldn’t he have done that for meee tooooo.”

“Probably because he doesn’t know you?” Gojo snorts. He’s silent for a moment as he takes another sip. You can’t see his face. “So,” he starts, “I mean. If we’re going to make this believable, which, to be honest, I don’t think a single person in this neighborhood would find us getting married believable, but still, if we were to try making it believable, wouldn’t it make sense for us to, uh, I don’t know, live together? Like what regular married couples do.”

“I am appalled you would even suggest that.”

“It’s going to look like we’re just faking it if we don’t at least cohabitate together,” he tells you.

“We can’t do that,” you sigh, “I bet you’d try to touch me inappropriately.”

“What???” 

“Yeahhh, I don’t know, you just—...you just seem like a guy with very little self control.”

“...y’know what? This is over. I’m calling off this engagement,” he says, and he walks over to the dining table with his coffee cup in hand and you lift your head up off your arm in a panic.

“Wha–...no!! Wait!!” you say, grabbing all the paperwork off the island and bringing it to the dining table where he’s taken a seat. “Please marry me. I need it so bad.”

“Woah,” he says, looking up at you, and there’s a darker glint to his eyes. “You need it so bad? Can you say that again?”

You curl up the papers in your hands into a makeshift hollow pole and whack him across the head with it. “This is exactly why I think you would touch me inappropriately.”

He grumbles slightly as he nurses the spot you whacked him with two of his fingers rubbing the area, and then he fixes his hair with a comb of his hand through it. The sleeve of his shirt drops a little from the movement, and you can see the muscles of his arm flex, then your eyes are quickly darting away so he doesn’t catch the line of your gaze on him. What the fuck. That was weird. You blame ovulation. 

“Alright, fine,” he says, and he grabs the papers out of your hand, “also don’t bend these. It bothers me.” 

You circle back to the kitchen to grab your abandoned coffee cup, and then bring it to the dining table to sit down with him at it. He places your half of the papers in front of you. You glance down at the first few boxes to fill out, and you already feel like giving up.

You glance up at him for a distraction. “Aren’t you going to ask me how long I want you to be married to me for?” you ask him.

“Uh, how long do you want me to be married to you for?”

“Forever,” you say. To scare him.

“Yeah, right.” He waves his hand in the air dismissively. 

You sulk because it didn’t scare him. “Six months.”

“More plausible.”

“Really,” you say earnestly, “six months.”

He looks up at you now, a curious expression on his face. “Why specifically six months?”

Your eyes find the color of your coffee fascinating once again. “I don’t want to put my mother in hospice for too long. I’ll miss her,” you say, “it’s just…something I’m trying out for now. And to just get a bit of a caretaking break, and also so I can pick up more shifts at the hospital to work on paying off my debt. It’s just…temporary.”

His shoulders roll back once and he sits up a little straighter, holding up one of the pieces of paper to study it better while he clicks his pen. “Alright. Whatever works for you.”

You twiddle with your hands again, blinking a little in consideration as a few moments pass by. “Uh…about living together. That’s fine. I suppose.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Really?”

“Yeah. But no touching,” you point at him with a strict finger.

He tilts his head back up to the ceiling in annoyance. There’s a roll in the muscles of his throat as his jaw goes slack. You squirm in your chair a little. Ovulation, you think. 

“I’m not going to touch you, y/n,” he assures you when his chin tips back down. You just stare at him for a few seconds as he seems to be in thought about something, and then his eyes meet yours. “Whose house are we going to live in?”

“Mine,” you say, “yours looks like a shitty catalog. It’s lame.”

“True,” he says, “yours feels homey. I like that.”

You’re a little taken aback by his words, and then purse your lips together. Your sort of go-to thanks expression reserved for him. “So, are you gonna sell your house then?”

“Huh? No way,” he shakes his head, “I’ll just see if I can rent it out for now.” He shakes his head even more. “I mean, god no, I wouldn’t be caught dead selling a house. Not with these market conditions. You know how much it’s already risen in equity within just the past few months alone? In five years from now—”

While Gojo continues to drone on about the lunacy of not holding onto property in this housing market, your eyes widen slightly at his words, like your body realizes a truth to what he’s saying before your mind does.

And then that’s when it hits you.

How you can help pull yourself out of debt.

You slam your coffee mug down on the table with a little more fierceness than you probably should’ve.

“Hey,” he scolds you, “can you be careful with that?”

“We’re not going to live in my house,” you say, ignoring him, “we’re gonna live in yours.”

“Huh?” he responds, “...but I thought you said mine looks like a catalog.”

“A shitty catalog.”

“Did you need to specify?”

“We’re not going to live in my house,” you tell him, with resolve, “because I’m gonna sell my house.”

He sits up a little straighter at your words. “Like, the house next door?”

“Mhm,” you nod.

He sighs. “Were you even listening to me? It’s so much more worth it to–”

“I don’t care,” you cut him off, “I need the money now. Not five years from now.” Your eyes glance down at your hands, and your tone becomes quiet. “I…I don’t even know if my mom has five years left to live.”

A silence settles in the room, and you see in your periphery that Gojo’s stiff and still, like he’s barely allowing himself to breathe as if you’d find it abrasive, and when you look over at him, his expression is soft.

“I know,” he says. “It sounds like a plan.”

“Will you help me sell it?” you ask him. “I’d…need a realtor.”

“Sure,” he easily agrees.

“Okay…” you say, and take a sip of lukewarm coffee, as if you haven’t just decided on an extremely major life decision. “Um. I’ll go get the paperwork then. From my house.”

“Oh. Right now?” he asks you, and he leans forward in his seat a little to get a closer look at your face. “I mean, don’t you want some time to think about it before putting it on the market? We can wait for a little bit.”

“No. That’s okay,” you say, standing up from your chair, “I’ll…go get the paperwork.”

He nods at you slowly, but his eyes are observant, and you ignore it to keep up the momentum of this decision that was definitely the right decision by all means and one that you should not be hesitating on at all as it is such an epiphany that can help clear your debilitating financial burdens. 

“Drive safe,” he says to you when you grab your purse off the coffee table in the family room.

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

The outside air is breezy, it’s a nice day with the sun shining down and sparkling off of sprinkler dew drops on overgrown grass, and you hop across with a pep in your step as you make it to your house next door. You’re always quiet when opening the door, because you never know when your mom is sleeping or not, and since her bedroom is downstairs, she’s privy to noises. Once you’re inside, you check to make sure she’s sleeping with a small creak open of her door, only to find that she’s sitting on her rocking chair and looking through a box of paintings.

Your heart twists at the sight, and you gently knock the door with your knuckles.

She glances up at you, and you can always tell from just the look in her eyes if she recognizes you or not. Because they’re warm and gentle when she does, but they see right past you to the wall when she doesn’t.

“Hello,” she says, “can I help you?”

You come up to her and kneel down beside her, placing a hand up on the rocking chair arm rest while she looks down at you.

“Hi, mom. It’s me. Your daughter,” you gentle reintroduce yourself. It’s what her neurologist suggested you do anytime she can’t remember you, but it rips away a piece of your soul each time.

Her eyes still see past you, abstract, empty with no feeling as she wraps her head around your words. “I am no one’s mother,” she tells you, tone sounding sharp and like she’s a moment away from terror.

“That’s okay,” you quickly remediate, feeling hollow inside from her words but you always had to be the sane one, so you direct her attention to the box in her lap. “What are you looking at?”

“Oh, I just found these paintings!” she exclaims. “I thought they were wonderful. Do you know who drew them?”

You smile up at her. “You did.”

“Me?” she blinks at you. The wrinkles in her forehead crumple with surprise, “oh, no, dear, I could not paint such things with detail. Look at me!” She holds her hand up. “My hand is trembling!”

She’s getting weaker. You make a mental note to bring it up to her doctor.

“You used to hold a paint brush like it was just an extension of your hand,” you tell her, picking up one of the paintings out of the box, “you were an art teacher, mom.”

“Don’t call me mom,” she says to you, that sharp tone from earlier cutting through to your soul. “I am no one’s mother.” Her eyes shimmer with a light sheen of tears.

You stare at her, brow pinching together with hurt, but you bite back the part of you that wants to beg her to remember you, to take one close look at you, and see you with warmth and not emptiness. But she sees past you all the same.

“Can you do something for me?” you whisper to her.

“Yes?” she asks.

“Could you please lay down? You need some rest.”

“Are you my nurse?” she asks.

You breathe in deep. “Yes.”

“Am I…” she glances briefly at her reflection in the vanity mirror, her eyes flitting up to the head scarf on her head that covers the absence of hair, “am I sick?”

You exhale. “Yes. You need rest.”

“Oh…” she acknowledges, “why, yes. I do feel…a little frail.”

“I know,” you comment, and you put the box down on the floor then help her up onto her feet slowly by holding onto her arm, and you guide her to sit on the bed and take her medications. She then lays down, and you nod at her reassuringly before you head out the door and close it behind you.

Your lip trembles with the threat of a sob as you stare straight forward at the wall in the dimness of the hallway. But a harsh bite to the plush of it ceases the quiver.

You make your way up the stairs to go grab that binder you had with the mortgage and house information, plus some of your recent utility bills. Except the binder is hard to locate, and you’re rummaging through the cabinets in your closet, the drawer of your nightstand, you’re even looking underneath the bed. But when you lift your head up from under it, still kneeling on the carpet, and glance at the wall, you notice something.

48’’ eight yrs. what a big girl! 

46’’ seven yrs. big jump

41’’ six yrs.

37’’ five yrs. my little princess

…

..

–all written in graphite pencil, scribbled up the wall where you would stand tall against as a kid, your mom marking your height at every birthday. And your eyes start to well with tears. 

This was your childhood home. With magical corners tucked away where you used to play hide and seek with your dad, with your old bedroom you used to play in with dolls and have tea parties with all your stuffed animals. There’s still a stain of fruit juice on the carpet underneath the rug that you never told your mom about because you knew she would be mad at you and would scrub it out, but it was in the shape of a heart and when you were a kid, you thought that meant you would find your prince charming some day. This house holds so many memories, like birthday parties and Christmas Eve and the sunflower patch in the backyard where you laid Sniffles to rest.

And it holds the familiarity of you that seems to be slipping through your mother’s fingers with each passing day, all those memories you created with her now solely yours to keep and no longer to share. But you realize at this moment that you’re not alone. This house still holds those memories with you.

Your eyes flicker to the graphite pencil marks on the wall again, and the tears flow freely.

In the moments where she cannot remember that you are her baby, this house remembers for her.

Your sleeve wipes at the dampness on your cheeks.

But it’s never enough, is it? And it’s never that easy, either. Life was never that easy, and you don’t always have the choices you might think you do.

You find the binder, and grab all the utility bills too, and head downstairs. You pass by your mother’s room with softness and sleuth, and guilt in your heart when you realize what you’ve chosen to do. There’s no pep to your step when you make it back to Gojo’s.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

“Sooo,” Gojo says, after about twenty minutes of looking through all the house paperwork in the binder at the dining table, “your mom transferred ownership of the house to you as a gift deed when she was diagnosed?”

“Mhm,” you say.

“She paid off quite a bit of it,” he comments as he looks through banking statements, “but still not enough to pay off your medical debt, unfortunately.”

You sigh. “I know. It was never really a house she could afford anyways. She just received it from the divorce, and I remember we were supposed to downsize, but…she didn’t want to.”

“I see,” Gojo comments, “well, it’s alright, it would still help you a lot for sure. How many years are left for your solar panel lease?” He has a pen in hand and a custom realtor notepad in front of him with his messy handwriting all over it. 

“It’s new,” you say, “still got thirty years left.”

“Jeez, okay. How much per month?”

You scavenge through the bills on your table. “Ummm um um ummm…….”

“You should really…get more organized.”

“You should really mind your fucking business.” You find the bill. “$285 per month.”

“Okay,” he scribbles it down, “does it offset your electricity bill?”

Your shoulders sulk. “A little bit.”

“Yeah, it might scare some buyers away.”

You sigh. “Oh and then the HOA too.”

“HOA?” he looks up at you with a puzzled expression on his face. “We don’t have an HOA in this neighborhood.”

“We don’t?” you blink at him. “Then who have I been sending $195 dollars to every month?”

“…….....you’ve seriously gotta be some special kind of stupid.”

After panicking for five minutes while checking your credit cards for fraudulent activity, Gojo gets done cutting up an apple for you. 

“Here,” he says, sliding the plate to you, “since you look like you’re about to faint. Knowing you, it’s probably just low blood sugar.”

You dramatically sigh and sink in your chair. “I can’t believe I spent the last three years paying an HOA that doesn’t even exist…”

“Hey, on the bright side, there’s some dude out there on an exotic vacation that’s very thrilled by your idiocracy right now.”

You shoot him a look. And then you hang your head low to drink your extremely cold coffee that you were still nursing, before downing it all in one go. Your eyes catch the marriage paperwork that Gojo was reviewing earlier, and you see Higurama’s pre-filled in information that he typed onto the papers before printing them for him. 

“Hm,” you hum, “it says here that you’ve been married before. You might want to get that fixed before we submit these.”

He stands up from the table, two of his fingers hooking onto the handle of his coffee cup, and he glances into yours to make sure it’s empty, briefly flicking his eyes to you and you shake your head for no, no more coffee, thanks before he wraps his other two fingers around the handle of your mug as well. The clink of the two porcelain mugs in his hand startles you a little as he walks past you to the kitchen sink. “There’s nothing to fix about that,” he says, his tone level and easy, “it’s true. I’ve been married before.”

Your eyes widen at his confession, and you quickly twist your torso in your chair to stare at him. Or at least, the back of him as he turns the faucet on and begins to rinse out coffee mugs. 

Married? Before? There are so many questions swimming through your head right now, ones that you desperately want answers to, biggest of all perhaps being now who the fuck would actually want to marry him??? for real??? you’re telling me this self obsessed dork proposed to a real life woman with a pulse and she actually said ‘yes’ to him??? who was this woman, and which psych ward did he find her from??? 

But he’s so quiet from where he stands, broad shoulders less pushed back like they usually are, and something tells you he wouldn’t entertain any of those questions from you right now. A glance at the paperwork, though, tells you the divorce was recent. Less than a year ago. Around the time he moved in next door. 

He still has his back facing you, and you try to sneakily catch a glimpse at more info under the Wife section on the prior marriages form. You can see the paper says maiden name: Inoue and you’re just about to sneak a peak at the first name when—

“You want to stay for dinner?” he asks when he turns around, leaning back against the sink counter. “I’m ordering pizza tonight.”

You’re surprised by the sudden invitation, and shuffle the papers over one another again. “Oh���that’s…that’s okay.” You glance at the clock he has hanging on the wall. “I’ve got work in a couple of hours, so…I should really get going. Have a few errands to run before then.”

“Okay, so, we’ll…talk later?”

“Yeah, later,” you stand up from your chair, and for some reason, the air feels a little heavier to you now. “Uh…” you start, awkwardly scoffing a little, “wow. Bachelor life again, then, huh? Probably just–...probably just beer and pizza every night?”

He purses his lips together, humoring you with a small laugh that comes out as a scoff through his nostrils. “No. Not really. I only order pizza when I close a sale on a house. My way of celebrating.”

“Oh,” you respond, “I see.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he says.

“I live next door,” you remind him.

His eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Right.”

“H-Hope the traffic’s not too bad!” you joke.

His laugh comes more genuine now. “You’re stupid.”

You head towards the door, and when he opens it for you, there’s a chill of air outside and it’s darker now, hues of dark gray, purple and a slight orange still present on the horizon paint the sky and you step outside then turn on your heel to face him.

“Um. Congrats, by the way. On the sale,” you tell him, “enjoy your night. And I’ll see you this weekend?”

“Huh?” He raises an eyebrow. “What’s happening this weekend?”

“We–” you scoff, “we’re getting married this weekend?”

“Oh!” he exclaims, tense, “right, yes, see you this weekend. For marriage. Of us.”

You roll your eyes and make your way down the concrete pavement that leads its way to his house, and leads its way away from it too. And when you walk back to your house, it’s not with a sulk, but it’s not with a pep in your step either. You just feel…neutral.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

“So, tell me about this fake husband of yours,” Hana says, leaning against your work-on-wheels as you attempt to catch up on charting notes with 4 hours and 15 minutes and 53 seconds left on your shift (it’s not like you were counting though).

“Yeah, in a sec,” you mumble as you punch in keys.

6/2/2024 0344: patient placed on 5150 hold on 5/31 at 1745, continually monitored by ED tech. all objects have been removed from pt’s room to prevent any danger to self or others. however patient accessed hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall at roughly 0320 and ingested all the hand sanitizer. notified MD of toxic ingestion, follow up plan is to coordinate care with poison control. no further orders at this time

“Okay, what were you saying?” you look up at Hana again and rub the tired out of your eye with a balled up hand, along with all the mascara. 

“Your fake husband!! Tell me about him!!” she chirps, shaking your work-on-wheels in excitement and the blur of your computer screen makes you feel dizzy.

“Shhhhh,” you hiss at her, “keep your voice down when we discuss illegal activities.”

She rolls her eyes. “Why are you always so paranoid? I’m already sick and tired of you charting incessantly every five seconds to save yourself from medical lawsuits that you haven’t even been accused of.”

“In a medical lawsuit, the chart is the law, Hana,” you say eerily with a shiver, and her words remind you to continue your detailed charting. “Never forget that.”

She sighs. Her gaze travels across to the other end of the emergency department, and you assume she’s staring at the asses of the EMT boys again, so you glance over your shoulder too. 

Except instead, you see the worst person on the planet.

Well, second worst as of right now.

The worst person title was reserved for someone else.

Approaching from down the hall is Yuna, your ex-best friend, a bounce in her step as she walks with a sort of allure as her hips rock side to side, her mile-high ponytail swaying in beat with the rhythm as well, and the ashy blond highlights in her hair hypnotize anyone she waltzes by. 

She was the kind of nurse that all the other nurses are jealous of. Always has cute little accessories and stickers on their badge, is wearing the fancy FIGS scrub sets that hug her sporty curves in all the right places, paired with those little shoes with the ankle socks, and she most definitely gets her water goal in for the day because she’s always sucking on the straw of her periwinkle Stanley cup around the ED all night just like she sucked the cum out of your boyfriend of seven years just twenty-four hours after the two of you had broken up–

“y/n,” she casually calls your name, leaning her elbow up on the cubicle divider of the nursing station. “It’s time for you to take your break. I’ll watch your patients.”

“I’m not taking my break,” you say, trying to relax the grit to your teeth which makes your eye twitch out of frustration instead. “Now get the fuck away from me before I call a Code Black.”

She sighs, rolling her eyes and smacking loudly on her gum. “Yaga said you have to take your thirty tonight. Something about how you haven’t clocked out for a break in more than two months and the hospital could get sued for that.”

“The hospital has way bigger cases they should be biting their nails about getting sued over,” Hana snorts just to butt in on conversation.

“C’mon,” Yuna says, her fingers reaching out to touch the handle of your work-on-wheels, purposefully stretched so that you can eye the perfect sparkly manicure to her nails. You curl your fingers into the skin of your palms to hide your gel polish that’s long started to scrape off. “Go clock out.”

“I’d rather die than listen to a single fucking thing you tell me to do,” you tell her, plain and simple.

“y/n!” a loud masculine voice calls from the other end of the Emergency Department, and all three of you visibly shrink a little in your stances out of fear. Head nurse Yaga. “Take your break, or I’ll be damned to let you set another foot in this hospital!!” he’s yelling at you all the way from the entrance to the CT scanner.

“But–”

“Now!!!!!”

Your eyes flicker to Yuna, who has an amused look on her face and a tilt to her head, and then you’re grumbling before logging out of your computer then stepping away from it. “Draw a CBC & chem on Beds 24 and 28 at 4 AM sharp,” you grumble to her, and she just gives you one of those tight-skinned smiles. 

The break room is empty, with shades of beige on the walls and even more depressing shades of gray on the lockers. There are all sorts of things pasted on the walls, like photos from staff Halloween and Christmas parties, drawings that pediatric patients have made in appreciation of their nurses, and employee information that Yaga’s constantly shoving in everyone’s faces. 

Okay, the backstory with Yuna. Pretty simple. You two had been best friends since high school, like inseparable best friends. Y’know, sneaking out late at night to use fake IDs at the bar, cover for the other when you’re busy losing your virginity to your high school boyfriend in the most dishonorable way possible, rooming together in college, sobbing and crying through all of nursing school together, ride or die type of friendship that you think you’d only find once in a lifetime. Except turns out your best friend, who you’d considered a sister, had eyes for your boyfriend since you started dating him in college, and the second that dickwad dumped you, you catch her sucking him off in the back of his Toyota Camry when you go to pick your stuff up from his place. Yeah, ouch. You lost the two closest people in your life, all in the matter of twenty-four hours, so pardon yourself for being a bit bitter about it. 

But being bitter is the coping mechanism. The real way you feel comes in the form of tears prickling in your eyes and the pain in your throat as you try to swallow away the knot that’s suffocating you from the inside out. A type of loneliness that leaves you stranded even in a room full of people. But at the very least, this room is empty, so no one has to see the crack in your resolve.

There’s no time on a thirty-minute lunch break to have a full mental breakdown, so you sparsely wipe at your tears and head back to your shift.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

If you want to know who actually holds the worst person on the planet title right now, well, you run into him on a Tuesday afternoon while on a grocery run after you just woke up from barely sufficient post night shift sleep. Bitter and drugged by Melatonin was not a state of being you needed to be in right now, but you’re out of orange juice and you’re having Vitamin C withdrawals which warrants a trip to the store. Unfortunately, the town only has one grocery store, which means you were bound to run into pestering ex-boyfriends at least once every full moon. 

“Get the fuck out of my way, Choso,” you snarl at the man who’s walking backwards ahead of your grocery cart, trying to stop you in your tracks so you’d just chill out and listen to him for a second.

“Can you just chill out and listen to me for a second?” he asks you, irritation evident in his voice like you’re being the difficult one here.

“I already told you that I quite literally never want to see your stupid ugly face ever again for as long as I live,” you say, and you ram your grocery cart forward with so much force the metal hits his knees and he doubles over the basket indignantly with a groan.

He seems like he’s had enough of you evading him, so he jams his foot under the wheel to keep you from moving forward, and you’re scowling at him and struggling against his foot-stop but to no avail. 

You briefly consider abandoning your cart all together and just bee-lining for the exit, but he’s a cop, so he’d easily be able to tackle you to the ground if you tried.

“What do you want?” you snarl, impatiently tapping your foot with every miserable passing second spent in his presence. 

“I just–” He sighs, “I just want to talk. And to know how you’re doing. You won’t pick up any of my calls.”

“Huh?” You blink at him. “I’ve had you blocked for the past two weeks. You shouldn’t even be able to call me.”

His eyebrows raise. “Really?...who have I been dialing then?” 

“Fuck if I know,” you shrug, and you use his moment of confusion to swerve your cart off to the side and make your way down the refrigerator aisle. Ohhh, dulce de leche gelato sounds nice, and it’s on sale. You grab a jar. 

Choso’s trailing behind you as you eye price tags and sale signs in the open chill of the yogurt section. “Babe–”

“Don’t–” you immediately cut him off, spinning fast on your heel and he stops himself just in time from crashing right into you. You hold your index finger up in the air between the two of you with a clench to your jaw so tight it feels sore, and through gritted teeth you say, “don’t call me babe.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. It’s habit.”

Indeed, habit. Seven years of him calling you babe, or baby, or boobie (idk don’t ask). Your favorite though? Babydoll. He’d always call you that when he’d make sweet, sweet love to you while you were wearing his favorite flimsy little piece of lingerie–babydolls. Even now, the memories have your cheeks feeling hot. But he doesn’t get to call you babe anymore, and he doesn’t get to fuck you anymore, or talk to you anymore, or breathe in your general direction anymore, because he betrayed you. He wasted your time, and then he betrayed you.

Seven years of your sexual prime, where you could’ve been fucking hunky firefighters and bisexual Europeans, wasted on a man you weren’t even going to marry in the end anyways. Now you’re pushing thirty, and the idea of having to date again makes your skin crawl with anxiety that turns into fury because your doom is all caused by the man in front of you.

Whatever, forget about the sex and the impending loss of a woman’s novelty within society for a second. You loved him. A part of you still loves him. You wanted to marry this man. You thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with this man. Little sheriff deputy’s wife, Mrs. Kamo, the perfect number of letters to get on a bejeweled license plate. You had envisioned all the cute little quotes of adoration that would be imprinted on your wedding reception’s custom-made doily napkins with everyone that’s ever meant anything to you sitting at the table, ready to celebrate the love that you thought was real and true and brave and strong and one that would last forever.

But he abandoned you when you were at your lowest. And he fell into the arms of the one person you thought you could turn to crying when the relationship crashed and burned in the first place. And the problem with living in a small town is that everyone knows everybody’s business, so now you’re just the woman that wasted her youth on a man that played her like a broken fiddle. Utterly heartbroken, and humiliated. 

So, yeah, he doesn’t get to call you babe anymore.

“Listen here, asshole,” you say, stabbing him in the chest with your finger, so he can feel even a fraction of the pain you’ve felt in the past three weeks, “I couldn't care less if you live today, or die tomorrow. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave me alone. Or I’ll file for a restraining order.”

“Really?” he says, brows pulled tight together in disbelief, like he just can’t understand what he’s done to make you act this way, and quite frankly, that only makes it sting even worse, “after everything we’ve been through, you’re just going to throw away the past seven years?”

“What the fuck are you saying?!” you all but snap at him, and an elderly couple that’s passing by flinches a little from the noise and you wince in apology before glaring at Choso again. Your voice is hushed this time. “You’re the one that broke up with me, but I’m the one that’s throwing it all away??”

He purses his lips together, and you notice how dark the circles under his eyes are. He shuts them tightly and leans back away from you, which makes you realize how much he was leaning into your space just a second ago. “I know that we…aren’t dating anymore. But, I mean, c’mon, y/n, it’s me. Just because we’re not together anymore, doesn’t mean that I don’t still…care. I want to know how your mom’s doing, and how treatment has been for her, and–” he glances up at the ceiling briefly, as if to mislead you into thinking that the next thing he says is just as nonchalantly desired as the other things he listed, “and I want to know how you’re doing, too.”

“You don’t deserve to know how I’m doing. Continue to wallow in your pathetic self righteousness, or go run with your tail between your legs to that two-faced rat I used to call a best friend. Either way, I don’t give a damn,” you say, in a way that very much sounds like you give a damn unfortunately, and spin on your heel to continue pushing your cart down to the juice section.

“Yuna and I–” you hear him say behind you, and just the mention of her name on his tongue makes your heart ache in your chest, to the point you need to place a flat palm over it just to alleviate the pain, “I–...I broke things off with her yesterday.”

Fuck. Pretend like you’re not fazed by that info. Pretend like you’re not fazed by that info.

“Okay? Whatever,” you barely manage to say.

He’s silent for a moment behind you. The wheels of your cart squeak as they roll. 

“I mean, we’re not together anymore. I’m not seeing her anymore,” he clarifies, as if he didn’t believe you heard him right the first time.

“Cool,” you comment, tone colder this time, since you had the practice round. 

“You don’t–” Choso starts, a rattle of hurt and confusion in his voice, “you don’t care about that?”

“Nope.” 

He reaches out to grab your wrist, and the contact burns through your skin, like something so familiar yet so foreign. You turn your head to look at him. 

“I…” he starts, and you can see his chest rising and falling with more intensity. Oh god. Please. Please don’t say it. You’re not sure you can handle hearing it. “I really miss you.”

Damn it, he said it.

Your posture relaxes slightly when you take a long look at him. You finally notice his hair has gotten longer in just the three weeks you’ve been apart, layered locks curling at the end of his neck, and it’s the first time you’ve noticed such a small detail because you were so used to spending everyday with him. He spent most of the week at your house, since the two of you could never formally move in with one another after your mother was diagnosed and it was easier for him to come by to yours so you could continue to keep an eye on her. There’s no option to live on your own and start your own life when you’re taking care of someone sick. They become your priority, not yourself, but you’d still make every single sacrifice you’ve made for your mother over and over again in a heartbeat if you had to relive the past five years. 

But that meant that you never had a real and true chance to live the life that you wanted with Choso. A place just for the two of you, lived in intimate solitude and not with the cries of your mother down the hall when she feels too sick to get up out of bed or when she cannot remember her own name. But you had never been this far apart from him to where you notice his hair is an inch longer than it was the last time you saw him. He was never that far away, as he is now. And you’ve just now realized it.  

“I don’t,” you start, swallowing the lump in your throat and your voice quivers ever so slightly when you speak, “I don’t care that you miss me.” You take a deep breath. “I’m getting married this weekend.”

His face entirely relaxes, like a calm before the storm, before it twists with so much confusion and incredulity and shock and–was that horror on his face?

“What?” he practically spats out, “it’s only been three weeks since we broke up!”

“Uhh,” you glance up at the ceiling of the store, just in time for an employee to make an announcement on the overhead for a manager at checkout lane 2 please, and then you glance back down at him, “I was having an affair while we were dating.” An easy lie. 

He scowls. “Yeah fucking right. There’s no way you’d cheat on me.”

His words burn bitter. The fact that he couldn’t even fathom you hurting him the same way he hurt you makes you clench your teeth. Because he knew you were better than he was, and that you were too good for him, and yet he still wasted your honor.

His friends, who used to be yours too, have probably fed him lies since the breakup. Like it’s okay, man. You broke up with her before you got involved with someone else. You didn’t do anything wrong.

But you say bullshit to all of that. Because after seven years of being together, you can’t just cold turkey a relationship like that to sleep with someone else, and then claim it’s not cheating. Technicalities like that were no vindication if the betrayal hurt all the same in the end. Because it still felt like you got cheated on regardless.

“Whatever. I don’t need to explain myself to you,” you tell him, “I’m getting married this weekend, so I really don’t give a damn about anything between us anymore. It’s over.”

“Who are you marrying?” he asks, suddenly breaking a sweat over the news like he’s starting to suspect you’re actually being serious.

“My neighbor.”

His face twists with disgust. “Old man Jenkins? He’s eighty-four years old.”

You roll your eyes. “Not the one on my left, you idiot. My neighbor to my right.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up in a ridiculing smirk, and the sight of it makes your skin crawl. He scoffs. “There’s no way. You hate that guy.”

“It’s true. I’m marrying him.”

“Seriously??” He guffaws at you, leaning in closer to you and you lean away until your back is resting on the handle of your shopping cart. “The obnoxious realtor I once heard you talking in your sleep about how much you want to murder him and then dump him in a lake?”

“What?! I talk in my sleep?!” you gasp.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. You have for years.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that?!”

He looks annoyed. “Because you’re such a hypochondriac. You would’ve thought you had a brain tumor or something, and I’d have to deal with the paranoia that follows suit.”

“Choso,” you say to him with a strict tone, jutting your hip out to the side in preparation to scold, “my mother has Alzheimer’s, which is genetic, and I was having an abnormal neurological symptom for years which has studies to show is an early indication of dementia and you just chose not to tell me because you didn’t want to be annoyed?!”

“See?” he gestures to you, “you’re doing it right now. How did we go from just sleep talking to ‘I might have dementia’?” 

“We,” you point between you and him, “are never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever getting back together. If there’s one thing you can pull through that stupid skull of yours, make it that.”

“Excuse me,” you hear a tiny voice squeak out, and you turn to your right to see a little kid trying to push past the two of you to grab a box of GoGurt in the Yogurt section. You move your cart forward by bumping it with your butt to get out of the kid’s way, and Choso circles around to the front of your cart before you start moving forward again. Like he’s literally stopping you from moving on from him. 

“You’re lying about marrying this guy,” Choso says like it’s a fact. In typical cop gaslighting fashion. “You’re just saying that to make me jealous.”

You roll your eyes. “No. I’m just that hot and gorgeous that I made a man fall in love with me in three weeks.”

“He’s in love with you?” he asks.

“Duh, he wants to marry me. When you dumped me, I found comforting solace in my next-door-neighbor, and we fell into bed with one another, and now he feels the obligation to provide for me for the rest of my life. What’s so hard to believe about that? You didn’t find abrupt matrimony odd when we binged all three seasons of Bridgerton two months ago.”

“That show is set in the fuckin’ regency era,” he hisses at you, “look around. There’s plastic bags of Hot Cheetos with Red 40 in them everywhere. Does this look like the 1800s to you?”

You have to be careful with him. He’s a cop, who could arrest you for medical insurance fraud, and would also have a personal vendetta against your marriage because boo hoo he misses you. But yes, he was right, you did want to make him jealous, and you just can’t help it.

“Well, me and him have a love that no one else can understand, so suck it. I’m marrying him, and he’s super into me, and he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with me, and he desperately wants to put babies in me, and–”

“And where’s the ring he gave you, then?”

Fuck. You briefly flick your gaze down to your left hand and note the daunting absence of a shiny diamond on your ring finger. Note to self, Gojo needs to buy you a ring.

“I left it at home,” you mumble.

“Uh-huh, as all newly engaged women who have been waiting for a ring all their life would do.”

That pisses you off. Because you were waiting your whole life for him to put a ring on your finger, and he never did. 

“Go fuck a fleshlight,” you snarl at him, unfortunately in earshot of the GoGurt kid and his mom shoots you a nasty look, but you’re a jaded woman after everything you’ve been through and you ram your cart into Choso so hard you swear you could’ve cracked his knee caps, and he doubles over in enough pain for you to have the time to leave him stranded there as you push your cart all the way to the end of the store. 

You finally make it to the orange juice section, the one thing you needed, although your cart is filled with things you didn’t need, because that’s always how these grocery runs go. You try to take a few breaths to calm down the fast beating in your heart after that confrontation with Choso. You’re not good with confrontation, even though it might seem like you are, but you’re just putting on a face. Acting strong, when really all you want to do is curl up into a ball and cry. But there are bills to pay, and images to upkeep, and orange juice to replenish. 

Your hand reaches out for the handle on the refrigerator door, but just before you curl your fingers around it, another hand beats you to it. It’s a large and masculine hand, with veins disappearing into the cuffed felted fabric of a suit jacket, and the knuckles turn a shade lighter than the olive skin around them when the fingers flex around the handle. 

You glance up at the person standing next to you, who you register towers over you in height. He has long, sleek black hair that shimmers under fluorescent lighting, some of which is tied up and out of his face, while the rest cascades over his back. But there’s tendrils of hair falling over the left side of his face, barely distracting you through the intensity of purple in his eyes when he glances at you.

“Ah, apologies,” he says, and the way he speaks is so calm and gentle, different from the intimidating aura he holds himself with. He retreats his hand from the handle.

“Oh, that’s–” you find yourself stuttering, “...that’s okay.” You grab the handle and open it, the chill rush of the fridge hitting you as your eyes peruse the selection of orange juice cartons while his eyes remain on you. You awkwardly glance at him again. “Sorry, d-did you also need to get orange juice?”

He nods. “Yes, I did.”

Not a man of many words, you think to yourself. Or maybe just around people he’s just met.

Your eyes catch the familiar labeling of your go-to orange juice, the one with no pulp and has added Vitamins D and E (basically the one for children), but you realize there’s only one left. You grab it anyway and put it in your cart. When you glance up at the handsome stranger beside you, there’s a slight look of amusement on his face.

“Seems we both have the same taste in orange juice,” he comments. 

“Oh no,” you say with a small laugh, “I’m sorry. It’s the last one.” Your eyes widen. “You–…you can have it, if you want–”

“Oh, no, no,” he shakes his head, long hair swaying with the motion as he holds his hands up in front of himself, “please. I will just find a nearby store.”

You tilt your head. “Oh there’s no other stores nearby…unless you get on the highway for at least twenty minutes. It’s a…small town.”

His lax expression finally cracks into one of subtle surprise. “That’s interesting.”

“Are you…new to town?” you ask.

He nods with a small smile on his face. “Indeed. Well, just visiting. I’m from New York.”

“Oh! Wow, that’s a long way from here.” You briefly register that he does look like a city man. Upscale restaurants, skyline views, premium outlets. The subtle fragrance of his cologne smells expensive too. “What are you up to while visiting?” You mentally facepalm yourself for asking personal questions, but he seems mysterious and you like peeling the layers back on people like him.

His expression drops, turning almost solemn and his eye contact that was previously very direct is suddenly averted elsewhere, “Just…visiting some old friends.” There is no elaboration.

“Ahh…I see,” you say, picking up on the hint that he has no more words to give you. “Well…I’ll be taking the orange juice…maybe try one with pulp?” you suggest a little cheekily. 

His lips tug upwards in a lopsided smile, one you’d call a smirk if you weren’t so mesmerized to define it as one, “I’ll think about it.”

You hum slightly in polite acknowledgement of him, then push your cart back towards the heart of the store without a word of goodbye.

Odd stranger, who’s good at giving misleading answers. You wonder what life he’s come here to escape. 

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

It’s a bright, picturesque Sunday morning, with children laughing and squealing out on the streets in front of your house as they ride their scooters up hot pavement while their parents catch up on PTA drama on the lawns. You’re standing in front of your full length mirror, trying on dress #3 for your little meeting with the courthouse today. And by little meeting, you mean your wedding. You’re getting married today.

The dress you have on falls to below your knees and has buttons all the way from the hem right up to the base of your neck, where the collared neckline wraps around you like a noose. Suffocating, way too prim and proper, although it’d make your grandma very happy and adored to see you should you show up to church service in it. 

Your bed is cluttered with clothes you’ve thrown across it as you try to find a good dress. Your hands move with impatience as you skim through the rack of your closet for another dress to try on, since you’re starting to push the time a little too much. You’ve only got ten minutes before you need to leave. 

A dress tucked in the corner of your closet catches your eye and you pull it out. It’s a cream-colored milk maid dress with an underskirt to puff out the A-line silhouette, length down to your shins that would be oh-so-flattering with a cute pair of heels. There are small red flowers adorning the pattern, with tiny green leaf details as well. It was cute and sweet and feminine, something you haven’t worn in a long time unlike your usual monotonous hospital scrubs, stained sweatpants and adult onesies.

It was the dress your friend Sana convinced you to buy when you thought you were going to get engaged. In the first two years of your relationship with Choso, you two talked about marriage non-stop. You both had just graduated college when you first started dating, and it felt like your lives were finally starting. At the end of the second year you two had been together for, after Christmas dinner with your family, he pulled you into his arms and you squealed with glee as he spinned you around in your childhood bedroom upstairs and told you how much he wanted to marry you, and that he was going to propose in the new year.

Your mother was diagnosed with cancer in January, and he never brought up marriage ever again. 

He still stayed with you for five years after that though, and swiftly dodged every single question you ever asked him about his impending proposal. For five years, you were fed every excuse in the book. And in hindsight, you feel like an idiot for staying, and for still holding out hope, when what you were really holding onto was heartbreak. The feeling of not being enough, like someone was just tolerating you, and not loving you. It was easy to ignore at times, given how occupied you were with driving your mother to chemotherapy appointments and reading up on books about which diet works best to slow down the development of Alzheimer’s because your mother started showing signs of dementia just two months after the cancer diagnosis. But in those moments of freedom, where you had a moment to breathe, all you could breathe was a suffocating smoke. Because you stopped feeling wanted or loved in between all of it.

But there was a trip he planned for the two of you to Greece. It was after your mother had first successfully gotten into remission. A gasp of fresh air amongst all the pain and suffering, and you could only assume that he wanted to celebrate by taking you on a trip. Sana was convinced he was going to propose to you on this trip, and you wondered if maybe he was just waiting until your mother felt better before he proposed so that the two of you could enjoy being newly engaged without the pressure or worry. Sana took you shopping, and you bought this dress, one that clings to your form in a way that made you feel beautiful. Made you feel wanted. Made you feel worthy of being loved. Because all other parts of yourself had been overlooked and paid no attention, but you thought a dress could save you. 

He never proposed. You left Greece with an extra suitcase of souvenirs, but without a ring on your finger or even a compliment on how beautiful you should’ve looked to him standing there on that beach with this cream-colored dress on, arm wrapped around his. And it was at that point you became numb, and you existed in limbo for the remaining four years of your relationship. Until he finally did what you silently begged him to do, with every sullen look in your eyes when you glanced at him. Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, what he did to you. Something you willed him into because you didn’t have the strength to leave, and so he had to.

You hold the dress up to your form in the mirror. It’d still fit you, and it’s far too pretty to have only worn once. But you’ve been numb for so long now, you don’t even remember what it’s like to feel pretty in a dress. You unbutton yourself out of dress #3 and step into failed proposal dress #4, and as you slowly zip up the back of the dress, you’re met with resistance. 

Fuck.

The last thing you need right now is a weight-related meltdown.

You tug up on the zipper even more, harshly, to the point you hear a stitch rip and you gasp and try to do it slowly so as not to completely tear the dress apart. But it’s not fitting. It should fit. You just assume the zip is stuck, or it’s too rigid after years of no wear.

You’re about to do another colossal yank upwards that could potentially dislocate your shoulder when you jump at the sound of your phone chiming with a notification. And then multiple.

“What...the hell…do you want…” you sigh to nobody, swiping your hands across the pile of dress fabric on your bed to find your phone, and when you do, you quickly tap on the screen to see the messages.

|| 11:32AM neighbor (avocado tree): Hey, are we still getting married today?

First of all, wild fucking thing to nonchalantly ask.

|| 11:32AM neighbor (avocado tree): Your car’s still parked out front, so I wasn’t sure if you’ve left yet. I was just about to leave, and then the thought occurred to me that we should probably carpool?

|| 11:35AM neighbor (avocado tree): But just wanted to verify, are you sure you want to go through with this? You’re not having cold feet? Won’t be a runaway bride? I’m not gonna be left at the altar, wondering where I went wrong?

You roll your eyes, breathing heavily still from the struggle of zipping up your dress.

|| 11:36AM You: yes, we are still getting married. I just can’t zip up my dress for the life of me 

It takes him a whole minute to respond.

|| 11:38AM neighbor (avocado tree): Do you need help?

You blink at your phone screen. Help? What kind of help? Helping you zip up your dress?

You look over your shoulder to the full length mirror, eyeing your back. The dress was zipped up to just above the small of your back, with the rest of it flayed open to reveal the expanse of your skin. Setting your phone down, you roll your shoulders back once and flex your fingers to try again in securing this dress, but to no avail. You curse yourself for not having the flexibility, and to be honest, you’re not even sure if you can take the dress off anymore to get into something else with the way the zipper won’t budge neither up nor down. Well. You’re just going to have to wear this dress for the rest of your life now. A scary predicament.

You pick your phone up again.

|| 11:41AM You: yes

It only takes about two minutes for him to text you that he’s at your front door, a surprisingly considerate gesture considering your mother is sleeping downstairs so it’s good he didn’t ring the doorbell, and you tiptoe your way down and over the creaky floorboards of the stairs to the front entrance. 

You slowly crack the door open only a couple inches, hiding yourself from him behind it as you peek at him. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, and he glances at his watch. “We’ve got to hurry.”

You nod, and take note of his appearance. He’s wearing a dark fitted navy suit over a white dress shirt, which to your surprise, doesn’t have the top two buttons sluttily undone for once. His suit pants are perfectly tailored to his ankles and you can barely see the exposed fabric of black socks before they disappear into his polished Oxfords. He looks like he’s going to a wedding. Oh wait, he is. 

He raises an eyebrow at you when you refuse to reveal yourself by stepping away from behind the door. Even his hair is particularly kept and proper, swept off to the side slightly in a way that makes him look younger and you feel nervous from the intensity of those eyes, which are usually somewhat hidden by the fringe of his snowy hair, now look at you unwaveringly with no obstruction. You feel like you’re seeing him in a completely new light, and for some reason, it makes you cower behind the door even more. 

“Uh, are you going to let me in?” he asks you, his foot tapping lightly on the welcome! mat. 

“Yes,” you say, but you make no movement to prove your word. 

“y/n,” he says, “we need to get going.”

You sigh, tapping your fingers against the stained glass window of your front door to release some nerves before hesitantly stepping to the side and pulling the door open all the way, then you’re standing in front of him in full view. You catch a glimpse of the black tie hanging from his neck that’s secured all the way up to the collar of his shirt, before you finally look at his face.

Those striking eyes of his round slowly until he’s looking at you wide-eyed, blinking in some sort of dazed surprise as his gaze eventually sweeps down your entire form to take in the sight of you standing barefoot on wooden floor in your cream-colored dress, and you swear you see the muscles in his jaw jump. His brow furrows like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“You–” he starts, that shocked blinking still taking place on his face, and you grasp the fabric of your dress in front of you from the anticipation of what he’ll say, “...you look beautiful.”

A silence settles between the two of you as he continues to roam his eyes all down you like there’s nothing that could stop him from doing it, and you feel heat in your cheeks from his compliment. It’s just a silly little cream-colored dress. One that didn’t look pretty on a beach in Greece, so why would it look beautiful on you  here right now? While you’re standing at the dusty front entrance of a decades old house? He’s bullshitting you.

“You know you don’t have to compliment me, you know that, right?” you squeak out, trying to keep your tone level and easy to fight back the raw feeling in your throat, “this isn’t a first look. There are no photographers around to capture your reaction. We’re not actually getting married.”

“But–” 

“Can you just help me with the dress?” you cut him off so he doesn’t say anything else that makes you feel pretty right now.

“...sure,” he agrees, and he steps inside your house. You start to walk upstairs, and he follows suit, and you suddenly feel his eyes on your back so you turn around and walk up the stairs backwards while facing him.

“I don’t understand the concept of first looks anyway,” he says out of nowhere to cut the silence, “isn’t it a bad omen to see your partner before getting married?”

“That’s such an outdated superstition,” you tell him as your feet finally press firmly flat at the top of the stairs. 

One of his feet is placed next to where you’re standing up straight at the top, while the other is still on the third step down. And it’s like he’s kneeling on one knee in front of you as he looks up at you. After a moment of deep breathing on your part, you finally step away from the top of the stairs so he can finish walking up them too.

“I don’t know what happened,” you say to him as you make it to the front of your full length mirror, “I was just trying to zip it up but it got stuck. And it’s not unzipping either.”

He comes up behind you, and you can see in the mirror that he’s put a decent amount of space between the two of you from the way his arms are reached out in front of him just to access the zipper. He tugs up on it.

“Hm. It…” he struggles with it, “it seems…” he yanks again, “jammed?”

“Fudge,” you mutter under your breath (more ladylike perhaps, as opposed to fuck) and you sulk your shoulders. “But will it close at all, do you think?”

He takes a step closer to you, and his cologne has the fragrance of woody oak with undertones of citrus, like something expensive and sophisticated. His hand sweeps your hair off to the side and over your shoulder to the front so he has a better view, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck from the motion and you try to fight the shiver. A glance to the mirror, and you see his eyes are set on the exposed skin. He tugs to pull your dress together, and is able to cross the fabrics. “Yeah, it should. I think just hold your breath for a second? I’m going to try to see if zipping it down helps unjam it.” 

“Okay,” you say softly, and he eyes you in the mirror at the sudden subservience. 

You try to hold your breath as he tugs down on the zipper, and you hear the metallic click when he succeeds in unjamming it before he zips it down just an inch. You can feel the small of your back exposed to cool air from the motion. 

He’s suddenly frozen entirely behind you, the knuckle of his index finger brushing against your skin as he continues to pinch the zipper between it and his thumb. You feel his slow exhale on the back of your neck. You’re too scared to look at his expression in the mirror.

“Sa–” you stutter through a gasp, “Satoru.”

“Sorry,” he says quietly, and then he’s shifting on his feet once before slowly attempting to zip the dress up. 

He’s met with a slight resistance just underneath your shoulder blades. “Hey. Just hold your breath.”

“I’m trying to,” you tell him, almost whining, because it’s hard to stop breathing when your heart is beating fast and it needs the oxygen supply.

“Do you want to try on a different dress?” he asks you.

“No,” you immediately answer him. You’re not sure why, but the idea of wearing this dress for the rest of your life doesn’t scare you anymore. In fact, you never want to take it off.

Your hands twiddle with the flimsy string at your collarbone that you tied to connect the fabric across your chest, and then you realize. “Oh…maybe I need to–” you tug at the end of the string, “undo this? That might make it looser?” You finally glance at the mirror to seek his approval of your suggestion.

His eyes meet yours, and when he sees what you’re referring to, his eyes widen. “But that would–”

“Just don’t look,” you say simply.

You two remain looking at one another in the mirror, and you see his chest heaving slightly through the tightening of his dress shirt against the expansion of his breathing. Like you’re asking the impossible of him.

“Or I’ll kill you,” you say.

He sighs, and his eyes flit down to your zipper again. You swear you feel his hand tremble slightly. “Alright.”

You pull on the end of the string, watching him in the mirror to make sure his eyes don’t wander, and the fabric covering your breasts falls open, but you use a hand to still sparsely cover your skin with the cloth where you can. In the reflection, you see his jaw clench but his eyes remain on the zipper, and only briefly flicker to the bed once. Then he’s zipping up your dress with ease. 

You quickly tie the string above your chest once more to cover yourself up, and then spin to face the mirror, petting down the fabric of your dress and throwing your hair back over your shoulder. It was a snug fit, but at least it still fit. 

He’s a step behind you with his hands shoved in his suit pockets, looking at your face with a slight tilt to his head like he’s studying you in the mirror just as much as you’re studying yourself. And then he pulls his hand out of his pocket to glance at his watch again. “It’s almost noon,” he says. 

“What?!” you bark at him. “We’re fucking late!!! Why didn’t you say anything?!?!”

“Huh??” he baffles. “I’ve been trying to tell you we need to rush this entire time.”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you say, pacing your room to find your things in a scurry, picking your purse up and then grabbing your Manila folder of paperwork from your desk, and you try to walk past him to the door when you trip over the five pairs of shoes that you had been trying on earlier, almost twisting your ankle, and you gasp then grab onto his suit jacket for purchase before his arm attempts to reach out to hold you upright but to no avail since you tug on him as you fall straight backwards onto your bed and bring him down with you. 

His hands sink into the soft mattress on both sides of your head, wrists tickled by your hair, as he hovers over you, and your fingers quickly curl into little balls at your chest as you shrink underneath him, looking up at his surprised expression, likely from having to suddenly brace himself from falling right on top of you.

You both look at each other, blinking as you come down from the sudden chaos, and his tie that’s hanging from his neck brushes against your knuckle and falls over your hand to graze the skin above your breasts. His eyes briefly flicker to the sight, and he catches himself only to stare at your lips instead.

Even through thick layers of fabric, you can see the thick curves of the muscles in his arms, pulled taut from how he’s holding himself up over you. And for once, you wish the buttons of his shirt were undone, so you can see what he’s hiding underneath. The hair he had swept up above his eyes now falls freely with gravity, soft tufts that dangle above you and shadow over the blue of his eyes as he looks at you with a furrowed brow that–...that makes him look handsome. 

You must be ovulating.

No, wait, you finished ovulating a couple days ago.

Oh god.

Was your next door neighbor hot this entire time?

There was simply no way. 

You refuse to believe it.

You’re laying still like a deer in highlights, motionless underneath him, before he curls his arm around your waist to bring you up with him as he stands up straight, and you only spend a moment pressed up against him before you get yourself out of his grasp by pushing flat palms against his chest, and then the two of you are in proper distance from one another once again.

“D-Don’t ever do something like that ever again,” you stutter, shimmying your hips slightly to pull the snug fabric down your waist from where it had risen up.

“I didn’t do anything,” he grumbles, and he runs a hand through his hair. Now it looks like it always does, no longer prim in style.

“Whatever, let’s just go.” You slip your feet into one of the pairs of heels sprawled across on the floor, and then you head straight for the door. “You drive.”

You hear him sigh behind you. “Yes ma’am.”

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

The courthouse is bustling with people when you two arrive but Gojo’s pleasantly able to pull into an open curbside parking spot right in front of the entrance. You’re surprised when he comes around to the passenger side to open the door for you, and you swat his hand away when he offers it to you too, but you probably should’ve taken it, since you almost twist your ankle for the second time today as you step out onto the curb and get used to walking in heels again like a newborn fawn.

“Should’ve taken my hand,” he says to you, smile turned upwards into a smirk as he watches you struggle while he’s a few steps ahead of you.

“Give it to me then,” you grit through your teeth as you wobble, giving up your pride to avoid adding yet another medical bill to the list of debts in your name.

“Nah,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, “too late. Lost your chance.” You curse his entire lineage in your head.

You two make it inside the courtroom, and the first person you look for is Hana, whose head you catch at the front row much to your pleasant surprise since she is your sole witness to sign on the marriage certificate today. But in your study of the room to find her, you notice that there are a lot of other people in here as well.

“Don’t tell me…Did you invite people??” you ask Gojo, grabbing onto his sleeve to get his attention and also for balance, but he doesn’t need to know that latter part.

He glances down at you. “No? Why would I invite people to my fake wedding?”

Your eyes peruse the room once again, and you realize that most of them are just old retired people with nothing better to do on a Sunday than visit the courtroom. Some are elderly couples, eyeing you and Gojo as you two make your way down the aisle with sweetness in their eyes like awwwwwww to be a young couple in love once more <3 while they wait for the judge to call on their hundreds of unpaid parking tickets because they don’t know how to access an internet portal.

“D-Do you have the marriage license?” you squeak out to Gojo, who has now adjusted his walking speed to match yours.

“No, I left it at home,” he tells you in a flat tone. “Of course I brought the marriage license.”

“I was just checking, jeez…” you grumble.

Gojo hands the clerk the folder he was holding in his hand, and you hand in yours too.

Oh god. Your peripheral vision already recognizes him before your brain can, but you see an extremely familiar silhouette standing guard off to the side of the Judge’s bench, and your gaze immediately snaps in that direction.

Choso stands there, in his Sheriff Deputy’s uniform, his thumbs tucked into his vest as he puffs his chest out in assertion of his oh so important duty securing the courthouse on a Summer Sunday from any devastating danger, such as an elderly man not wanting to pay a parking ticket and then proceeding to charge towards the judge at 2 MPH, and you can’t help but roll your eyes from his attitude and scowl at him. Of course he pulled some strings and saw when you were getting allegedly married and decided to show up on that exact day. Whatever. You’ll pay him no mind. As long as he doesn’t speak now.

You and Gojo walk back to the lower desk in front of the Judge’s Bench.

“Ah! y/n, hello my dear, how are you?” the judge calls out to you.

“Hi Judge Jin,” you say meekly with a small wave, your voice echoing in the room, “good, and yourself?”

6/4/2024 1232: Judge Jin is a 72 y/o man with a past medical history of hypertension, hypercholesterolemia, hyperglycemia, GERD, liver cirrhosis and COPD, who endorses a social history of frequent tobacco usage and occasional alcohol consumption. Patient presents to the ED with chief complaint of chest pain, onset two hours ago after he drank three bottles of beer, and—

“Much better since you took care of me last week!” he humphs, patting his stomach.

You snap out of your automatic charting that was droning on in your head on reflex from how many times Judge Jin has shown up to the ED for acute chest pain which almost always ends up just being beer-induced GERD.

“At the hospital!” you clarify, “for taking care of you at the hospital!”

The man laughs heartily from where he sits up at the raised platform bench. “Yes! And Mr. Gojo! Nice to see you as well.”

You flit your eyes to Gojo, like you know him too? He only briefly spares you a sidewards glance before looking back at Judge Jin. “Likewise, sir.”

You postulate he scammed the fuck out of the man into signing a forty-year lease on a condo in the shady part of town, and you’ll leave it at that.

“I have to say, I am a little shocked by this matrimonial partnership!” Judge Jin chimes in. “But do you both swear to enter this marriage under just circumstances? I will need verbal affirmation from you both.”

Gojo raises his hand up in the air to swear on it, and you remember that he’s possibly done this before. Y’know how people have a courtroom wedding before a real wedding, something like that. And maybe that’s why he knows to raise his hand, because you didn’t even know you were supposed to raise your hand until now.

A real wedding. Something you’ve pictured a lot in your head, and so much more different than the arrangement you find yourself in right now. And because the pain of imagining yourself tying the knot with someone is too much right now, especially when the man you thought you were going to marry stands in uniform five feet away from you and probably doesn’t even recognize the dress you’re wearing right now, you glance over to Gojo and you try to imagine what a real wedding would’ve been like for him. Since he’s done it before.

He probably had a tacky wedding, like in a barn with barrels of beer used as tables with barely flickering string lights hung across wooden planks high on a triangular ceiling. The reception and the ceremony likely happened under the same roof, because he seems like the minimalist type, more focused on the feelings behind it and all, and not the grandeur.

Or maybe he was into the grandeur. Maybe he had a wedding on a skyline penthouse in the city, wearing expensive cologne like the one he’s wearing now, and a Dior suit he got custom made because it was a once in a lifetime occasion so why not? The image becomes a little too vivid in your head now, where you can picture this woman he’s marrying too. Pretty, tall just like him, wearing a ball gown white dress. He would’ve told her she looked beautiful, too. He would’ve told her he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with her. Vows uttered shakingly into the microphone at an altar while the sun is setting far into the sky, shimmering off of high building windows until the air is golden and it reflects off of his and his soon-to-be wife’s face. And when they’ve professed their love for one another, he grabs her by the waist and dips her in a kiss, for the perfect picture against the perfect backdrop in front of all the perfect little people because there probably was a photographer at that event, wanting to capture the moment.

You snap out of the dazed moment when a loud voice calls out your name, and in a shock, you glance back up at Judge Jin who’s looking at you with slight irritation.

“Huh?” you squeak out, and then turn to look at Gojo, who’s got a look of mild concern on his face as he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Please swear that this marriage is under just circumstances,” Judge Jin states with a cadence that indicates he’s commanded this of you multiple times already.

“Oh!” you stand up straight, “I—…I’m sorry.” You hold your hand up. “Yes, I swear this marriage is under just circumstances.” Just like Higurama had you practice. He’d be proud. Phew, the hard part was over.

The rest of the ceremony goes by in a rather fast blur, and it’s a little awkward when you both have to tell Judge Jin that you don’t have any vows to exchange at the moment when he offers the time for them, but Gojo comes up with some lie about how the real vows will be at our formal ceremony, and Judge Jun seems entirely satisfied and a little too ecstatic by the answer before allowing you two and Hana to sign the marriage certificate.

“And rings?” Judge Jin asks as he peers down through his glasses to the paper he was holding at his desk. “We can now make time for the exchange of rings.”

You’re prepared for Gojo to come up with another lie about how the real rings will be at our formal ceremony, but you see him shuffling with something in his pocket in your periphery. Hm? You glance down at his hip, and you see him pull something shiny out.

He turns to face you, and he holds his hand out to you with an up-facing palm. You blink at him and then glance down at his hand. And then you look up and blink at him, and then glance down his hand. And then you look up and blink at him, and then gl—

“Give me your hand,” he says to you, a little hushed and rushed.

“Why???” you ask, baffled.

“So I can put a ring on your finger?” he says, like it’s the most casual thing. Like getting a ring slipped onto your fourth finger is the most casual Sunday for you, when it’s something you’ve dreamt of your whole entire life.

You finally take a long hard look at the ring he’s holding in his right hand. It shimmers with every glint of light in the courtroom off of every angle, no doubtedly precisely cut diamond from a jeweler who really cares about their craft, and you swear you’ve saved a similar looking ring to one of your Pinterest wedding boards before.

You hesitantly bring your hand up and hover it over his.

“Your left hand, silly,” he tells you.

“Oh, right,” you say, and hand him your left one instead.

He holds it in his hand that is much warmer than yours, and it’s so tender, the way he gently slips the ring onto your finger. It fits with ease, perfection actually, and you can’t help raising your hand up in the air, spreading your fingers weakly as you admire the stone now sitting above your knuckle. It’s pretty.

You feel Gojo’s eyes on you, as he’s halted in frame, and you glance past your hand to look at his face. You dislike him. You do. You should. He’s your annoying as fuck next-door-neighbor. So then why does your heart feel like it could burst right now?

A glimmer of silver catches your eye, and you look down at his hands as he slips a silver ring onto his left hand while facing you before he turns to face the front again, signaling the end of the ring exchange, except you didn’t get to put it on his hand. He didn’t give you the chance.

“Alright! Wonderful!” Judge Jin exclaims, whose eyesight is probably too poor to have seen that it wasn’t even a proper ring exchange. “With the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife!”

There is scattered applause across the courtroom, a few cheers as well, as you two stand in front of the court of law in holy matrimony.

Judge Jin glances at Gojo. “Well, young man, you may now kiss the bride!”

“Oh—…that—” you stutter, “that’s not necessa—”

“Okay,” Gojo says, more to affirm Judge Jin than in acknowledgement of your protest, and in a series of what feels like just one motion, he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you two him and then he—

He kisses you.

He kisses you like it’s real, like there’s history, like it’s a pure thing meant to last and not something you quite literally put a time stamp on. The kiss muffles the small sound that comes from your throat, your hands held up in the air in some slight surrender before they slowly settle on his shoulders as he bends you backwards over his forearm to deepen the kiss and the cheers surrounding you grow with a fervor that has your cheeks burning red but for some reason you don’t want it to end—

And then he pulls away from you, eyes darting across the features of your face in close proximity as he exhales slowly, like a release, and it feels like the two of you are the only ones in this room before he glances at your lips one last time and then he releases his hold on you. You stand shocked, and briefly glance at Choso, who looks like he’s about to burst a fuse off the top of his head.

What.

What.

What?

And just like that, you were married to your insufferable next-door neighbor.

.

.

.

[end of chapter 2]

a/n. thank youuu soooo so much for reading this chapter of ihm!! i’m kinda liking the writing style i’ve adopted for this series, it’s kinda lax n lenient sort of like a stream of consciousness and i hope it doesn’t come of too crass of informal lol i’m just playing around w some writing styles rn. ANYWHO i hope you enjoyed!! btw i picture choso as long-hair choso in any modern au (and not pigtails choso) so if you see me describing his hair in the way that i do, that’s why lol. love you all so much, hope to see you in the next one <3

➸ take me to chapter three!

note: please do not ask me for updates or when i will next update (read rules)

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meme of the chapter:

[girlkisser13]

being married to ryomen sukuna would include

• your wedding was far from traditional. it was more like a ritual, a claiming, an unbreakable vow that binds you to him forever.

• your wedding rings are ancient, inscribed with curses that tie your souls together. no magic, no force in the universe, can ever sever the bond.

• he is possessive of the title. he loves calling you "my wife" or "my husband"— always with that cocky smirk, like he owns you.

• sukuna is a king, and your home reflects that. luxury, power, and absolute security— all tailored to your comfort, whether he admits it or not.

• your home is massive, grand, and completely impenetrable. he ensures no one can step foot near it unless he allows them to.

• he spoils you WITHOUT hesitation. whatever you want, it’s yours—but don’t expect to ask. he already knows and will have it waiting for you before you can even think about it.

• everything in your home is built for your pleasure. soft cushions, rich silks, the most exquisite food and drink— he makes sure you live like royalty.

• he demands your presence near him at all times. if you’re in another room for too long, he’ll simply come find you and drag you back. "where do you think you’re going, love?"

• he watches you constantly. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he enjoys seeing you move through his space— your space.

• he rarely lets you do anything mundane. if you even attempt to do household chores, he will look at you like you’re insane. "why are you wasting your time with that? if you want something done, tell me."

• despite his arrogance, he listens to you. if you tell him you like something a certain way, it stays that way, no questions asked.

• sukuna does not show love softly. every touch, every look, every moment of affection is a declaration of ownership, a reminder that you are his.

• his touch is always firm, always possessive. he does not simply hold your hand— he grips it, intertwines your fingers with his, staking his claim on you.

• kisses with him are slow, deep, and consuming. he doesn’t kiss you just to kiss— he does it to make sure you never forget who you belong to.

• he LOVES to leave marks. bite marks, love marks, scratches— he enjoys seeing proof of himself on your skin.

• you are never out of his reach. even when sitting across a room, he will extend an arm, grab your wrist, pull you close until you’re right where he wants you.

• he plays with your hair absentmindedly. when he’s deep in thought, his fingers will find their way to your scalp, brushing through your hair as if grounding himself in your presence.

• if you ever pull away, he does not allow it. he will simply grab you and pull you back, smirking. "trying to escape, darling? how adorable."

• sukuna is beyond protective. he does not tolerate threats, disrespect, or even the mere idea of you being in danger.

• if anyone so much as breathes wrong in your direction, they are dead before they realize their mistake.

• he does not allow you to fight your own battles. not because he thinks you are weak, but because no one is worthy enough to challenge what is his.

• he is always aware of where you are. no matter the distance, he will always know if you are safe or in danger.

• if you ever get hurt, even slightly, he is furious. his rage isn’t loud— it’s quiet, cold, a slow-burning fire that destroys everything in its path.

• he doesn’t just protect you from physical threats— he protects your honor, your name, your status. anyone who dares speak ill of you will regret it.

• if you cry, he becomes still. he doesn’t know how to handle it at first, but then he pulls you against his chest, stroking your back, murmuring in a voice only you get to hear.

• arguing with sukuna is like going to war. he does not back down. ever.

• if you ignore him, he does not let it slide. he will grab your chin, tilt your head up, and demand you look at him. "you don’t get to shut me out."

• his temper is unpredictable. some days, he will laugh at your defiance. other days, he will have you pinned against a wall, reminding you exactly who is in charge.

• he doesn’t say "sorry"— but he makes up for it. he’ll pull you into his arms, press a kiss to your forehead, and mutter, "don’t be stupid. i’m not going anywhere."

• if you cry in an argument, his entire demeanor shifts. he will wrap you in his embrace, stroking your hair, muttering threats against whatever upset you.

• he doesn’t need to say "i love you"— he proves it. every act of protection, every glance, every possessive touch is a declaration of utter devotion.

• he thinks about eternity with you. not just years, but lifetimes.

• he does not believe in "till death do us part." if you die, he will bring you back. he will tear through existence itself to have you by his side again.

• even after centuries, he still treats you like the most important thing in existence. his love never fades— if anything, it only grows stronger. <33

[hyuny-bunny]

skz + s/o with long nails

can't sleep and i need to get this thought out before it makes my head explode

MDNI (18+) suggestive ideas, mutual masterbation, oral, nail markings

skz x gn!reader

chan: at first he's indifferent. it makes no difference to him, you might've kept short or no nails to start with while dating him. it isn't till you try out a new spot that leaves you with the best set you've ever had, that he starts to take more notice. especially when his back scratches take a whole new level. he's twitching his leg like a dog when you go too light on him finding it ticklish, he's begging you to scratch him harder. his mind starts to run wild at the thought how it would feel to have your nails clawing at his back during sex as he pounds into you.

minho: he loves your nails. he finds them so cute on you, especially when their pointed like a cat claw. he's not one to comment his thoughts on what you should do but he loves the way your hands look with baby pinks or milk white shades. his cats seem to enjoy them as much as you do when they surround you begging to be scratched next. he really finds out how much he loves them when you're going down on him as his thank you for paying for the new set, when you're clawing down on his thighs. he can't help admire how pretty they look while you sit perched between his thighs as stroke him into your mouth.

changbin: he loves everything about you but the nails he just doesn't quite get. how are you supposed to lift weights when you can't even close your hand into a fist :( ? nevertheless he pampers his partner!! so of course he's putting his card down for you to pay for your new set or sending you the money to pay for them (then some more incase it's a long session and you need to grab food). he's a changed man when he sees the new set. your nail tech found a cute way to put his intials on the ring fingers of your nails. he's posting and sending everyone a photo of your nail set with your hands wrapped around his bicep. he knows that all you need is a ring to complete it.

hyunjin: love love love LOVES your nails. everytime there's an appointment coming up soon, he's already asking what you're getting. he'll send you some ideas, a lot of it might be douyin style but he loves anything you decide on. aside from loving the way they look, he also loves the way they feel. his insta photos might be filled with your hands in shot with coffee or selfies he's taken while's you held his face or gave his cheeks a squish. either way he knows that you know when he plops down into your lap or chest, he's demanding head and back scratches. he's purring like a cat in your lap with every movement but will immediately whine if you stop too soon.

jisung: don't care as long you're dedicating an hour or two to play with his hair after a fresh set. colors make no difference to him but he gets weak in the knees when you come home with red nails. his mind taking him to filth places of having your hand stroking him, how pretty your hands look in with his cum painting your nails. he's always offering to pay for your nails, on the condition that you always do red which you're typically happy to oblige anyways.

felix: there has to be something based in fact for me to confidently say he also more than happy to have you scratch his head, back, anywhere that you possibly feel he might enjoy because he is actually a cat. a very cuddly one that's purring with every scratch across his skin. he loves the set ideas you come up with but especially loves when you incorporate hints of blue in your nails because you know it's his signature color. makes him feel like it's proof that you belong to him in a way that only he needs to know. his only thing to pick at is you can't be as handsy with baking with him when you have longer nails :/ buts that's okay when you make it up by playing with his hair, putting it in pretty braids and giving him neck & chin scratches.

seungmin: also someone who seems in different. he might get annoyed every time you accidentally poke him too hard from a new set. he'd tease you for the way your nails sound while you type but it's all in good fun. another one who's twitching his leg like a puppy every time you scratch his back or head. oh how he could lay like that forever. another one to soft launch you on his insta with shot of your hand on his knee at a baseball game or intertwined while having a romantic dinner. he once again doesn't mind and even learns to appreciate the way your nails rake through his hair. how they feel when your trying pry him out from between your thighs tugging on his hair for dear life.

jeongin: he loves your long nails, he loves it even more when you take him with you to get your nails done together. he's not passing on opportunity to get matching manicures. he loves to see you venture off with colors. when you opt to get a forrest green french tip set, he's right there asking for his pinky nails to be painted in the same green polish. he's posting a picture of your intertwined hands with your matching polish. he's down bad for you and everyone knows it. you can't blame him when you're the same for him. it's all he thinks about when you're both laid next to each other in bed with his hand in your underwear and your hand wrapped around him stroking him so prettily, toying with one another and matching polish adorning your hands.

[queenendless]

🍑 Juicy 🍑

A/n: Reapplying to college got me anxious. Commissions have hit a dead end. Family drama is stressful.

And seeing fanart of so much Gojussy, all of it combined, really pushed me to write of it at least once. Many writing firsts for me on this so please go easy on me. Forgive me for my smut writing, it ain't no masterpiece.

Pairing: Top!Dom!Adult!Male!Reader x Bottom!Sub!Adult!AFAB!Gojo.

CW: 21+ MATURE CONTENT.

🔞 EXPLICIT SMUT! SO MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! DO NOT REPOST, STEAL, COPY, EDIT, TRANSLATE.

Reblog, like, share, follow. Hope you enjoy.

Seeing that plump ass jutting out of a hole in the wall was what greeted you. Hearing his bubbly cheery voice become "Yap yap yap" in your ears as you lustfully eyed his wiggling cheeks. The dripping juices already trailing down that pussy along the rest of those barren legs made your libido stand.

Gojo's words get strangles in his throat as they turn to raunchy groans for your drooling mouth immediately covered his quivering cum lips. Your fingers parted the folds as your tongue dug deeply into his warm moist caverns. Rutting his hips backwards quite desperately made your ego spike, rewarded with your fingers now roughly rubbing his clit. "Mh~! Mmgh~! Ngh~!"

"The strongest sorcerer, reduced to the neediest slut." Your scorned remark reverberating against his cunt had him gushing hard down your throat and along your chin. "Bastard — AAH~!" Satoru's retort melted into carnal moans, those peaches squishing your face in with your nose deep in his albino pubes as you made out starvingly with his pussy.

"Nnh~ Y/n~! No wait – !" The fact that your skillful tongue hit that bundle of nerves was further proof of how beastly your lust is. No amount of cum devoured would be enough to satiate you. You were always parched for his milk. "I – I'm coming –!" He always came the moment he uttered those words.

Creamy thickness painted your face, stained the front of your clothes, splotched his quivering thighs and supple calves and toe-curling feet, forming puddles along the floor. You kissed those gooey flaps before diving right back on in.

His hands slamming and clawing the wall from the other side grew muddled in your ears as you became lost in his addicting sea of semen. He came at least a dozen times before your mouth popped off his, his ass and legs sagging in relief as his fatigued pants were heard from the other side.

"My beautifully depraved whore!" Feverish spanks to those jiggly phat cheeks came next. His erotic cries paired with his legs kicking in response, having you roughly grab him by his ankles, bending his legs, with your grip biting into his skin to remind him whose in charge. "My sweet Toru~"

Your sharp canines pricked his savory flesh. The red handprints and bloody marks on that once perfectly creamy skin always looked perfect, your inner wish being that you wished they would stay, as further physical proof that his ass is yours and only yours. "Take me already~" The eagerness could be detected in his breathy tone, his ass wiggling being the cherry on the top, got you pulling your dick out of its restrictions.

Clawing your nails into those dips he had for hips left scratch marks along with the bruises as you were sucked greedily in. Slamming relentlessly into his tight familiar jussy with gusto followed. "Too good~! So FUCKIN good~!" Your salacious groans made Gojo squirt harder, a ring of cum forming where you two intersect, and his legs hugged around your waist in his trapped angle.

The ardor in your thrusts was felt as the wall slams bounced around, the cacophony of your lewd shouts fused with his. Feeling you filling his abdomen to the brim was sheer perfection. You were reaching the edge. "Come to me, Toru~! COME~!"

Satoru came undone once again. Waves of fuzzy euphoria sparked through his very being as he came on high. The sight of your conjoined essence coming out between his marked rippling cheeks had you smashing your hips in pursuit of that ever-fleeting rush.

His lips fluttering around your staff, squeezing you for all your seed, pounding into him like the sex doll that he is to you, obsessively fondling and pulling apart his asscheeks in restlessness, Gojo's breathless wanton chants of your name, it all became a typhoon of desire that drowned out all sense of reason.

When it finally came time to come down from your highs, your shaft temporarily deflated, staying within him, slacking against the wall for support, picturing Gojo's messy hair sticking to his flushed dazed heaving face, wanting to see that face in person. "Y/n." His whispered plea just about did you in.

Demolishing the wall was all too easy. Getting your giant lover on his back, mating press him, your cock striking a new nerve bunde had him spurting along your V line as well as his stuffed oven, jostling your penis to life.

"Come for me again, Toru~ A dozen more~"

[allfearstofallto]

How They Mark You as Theirs

Yandere x Fem! Reader

A/N: because I genuinely can't stop thinking about Scaramouche putting his makeup on you! It's been keeping me up at night.

Diluc: With jewelry

You sparkle when you walk into a room. Not just your glowing eyes or large, puffy dresses, but also what adornes your body. A pendant around your neck, large gem rings on your fingers, and earrings, more expensive than most could afford. People wondered if maybe all of your gems and stones were too heavy, maybe that's why despite the fact that you looked so lavish, you never smiled.

Diluc would be at your side, slipping another ring onto your finger. The other ladies would fawn at the sight, silently wishing for a man who wanted to adorn them with silver and gold, but to you, every ring, every stone, every bracelet, and every gem was another lock on the chain harboring you to him, claiming you as his.

Childe: With Bruises

Your neck is littered with love bites, your thighs covered in scratches from where his nails would dig into them, your wrist would have markings around them, from where he would hold you down, pressing passionate kisses and maybe more if he desired.

Even though you were embarrassed by the blatant proof of what he'd done to you all over your body, he still made sure you wore rather revealing clothing. You'd flush with embarrassed, knowing eyes looking all over you, but Childe would smile happily. A hand around your waist would caress you, making it known that he wished to claim you more.

Scaramouche: With make-up

How did everyone know that you were married to number six of the Fatui harbingers? Well, they had to look no further than your eyes, framed in that familiar red shade. The first time he makes you wear it, it's because you watched as he did his own. His nimble fingers held the brush like it was second nature, creating the lines against his eye with ease.

“Come here,” he'll order while still standing in front of the mirror. Before you can ask what he needs from you, he's already squeezing your cheeks between those same fingers, holding your face in place.

The brush tickles as it slides across your eyelids, making you shake a bit in his grasp as you hold back laughter. The smile on your face making his demeanor melt for just a moment, he softens and stops his work, just staring at your features, “I know how it feels. Stop moving,” he'll order. And you do your best to obey.

The sight of your smile is more than enough to make this a habit, instead of a one off thing. Everyday after your kimono dressing, he calls you to him, holding the brush stained with that familiar red makeup.

[wonderjanga]

regarding the post where every lantern corps wants billy as a member. What if billy vibes with dexstarr and the JL is super nervous hes gonna take a red lantern ring but hes just petting a kitty

Billy was going about his business as usual. As of now, he was bored, and he was sitting on the curb in front of his apartment complex watching two crackheads duke it out on the other side of the street. Miss Bambi was next to him smoking a cigarette and also watching. Suddenly, a strangely blue cat came out of nowhere.

Billy and Ms. Bambi: *watch the cat trot over*

Dexstarr: *meows and a red ring floats over to Billy*

Billy: “Oh, thank you, kitty!” *just shoves it in his pocket and just picks up Dexstarr and starts petting him*

Ms. Bambi: “Careful, bud. Try not to get scratched or bitten. Who knows what it could have.” *thinks this is just adorable*

Dexstarr: *stiff in Billy’s hold and letting himself be pet, honestly expecting the boy to have at least a little anger or sadness or at least something*

Billy: “I’ll go see the nice doctor guy and see if we can see why you’re blue, kitty. Then, I’ll get some money so we can get you some food!”

Dexstarr: *confused by the very sudden adoption*

Billy learned that Dexstarr was a pretty angry kitty. It scratches Billy sometimes and scratches other people a lot of times. Billy takes pride in the fact he gets scratched slightly less than other people. As for the ring the kitty gave him? He still hasn’t worn it yet. He’d moved it into his pocket dimension after it fell out of his pocket and he nearly left it in a gas station. It was probably safer there. Anyways, he’d honestly forgotten about it until one day he and Dexstarr were lounging on a roof in Fawcett. Billy then felt a small buzz from his pocket dimension, signally he got a notification from his comm. So he transformed, rightfully spooking the kitty.

Marvel: “Dex?” *trying to sound placating*

Dexstarr: *pulls out a bunch of energy constructs so he can attack Marvel*

Marvel: *dodging any attacks* “Dex! It’s me! Billy!”

The cat obviously didn’t listen seeing as that was a grown man, not the ten year old boy it’d been hanging out with for the past couple weeks.

Marvel: “Kitty, I have proof! Look!” *pulls out the ring from his pocket dimension* “Remember how you gave this to me?”

It took some more convincing despite the fact he had the ring. Thankfully, Dexstarr calmed down enough for it to allow Marvel to scratch under its chin just the way Billy knew it liked. Marvel put the ring back into the pocket dimension and sat down so he could keep scratching under its chin. He was finally able to look at the comm. Something about a meeting. Billy didn’t really want to leave Dexstarr alone, not to mention he wanted to familiarize the kitty with his Marvel form. So, he took it to the Watchtower.

He saw Hal when going to the meeting room.

Marvel: “Hey, Hal! Meet my cat, Dex!” *holds Dex up for Hal to see*

GL: *stares for a solid minute* “Is that Dexstarr?”

Marvel: “No, his name is Dexter.”

GL: “Uhm…” *looks over Dexstarr* “Nah… I’m pretty sure that’s Dexstarr.”

Marvel: “Nuh uh.”

GL: “Uh yuh huh. That’s a Red Lantern.”

Marvel: “Nah, he just looks like that.”

GL: “I- wha-” *takes a deep breath* “Cap, give me the cat.”

Marvel: “What? No, he’s my cat!” *holds Dexstarr up because he’s way taller than Hal*

GL: “Dude, no he isn’t!” *tries to reach before just flying to try and grab him*

They spent a solid five minutes of Marvel moving Dexstarr away from Hal while the Green Lantern tried to get the cat. Eventually, they got into what was basically a tug of war with the cat.

Marvel: “Defend yourself Dexstarr!”

Dexstarr: *vomits blood-plasma-acid on the floor*

Marvel: “Yeah!”

Dexstarr: *makes some super dangerous constructs with his ring to kill Hal*

Marvel: “NO!”

It took a lot to convince Dexstarr to not attack. Soon after that realization, they both also realized they were extremely late to the meeting. They both went in and sat down. The entire meeting consisted of Hal side eying him from where he sat next to Billy. He even did the ‘I got my eye on you’ sign. Billy didn’t even bother to be subtle with the way he stared back. His head was directly looking towards him as he rubbed under Dexstarr’s chin. Meanwhile, Flash, who sits on the other side of Marvel, is looking at the blue cat in Marvel’s lap in confusion. And Supes can smell a cat somewhere and he’s also confused.

Later after this, Hal gathered the other Green Lanterns and went to go confront him.

Marvel: *turns around in his chair, petting Dexter like the Godfather* “What can I help you gentlemen with.” *has the Red Lantern ring Dexstarr gave him on the hand petting the cat*

Billy doesn’t know why he was being so dramatic right now, but what he does know is that this ring doesn’t really do anything. Sure, he feels a little bit more irritable, but oh well. To be honest, he just feels like Billy. As for the blood thing and replacing of the heart, Billy is pretty sure Marvel doesn’t have either of those things. He’s just magic.

All three GL’s: *dramatic gasps when they see the ring*

Guy Gardner: “Hand over the cat, Cheese. He’s super dangerous.”

Marvel: *shrugs* “It was probably self defense.”

John Stewart: “That might be true, but that doesn’t change the fact.”

Marvel: “So? You think I’ll just hand over my son like that?”

Guy: “Your son?”

Marvel: “He’s practically my son.”

Hal: *shares a look with Guy and John* “…Right. Listen. Captain, if you don’t hand him over, we’ll have to take him by force.”

Marvel: *sounds distinctly colder than any of them had ever heard* “Do you really think you three could beat me?”

That’s how Marvel ended up getting 21 v 1’d and somehow ended up winning. As for where the other 19 people came from. They called in reinforcements from nearby sectors. Thats how badly they were getting beaten.

Moral of the story, bro really likes his cat-son. Ha. Catson. Billy Batson and Dexstarr Catson.

Marvel also holds Dex just like this because I say so.

[minniesfiles]

BLOOM WITH YOU | month 2

❧ PAIRING; wonwoo x reader

❧ GENRE; angst, fluff, light smut

❧ WARNINGS; none

❧ WORDCOUNT; 1k

▁▁▁▁▁▁

series masterlist

𐚁₊⊹

▍16 FEBRUARY 2026

“Stop! That tickles!” you giggled. You squirmed slightly as you stood in the soft morning light with your shirt bunched up beneath your chest and belly exposed to the cool air.

Wonwoo was kneeling in front of you with a pink sharpie in his hand. He looked determined, but also mildly frustrated, as he stared at his latest attempt at drawing a heart shape around your navel. Your belly was still small but no longer entirely flat,

“Babe,” he groaned. He sat back on his heels with the sharpie still uncapped in one hand while the other rubbed at his temple. “Just stay still for one second. I need this heart to be perfect or it won’t look good in the pictures.”

You rolled your eyes and playfully crossed your arms over your chest. “You’ve already drawn four crooked ones. I think the baby will forgive you if it’s not Instagram-worthy.”

Your husband looked up at you with that soft grin that always managed to melt your irritation. “This is for our baby’s album, not social media. I want them to see everything and how much we loved them before they even arrived.”

Something about that simple statement made your breath catch. Even after all the years together, all the heartbreak and the six losses you never fully healed from, Wonwoo still had the ability to see hope. And to believe in it.

He reached forward and pressed a kiss to your belly, right over the half-formed heart, and whispered something you couldn’t quite hear. You felt the warmth of his breath and the soft scratch of his stubble. But most of all, you felt the gravity of his love.

You were ten weeks along. The bump wasn’t obvious yet. If anything, you just looked like you had a heavy meal. But Wonwoo noticed everything. The slight curve of your abdomen. The way your hand would sometimes drift to rest there without thinking. The tiredness in your eyes in the evenings, and the small shifts in your appetite. To him, those little changes were signs of life. It was proof that the tiny bean growing inside you was still holding on.

And so, every week since the hospital talk, he had been documenting everything. He turned your hallway into a makeshift studio, with white backdrop, fairy lights, even a ring light he ordered online “just to get the right glow.”

His camera, which he would often use for moody cityscapes and random low-light portraits, now clicked infinite pictures of you. Either laughing, crying, or eating pickles and peanut butter at midnight. But his favourite was when you’d nap with your head on his shoulder while he rubbed soothing circles on your back.

It had started as a simple idea: a photo every week, just to track the journey. But it quickly turned into a full-on project. Wonwoo was capturing memories. Moments. Little evidence of the love you already carried for someone you hadn’t even met yet.

“Turn a little this way,” he instructed, clicking his tongue as he looked through the viewfinder. “Okay, now place your hands under the bump — yes, like that. Perfect.”

You posed. But at the same time you tried not to laugh at how serious he looked, crouched like a professional photographer with a camera strap dangling from his neck. Like the professional he was, he moved with quiet precision as he snapped photo after photo, then stepping forward to adjust your hair or reposition the lighting with gentle hands.

The room was filled with nothing but shutter clicks and your soft laughter.

╴╴╴╴╴

Later when the mini photo-shoot was over, Wonwoo sat with you on the sofa. Your legs were stretched out over his lap while he edited all the photos he shot. The photos were beautiful. Natural and radiant. You simply looked so happy. Soft and full of a glow you didn’t realised you were carrying.

“See? This is what I want our baby to see.” Wonwoo showed you one photo in particular. It was a candid moment where you were looking down at your belly as you faintly smiled with a hand resting protectively over it.

“I want them to know how deeply they were wanted.”

You pressed your face into his shoulder to hide the sudden wave of emotion. “I’m scared to want this too much,” you admitted. Wonwoo didn’t respond immediately. He just kept stroking your arm gently, his fingers finding their familiar rhythm against your skin.

“We can be scared. That’s okay. But let’s still hope anyway” he finally said.

It was easier said than done.

Every time you dared to hope, every time you picked out names, imagined nursery colours, imagined what your baby would look like with your nose or his eyes — it always ended up with you lying within the four hospital walls.

But this time was different — or so Dr. Jung insisted.

The frequent checkups helped. Every week, she ran another ultrasound, checked your hormone levels, and adjusted medications. There were more tubes and blood draws than you wanted to count, and more nights lying awake wondering if every cramp or twinge was a sign of another loss.

But each visit so far had ended with the same sound: a stable, tiny heartbeat. The baby was holding on.

Dr. Jung was cautiously optimistic. With the added progesterone and hormone therapy, your body was supporting the embryo better than ever before. And with constant surveillance, she said she could catch the earliest signs of complication.

You remembered her words clearly: “We’re not waiting for something to go wrong. We’re staying ahead of it this time.”

It helped having her in your corner. She said the embryo had implanted in a healthy area. Your uterus was responding well to the hormones. Your blood flow was better than expected. The baby had a good chance — better than any of your previous pregnancies.

Still, the fear lingered. It always did.

You remember one night, when Wonwoo was already asleep, where you sat up in bed, hand resting lightly on your stomach. The room was dark, save for the glow of the moon through the window. “Please stay. Just this once…stay” you’d whisper softly.

The next morning, you found a small sticky note taped to the bathroom mirror in Wonwoo’s familiar handwriting.

▏We already love you more than life. Stay with us, little one.”

He never asked if you read it. He didn’t have to.

a/n; short but sweet :)

[wherescody]

back marks

Cody Rhodes stood in front of the mirror in his locker room, rolling his shoulders and wincing slightly. His back was a patchwork of faint red marks, standing out against the usual bruises from training and matches. He smirked to himself. If only the WWE Universe knew the real reason behind them.

"Yo, Cody, you ready?" a voice called from the hallway.

"Yeah, be right there!" he replied, shaking his head as he grabbed his ring jacket.

Just then, YN peeked into the room, her eyes immediately locking onto his back. Her face turned pink. "Oh my gosh… Cody."

He turned with an amused expression. "What?"

She rushed in, grabbing his arm and turning him toward her. "What? Look at you! Your back looks like you wrestled a wild animal!"

Cody chuckled. "Technically, I did—and I lost." He winked, making her groan and bury her face in her hands.

"This is so embarrassing," she muttered.

Cody gently pulled her hands away, grinning. "Hey, don’t be shy now. You weren’t exactly holding back last night."

YN swatted at his chest. "Stop!"

He laughed, leaning in. "I kinda like it, you know."

She blinked. "The marks?"

Cody nodded. "Yeah. They’re proof that you’re my toughest opponent." His voice was teasing but warm.

YN groaned, hiding her face again. "You’re gonna be the end of me."

Cody pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head. "Nah. But you are gonna be the reason I wrestle tonight with some extra battle scars."

Before she could protest, the PA system blared: "Cody Rhodes, to gorilla position. You're up next!"

Cody slung his weight belt over his shoulder, starting toward the door but pausing to glance back at her. She was still standing there, chewing her lip, looking equal parts flustered and guilty.

He smirked. "Don’t worry, babe. I’ll handle my opponent… and later, you can help me recover."

And with that, he walked out, leaving YN standing there, heart racing and face burning.

Yeah… she was definitely in trouble.

YN paced Cody's locker room, nervously biting her nail as the Monday Night Raw main event played on the monitor. Every slap, every suplex, every brutal landing made her wince.

Especially when Seth Rollins, ever the opportunist, noticed Cody’s back.

"Ohhh, what happened there?" Corey Graves' voice rang out on commentary. "Looks like Cody went through a war before he even stepped in the ring!"

YN nearly died on the spot.

"Oh my gosh," she whispered.

As if things couldn’t get worse, Seth pointed at Cody’s back mid-match and smirked. Then, in classic Rollins fashion, he dramatically ran his fingers across the scratches.

Cody let out a grunt of pain but powered through, eventually hitting Cross Rhodes for the win. The second the bell rang, YN rushed toward the curtain, ready to check on him.

When he finally stepped through, sweaty and exhausted, she was already fussing. "Are you okay?! Did that hurt?!"

Cody blinked at her, then laughed. "That? Babe, I get hit with steel steps for a living. A few love taps aren’t gonna break me."

She groaned. "Cody, they talked about your back on commentary."

He smirked. "Oh, I heard."

YN’s face burned. "I hate you."

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist. "No, you don’t. But I do need a shower. Care to keep me company?"

She gasped, shoving him playfully. "You just wrestled a whole match. I’m not coming near you until you wash off all that sweat."

He smirked, leaning in. "That’s fine… but just so you know, once I do get cleaned up, I might just have to return the favor."

YN’s heart nearly stopped.

Cody winked, grabbed his towel, and headed toward the showers, leaving her standing there, flustered beyond belief.

She was so in trouble.

YN sat on the hotel bed, hugging a pillow to her chest as she replayed the events of the night over and over.

Cody’s scratched-up back on full display. Seth Rollins mocking him in the ring. The commentary team making it worse for millions to hear.

She groaned, burying her face in the pillow. "So embarrassing…"

Just then, the bathroom door swung open, and there stood Cody Rhodes—fresh out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, steam rolling behind him. His damp blond hair curled slightly, and a knowing smirk played at his lips as he rubbed his neck.

"So, wanna tell me why you’re pouting?"

YN peeked at him, still mortified. "Because I basically exposed you to the entire WWE Universe!"

Cody chuckled, crossing his arms. "Babe, it’s not that deep." He took a step closer, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. "If anything, I think it’s kinda funny."

YN groaned. "Cody, Seth Rollins saw them. Corey Graves saw them! The entire world saw them!"

Cody sat down beside her, leaning in. "And? Now everyone knows I have the toughest manager around."

YN’s breath caught in her throat.

Before she could respond, Cody gently took the pillow from her hands and tossed it aside. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he tilted her chin up.

"Though," he murmured, lips just inches from hers, "I think it’s only fair I win this round."

Her stomach flipped. "Cody…"

"What’s wrong, sweetheart?" he teased, brushing his nose against hers. "Shy now?"

Her heart pounded as he lightly tapped her nose with his finger, smirking.

"You left scratches," he whispered. "So maybe I should leave a little reminder, too."

YN let out a shaky breath, knowing full well she was so in for it.

And by the time the sun rose, she had a feeling Cody Rhodes would get his revenge.

[rasberrybabez]

🖤Killed In Action

-Simon “Ghost” Riley who isn’t as dead as you think

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆-NSFW-MDNI-⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Simon is supposed to be dead.

Scratch that, he is dead. Your boyfriend of nine months is as dead as they get, and the dog tags hanging around your neck are proof of it. The call three weeks ago from his captain is proof, and the recurring nightmares of his dead body are hard cold evidence.

The nightmares never stop.

The image of his body in front of yours. Every night he dies in a different way, bloodier than the last. He dies protecting you, always. But that makes it worse.

You don’t want to think about his death, but you catch yourself doing it more often than not. When you’re petting his-now your- dog Riley, who is in a constant panic about when his owner is going to come back. The German Shepard stays up later than you, whining throughout the night.

You don’t blame him.

You haven’t been to work in weeks. Three weeks, since the day you got the call. And yet somehow money keeps appearing, and your rent has been paid in full. Like magic.

You just lay in bed, wake up. Sit on the couch, order pizza. Watch whatever channel is on. Walk Riley.

And then you cycle back through.

So today, getting Pizza for breakfast is something not too out of the ordinary. The doorbell rings, and you pull out your wallet. A twenty dollar bill? You didn’t order that much… you can’t really temper what you order anymore.

But when you open the door, it’s not the pizza boy you see. Not at first.

You huff, stepping out a bit in a pair of Simon’s boxers and one of his shirts, RILEY in bold on the back. You fist the twenty dollar bills, reaching for a pizza before you freeze.

There is no pizza, only a hard, muscular chest that your hand collides with. Your gaze snaps up, and the money slips from your hands.

“Trying to pay me to go away, luv? Ain’t that rude…”

You let out a startled cry of surprise, eyes wide as you stumble back against the door. It pushes open, your foot landing inside the foyer to stable yourself. Because that certainly isn’t a pizza delivery guy.

That is the man you love.

Tall, no mask. Bloodied face, fried and caked onto scarred skin like sticky, gruesome mud. A cocky grin but eyes that speak every other emotion he can’t say, filled with longing, pain and relief.

He takes a step forwards. You take one back. Watch him flinch.

“…jus’ me luv. Nothin’ else…”

He says as softly as he can, holding out his hands for you to inspect. They’re cut badly, burns trailing up his arms, dipping between tendons and muscles, disappearing under his sleeve. Tattoos duller. Bloodier.

“Y-You’re dead, Simon… you’re-this isn’t real, this isn’t real-” you say, panicked breathing rising. Hyperventilating.

His eyes go wide as he shakes his head, reaching out. He looks cautious, but reaches anyway. Wraps his hands around your wrist and tugs you to his chest.

“Sh-sh-shh… hush, baby… I know, I know… I can explain it all, I’ll tell you it all…”

The tears in his eyes catch you off guard. Is much so, that you’re crying too. Fisting his shirt and burying your face into his chest. Clinging to him as he grunts in pain but pulls you impossibly tighter, closer. Pushes into your apartment and holds you against the door, kisses you like he might never again.

Because you never thought he would again.

You’re a sobbing, whimpering and sniffling mess as Simon hikes your legs up around your hips. Riley is static, bouncing around and barking as he follows the two of you into the bedroom, whining and crying. Simon laughs, a teary laugh, patting Riley’s fluffy head.

“Ya’ did good, boy… took good care of our girl…”

You sniffle into Simon’s shirt as he rubs your back, pressing kisses to your face and neck. He’s exhausted, bloody and hurt but home. Home, with you and Riley.

He takes in a raspy, shaky breath that’s more labored than it should be. Presses a kiss to your temple, murmuring against your skin.

“They couldn’t find my body… saw enough blood and flesh to count me dead… found my mask… I was alone in the fucking wild for weeks, baby… and all I could think of was getting back to ya.”

You pull back a little, still hiccuping over tears as you cup his face in your hands. He looks like hell, bloody and torn. Shredded.

You take in a ragged breath, because God it hurts to look at him like that. “D-Does your team know?”

Ge nods stiffly.

“…you need a bath, baby…”

Simon snorts, a grin splitting over his weary face. He rubs your back, pulling you closer with how you straddle his lap. Riley is just happy to be here, wagging his tail as it thumps steadily on the bed.

“Yeah… I do…” he sighs softly, but his smile starts to fade. He meets your eyes, swallowing hard. “…look, baby… this is a lot to take in. I don’t want to overwhelm you, I want you to trust me but-”

You cut him off with a quick kiss to the lips, whimpering softly. Your hand slides down his jaw, thumb tracing over his jumping pulse point as you shake your head.

“I trust you, Si… trusted you the minute I say your eyes… know those eyes anywhere.”

He sighs against your lips and nods, standing and hiking you higher up him, legs tight around his waist. He pats Riley once, moving to the bathroom with you in his grip. Riley whines, and he chuckles softly.

“Sorry pup… adult time.”

You whimper softly, sniffling as he moves you both into the master bathroom, shutting the door so that no pesky dogs can get in. He sets you on the counter, pressing a kiss to your forehead before moving to the bathtub and turning on the faucet.

You watch him do it, watch Simon as he strips off his shirt and throws it to the side. You grimace as you see He scars that mar his chest, but he just smiles in your direction.

“Every one to come back to you, Luv…”

You nod, letting him pull off your shirt, another on of his really. Then he peels off the hovers you’re wearing, groaning softly. You whimper.

“I need you, Si…”

He nods, carrying you both over the bath. He tears off his cargo pants and throws them to the side, peeling of his boxers and leaving them to pool on the floor. He groans as the two of you sink into the warm, bubbly water, rubbing your back.

“I know… gonna fuck this pretty cunt right… been too long without me.”

You go to protest that he shouldn’t be fucking you, especially not when injured, but he ignores you. Grabs soap to start scrubbing your body, lathering some on the dried blood along his skin too.

And then he’s lifting you up as you squeak, dusting his cock with one hand and lining it up to your soft pussy with the other. You gasp and grip his shoulders, sinking down onto him with a low moan and a soft cry. You’ve never felt fuller than when you’re with Simon, and it feels different when you thought you lost him.

You cry out as he groans, pulsing inside of you. You’re sticky, gummy walls are too tight, and fuck he thinks he could come right here, right now. But with a shaky pant, he meets your eyes, kissing along your chest and fondling your tits.

“Gotta get clean love… gotta get clean…”

You whimper a soft yes, nodding and reaching for the soaps. Simon grips your hips, thrusting up as you do and sloshing water out of the tub. You cry out in pleasure, slipping a little.

“Simon!”

“Can’t help it luvie… missed ya too much…”

You huff and pin him with a teasing glare, squirting shampoo into your hands. You reach out, running them through Simon’s hair and trying to late her up the bloodied short blond strands as best as you can. It’s difficult when Simon’s cock won’t stop fucking up into you.

You whimper, soapy hands falling to grip his shoulders again as he grunts. His thrusts get more erratic, more intense. He shifts a bit, gripping your thighs and helping you ride him. Water slow shed out of the tub, soaking the floor around you both.

You cry out as the tip of his cock nudges against your cervix, testing the limits of your spongy walls. You whimper, panting softly.

“‘s too much Si…”

Simon grunts and shakes his head.

“Nah… you can take it luv…”

He continues at his harsh pace, panting as your hips move up and down through the water. He’s addicted to the feeling of your thighs smacking against his, the wet noises and the water soaking every surface it can. Soon enough your cunt is clenching around him, and you’re crying out in pleasure.

“Simon-”

“That’s it… come for me…”

Simon grunts, coming as you do, his cock forcing into your pussy as it spasms around him. You’ve never felt cry out and pant, sweaty forehead falling to his, the water now tainted with your cum.

You whimper softly as Simon sighs, strong arms wrapping around your body, pulling you closer. He presses a kiss into your hair, murmuring softly.

“never gonna die while you’re alive, luvie… not on ma’ watch…”

[skywalkoverme]

𝐀 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐦 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝

a/n: CONSENTING ADULTS in every part of this fic.

𐙚 Hayden Christensen x Fem! Reader 𐙚 18+ MDNI

Summary: You attend an after party with your boss.

Warnings/contains: weird hollywood-eque party, some f/f, humiliation kink, praise kink, choking, collared partner, cnc drinking, alcohol consumption, forced submission, sub training, nipple teasing, sexual teasing, proof read-- english is not my first language!

W/c: 1.4k // More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

On Set: Revenge of the Sith

“Water?” He stared at the stainless-steel bottle that you held; his last name engraved near the lip. The man shook his head, “No, thank you.” You nodded, he had asked for it many minutes ago when you were caught up--- “Tell Carrie: this thing keeps poking me.” He directs your attention to his hip where a loose buckle on his costume pressed into his side.

“Yes, Mr. Christensen!” You urgently took a photo with your camera and ran across the set to the changing rooms. Holding a beaded dress, a woman in all black twirled a pen, “Turn for me.” She directed a young woman who held her arms out. “Ok, put this one on and we’ll see how it flatters you.” She offered her the beaded dress and turned around. “Y/n! Quiet as a mouse, as always.”

You raised a small smile, “It’s Mister Christensen.”

“Hm, cat and mouse.” She'd only hear him call you 'mouse', thinking it was a cute name in regard to your quiet nature. You showed the photo of his wardrobe malfunction, “That won’t do.”

Before you both could head his way, your phone began to ring. “Yes, sir!”

He sipped from his water bottle, “Y/n, where are you?” He asked rather curiously, looking around with the phone to his ear.

“With Miss Carrie!”

“Come here.” He said as if reminding you where you were. “We start in fifteen.”

Carrie rolled her eyes playfully and began to walk towards the main set. “Cat and mouse…”

You followed her, still holding a bag of any immediate necessities that Hayden might need as well as your planner with his complete schedule and routines. “There you are.” He sighed and showed Carrie the malfunction. She took a needle and sealed off the side before adjusting the metal prong.

Hayden stared at you, a small squint. You looked around and then back at him, “Me? Do you want to see your planner?”

“Hm. No. Just read it off to me.” He sighed as the woman checked him for any other malfunctions.

“For today?” You flipped through your neat notes, “I’ll get your lunch and then we leave here at two.” You followed him to a hand washing station, “Matt will drive you to the house and you’ll have an interviewer come at four.” His expression faltered into something tense, “It’s written.”

“How much do these people need to know?” He laughed and took a towel from your hand. The man dried his palms and gave it back to you.

“I think they’re happy to see you back as Anakin.” You followed him with a smile.

He said nothing at first as he took his place on set. “Them or you, Mouse?” You scratched the back of your hand and turned away from him; your cheeks flushed at the name. It sounded different coming from his mouth, especially when he wore that smirk.

A few nights ago

Hayden chuckled as you kneeled at the table, your knees pressed in the rug as you dirtied the gown that hugged your body. You threw back a shot and stared at the young woman across the table from you; light caught on your collar and shone in her eye. Hayden pats your cheek and tightens the loose collar. “Look’a’that. It matches your dress this time.”

“Give me your hands.” He wrapped his belt around your wrists and secured them together.

This had to be some form of a humiliation ritual: this game you ended up playing once every few months. You pressed your lips on the other side of the glass, your noses crossed as you lapped up alcohol. Her tongue slid across yours each time, your lips mingling as the bitter alcohol burned your throat. This game is a team effort and you both are on the same team, so it was only right that your entire focus was on her (and pleasing your boss, Hayden).

Hayden held your hair back as your lips brushed against hers. “C’mon, Y/n!” He’d bet money on you. Not a lot but well over his means for the night. You still had another drink to finish and the team of girls beside you weren’t willing to spare you both.

His legs were on either side of your body as he leaned over you, holding your head down into the glass. You finished it quickly and he guided your head by your hair to the next drink: two separate bowls of vodka + soda. Your teammate took a moment to catch her breath and drank from a bottle of water.

Hayden watched you take small laps of the drink, “Don’t be modest, mouse.” A drunken edge to his tone as he pulled at your collar and pushed your head lower. If you were wearing panties, they’d be soaked by now. The “referee” watched as you slurped from the top greedily; your false eyelashes faltered from their correct position and your bound wrists rest behind your back.

You continued to drink and before you knew it, Hayden pulled your head up to face him. “Good girl!” His lips embraced yours messily as the group around you cheered. “Bashful little thing.” He took another sip of his drink while you squinted in the limelight. He pulled the glass from his lips, “Mouse.”

He chuckled as the wallet from his pocket fell out. “Pick it up.” He’s inescapable. No matter if you were on the clock or off. You found yourself serving him like a pet. At least it was less humiliating in places like this where you’d find many others doing the same things. Your tongue brushed the floor as you took the wallet between your teeth and settled the leather on his thigh.

A sadistic smile crossed his lips as he took his beer bottle from earlier and let it roll between a few people until it was a far enough distance for you to chase. “Go fetch.” Mindlessly, you found yourself crawling to the bottle as it rolled further. A few guests stopped their touching and tasting of each other to observe your obedience. You took the neck of the bottle into your mouth; loose dirt dirtied the side as you held it tightly in your warm mouth. The rim pressed deep in your mouth as it tried its best to leave your mouth.

Hayden waved two fingers down and you sat beneath him on your feet, your hands still behind your back as he raised a single finger up. You raised your chin higher and straightened your posture. “You’re sucha’ good listener. I’m so proud of you.” He directed your head down and you placed the bottle on the floor at his feet. “It must feel so nice to be a good girl.” You couldn’t control yourself as you rocked from side to side. Not unlike a dog. The attention slowly was drawn off your excited body as time passed. Your breathing sped up as he brushed a hand over your hand nipples in a ghostly manner. “You did something new, didn’t you?” His softened blue eyes stared into yours, “You shared.” Enthusiastically, you nodded and took his thumb into your mouth.

He used his thumb to pull your jaw down; the pad of the digit pressed on your piercing. “I think it’s time to get you back to our room.”

a/n: this has been in my drafts since I started my account (a month)

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[weeb-simp-11]

🃟☏➢NEED THAT SHAPEABLE VEINY DIH!!

NOTE: You should also give some love for my guy Shapesmith/Rus Livingston, I wanna eat this stretchy man. Also might not be accurate, semi-proof read.

Pairing: Shapesmith!Rus Livingston x Fiancée!Reader — Female Anatomy and She/They + You Pronound, Engaged and to be Married

Sypnosis: Calling your ‘husband’ after his flight to Mars and you notice he seems to be acting strangely sooo it ends up with fucking because you miss him, teehee.

Warning: Eventual Smut

RING RING!! RING RING!!

“Rus? Baby?”

He almost dropped the unknown electronic device as it rang, accidentally accepting the call, fumbling with the screen as he heard a woman speak.

“Russell?”

“H-hello?”

“Oh god Rus, I thought you weren’t gonna answer my calls.. I’ve missed you so much.. Christ.” You softly spoke through the phone, holding it near your ear as you smiled gently to yourself.

“Yes— yes hello fellow human. Uhh..” Shapesmith trailed off, looking at the caller’s ID. “Honey..”

As far as Shapesmith is aware, Rex taught him various lessons about relationships during their time with the Guardians of the Globe. He instructed the struggling Martian not just about mating, but about sex and how to make women feel appreciated every day, whether through intimacy or other means. He also helped him improve his grammar.

“I’m at your apartment, I just finished cleaning here. Will you be coming home?” Her small chuckle masked the longing she’d felt for her fiancé, all those days without him.

“Uh, Y-yes Ok I will end this cellular device. Goodbye. Uh— baby.” Shapesmith replied, feeling a bit sheepish as he ended the call, making his way out of the Moon Base

_

“Welcome home Rus, you were right. I really did miss you a lot.” You spoke, his name dripping off her tongue like honey. She hovered in front of him, holding him close, their first hug after what? Two weeks? Months? Man Shapesmith didn't even know that the guy’s identity he’d stolen from had a wife, he wondered, a bit unsure of things.

“Sweetheart..” Rus would call her, trying to figure out things, especially with him engaging with a human in physical contact as what she’d doing right now — hugging the Martian.

“Yes?” You’d look up in anticipation. You did notice his weird differences from before, he was a bit timid and shy right now. Not that she didn't mind. It was just unusual for her fiancé.

“You’re acting weird, as if you aren't my boyfriend.” Shapesmith’s eyes slightly widened. Did she find out he was a Martian? Will you stab his three-chambered hearts? Skin his skin off? Grind his body?!

“Hey no— I’m just tired, y’know. Mars and going to space.. And other human stuff..” Shapesmith replied, gently scratching his cheek, swallowing his saliva. Her arms that held him trailed up to the back of his neck; nape.

“Don’t you miss me too?” She mumbled, staring deeply into her lover’s pupils. Eyes trailing down from his irises to his lips, and back. “Aren’t you gonna kiss me?” You frown, puckering your lips up for him as you sigh.

“Oh- uh yes- sorry.” Shapesmith apologizes, immediately pressing his lips against hers. The kiss was reasonably messy and unnaturally sloppy. Rus knew how to kiss, he kisses as if she was his last meal, he kisses as if he's eating her face out. But right now, it felt too different, was this really her Rus? She was a bit skeptical. Shapesmith tried to pull out from their kiss as you lead him on instead, your tongue darting between his lips, trying to slip between them.

You pulled him close. Clutching him using the collars of his uniform, leading him further into the house as they reached the kitchen. You sat on the edge of the counter, with him against you of course. His Martian senses heightened at the feeling of her warmth that emanated from her body. He rutted against her thigh, you halted his desperate movements, helping him out of his uniform, discarding it somewhere in the living space. She was too much into the sensations that she did not bother to notice whatever he hid beneath his pants, it was similar to a dick, although not technically one? God who knows?

You shimmied off your clothing, throwing it somewhere in the room, you’ll have to worry much more about different things tomorrow, for now. They should focus on each other. Both of you were bare naked under the dimly lit kitchen, soft breathing could be heard and gentle thrusting can be seen happening between the two.

Rus’ hips stuttered against yours, his dick slipping in and out into her warm hole. He gripped your calves, rutting against your leaking pussy that ached for your Fiancé.

“Ugh.. You feel so different. Does space do this?” You moaned and whimpered, clutching onto his body, feeling air gets sucked out of your own lungs whenever you’d help him thrust.

He is learning gradually. He is trying to understand how the human he is fucking also felt good.

Female Human’s pussies felt too good. It was making him light headed already he his pounded his cock into her velvety warmth. He could almost—

“Oh— chums—!” He spilled his Martian seed inside her, his body shuddering along with hers as they both climaxed. You swore when you shut your eyes, you were having sex with a green alien Martian, maybe that was just your eyes playing tricks at you. He slowly pulled his member out of your gaping hole, watching as his essence mixed with hers and dribbled onto the countertop. You clenched onto nothing, softly whining as cool air hit your body. You fell into his arms, both of you now resting and relishing each other’s embrace after being separated.

Maybe stealing Rus Livingston’s body wasn't bad after all. (Stealing is bad kids)

NOTE: Probably making a sequel where you found out it wasn't the real Rus Livingston and admitting it to him hat you thought it was him that you fucked but it was actually a Martian and it ends with also them fucking. I don't know.

[xelasrecords]

So, This Is a Mess

Caleb x Reader

You’re in a friends-with-benefits relationship with someone and Caleb knows. You know he knows, but that doesn’t make things easier.

Words: 4.5k

Masterlist | Read on AO3

The light is on when you drag your feet into your apartment. You try to be quiet, but Caleb appears from your room and catches your phantom. He rubs your shoulders, a soothing motion, a gentle reminder that he’s here. He sports an inscrutable expression on his face. This is how you cradle nothing in your palms. He doesn’t have to try hard; you float to him weightlessly and occupy the space around him until he leaves.

His skin sticks. It’s a balmy night. Wash away all remnants of dirt before you get to hold him back. Yes.

You step back. “I’m dirty. I’ll join you in bed after I clean up.”

Caleb lets his hands fall away. “Where have you been? I got my weekend off. I wanted to bring you to the new bakery down the street. Their apple pies smell heavenly.”

Guilt twinges in your stomach. You never have enough time with Caleb, yet you have wasted half a day for someone who doesn’t matter, his name just a string of numbers in your phone.

“Tomorrow?” you offer. “Wait for me. I’ll be right back.”

You spin on your heel. There’s nothing you would like to do more than rest with Caleb, but the persistent throbbing between your legs is distracting you. Too dry, the condom scratches, no lubricant, but do it anyway, we’re already here. It doesn’t happen often, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

If you suggest it first, you can save yourself from wondering whether he would continue despite your protests. You don’t have to discover how cruel men can be in times of need. His flesh needs yours. So what? You don’t always have to be in the mood to fuck. Simply insert his cock and off with the pounding.

Caleb must have known. Not everything, but enough. The bathroom mirror doesn’t lie. Lipstick that smudges your chin, hair that holds the proof of being wrapped around a rough hand, bruises smattering your breasts. Caustic marks from teeth and nails. His grip was strong, his sharp bites even more.

It’s good to forget. When Caleb has to return to Skyhaven, it’s good to be preoccupied with pain that isn’t inflicted by him. Caleb means well, but Caleb also hurts you. You collect pain like amulets, switching one out with the other so you’re not consumed by one constant all the time. It’s a cowardly move, sorry Caleb.

You pin your hair up and quickly rinse yourself under the shower head. A gentle, brittle-voiced reminder from another time rings in your ear: My precious granddaughter, you’ll fall sick if you shower with cold water at night. But Grandma is dead and you have grown to embrace the aches in your body. One more won’t hurt.

You have half a mind to insert a few fingers into you, bringing yourself to the climax that you were robbed of, but it’s too sore. He had told you to do it yourself after he was done, but you didn’t feel like putting on a show for him. He would have put down his phone and watch, sure, but spreading your legs for another man’s entertainment feels too performative and less focused on your bliss.

It’s not like you haven’t tried it. Even when the body you’re pleasuring is yours, the attention is still on him. Men get to have a lot of things without asking while you have to fight hard to keep them for yourself. What’s yours isn’t always yours. Anyway you don’t want to feel the shame washing over you after you tip over and listen to him cooing over how sexy you are when what you feel is akin to a commodity. At least sex workers get paid. You get to be sent home without being walked out. Taxi fare on you. Head clouded over the unfairness of this situation.

But you wanted it. It was a fair trade. You should stop pitying yourself.

You’ve kept Caleb waiting for too long. You sigh and spray dry shampoo on your hair before clothing yourself. Your satisfaction can come later.

Caleb is slouching against the bed headboard when you open the door. For a moment, you lean against the frame, watching him. This is the person you have hurt too. He’s never approved of you sleeping around, not on the basis that women who do are whores, but on the principle that you should be saved for the best. Caleb hasn’t yet found the best suited for you. You don’t care much about it. If this is your lot in life, you’ll accept it and march ahead.

Without a word, Caleb levitates you into the space between his legs and summons a hairbrush, parting your mussed hair with patience. Some habits don’t die, and despite the very adult things you just did, you wish to crawl back into Caleb’s embrace like a little child. He provides safety like no other when he consoles you. You can do no wrong in his eyes. He’ll always forgive you because you’re more important than your mistakes. He’s repeated this so often that it’s become a mantra of your own.

“Were you with the guy I caught here last month?” Caleb’s voice is deceptively light.

You nod. “I don’t juggle multiple guys at once. It’s too much work.”

“So you count him and me as one?”

“You’re different.”

“You’re right.” He chuckles louder than the conversation warrants it. “I’m clearly better than them.”

You smiled up at him. “Yeah, and I’m not fucking you. That’s how I can tell. I’ve never felt you inside me.”

Caleb pauses his movement but quickly gathers the locks of your hair and lays them over your shoulders. “Is just sex enough for you?”

You lean back until your body is resting on top of his, the hard planes of his chest against your head as he wraps his large arms around your chest. “I don’t know. I don’t let myself think too much about it. I’d get depressed if I did. Then I wouldn’t know what to do next,” you say. “Do you hate me for this?”

“I can never hate you for anything.”

You frown. “That’s worse. I wish you could resent me a little. Infinite forgiveness is too heavy to carry.”

“Then stop doing things that make you feel guilty.” Caleb pokes your cheek. “You also have the option to be happy, choose it.”

What would that happiness look like? Being with him? Does Caleb truly believe choosing him would make you happy? You’re sure it won’t work for the other way around even if it does. His joy around you glitches like a damaged mask. He forces himself to be happy for your sake and thinks you don’t notice. He can’t choose himself either.

Then there’s your dissatisfaction with him because Caleb can’t give you enough. He always offers you just enough truth, just enough sugar to keep you satiated for some time. You’re tired of chasing shadows whenever you’re with him. He never lets you exist beside him.

The men in your lives tend to give what they think is suitable for you without considering your needs. You can’t blame them for it. Not when you’re the common denominator here.

“I am happy.” You grab Caleb’s forefinger and point it to the middle of your chest. “With you like this, I am.”

“You haven’t laughed in a long time and I’m scared I’m the cause of it.” You can feel his ragged exhale against your ear. “You have been out of reach ever since you discovered that I’m alive.”

“I’m not out of reach. I’m literally surrounded by you right now.” You squeeze his bare legs as confirmation.

Caleb wraps them tighter around you. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

You do know. “I’m sorry.”

No matter how much you want him, you can’t have him. Caleb will always leave. He can claim he’ll give you everything and whisk you away to a faraway island where nobody knows about your existence, but those are whimsical dreams. He is tied to his fleet and you can’t let him in to see him walk away. There are things he needs to deal with before he’s free to be with you. You don’t want to tie him down. Better to be alone than to amplify each other’s suffering.

Caleb turns your body to face him and you jolt, the scars scrape against your clothes. Now that the pleasure is gone, all left on you is the marks of plunder. No, that isn’t the right word. You weren’t forced to do anything you didn’t want to. But you may have given more than you could take tonight. It’s often like this. You don’t know how far you’ve pushed until you take in the aftermath. The clean-up is more exhausting than the journey. What have you got out of this arrangement? You’re not even sated, not even happy.

Horror slashes across Caleb’s face. “You’re hurt. Where are you hurt?”

You shake your head and bury your face into his chest, inhaling the scent of aftershave that clung to his t-shirt. “Just generally,” you mumble.

But Caleb isn’t having it. He pulls you up again so he can scan your body, but there’s nothing he can detect unless he strips you. Your sex partner is careful that way. Can’t attract unwanted attention. It’d be an extra workload that he has to put in. Not that you want it either. Keep things as easy as possible.

Caleb won’t take off your clothes. You used to imagine he would, but now you can’t breach the topic without shattering your fragile connection. One wrong move and he’ll retreat into space. One wrong move and he’ll deprive you of the outside world and lock you down. To be near or far from him strangles you in equal amounts.

“Caleb, I’m fine. These things happen.”

A concerned divot forms between his brows. “Tell me the truth. Do you like mixing violence with sex?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “I just want the sex.”

“No, pip-squeak.” You cringe at the nickname. It’s as if Caleb used it to remind you of your age, that you’re younger and more naïve and therefore should listen to him. It paints a jarring contrast from the topic you’re discussing. He runs his hand through his dark hair and takes a deep breath. “Have you talked about your preferences with him?”

You shrug. “I was on board the first time he did it to me. I wanted to try it too.” You want to be pushed. Tested. Feel everything instead of nothing. Sex can be a punitive relief if one is desperate enough.

“But did he ask whether you liked it?” Caleb pressed. “Does he care if you don’t?”

You wave it away with a gesture. “My body gives away enough reaction.”

It doesn’t need to be said that when your body isn’t reacting enough, he’ll toss you aside. But that’s fine because he apologises and comes around eventually. He greets you with a relieved smile and pays for the lingerie he wants you to wear. It gives you as much relief in return that you’re still desired. You never kid yourself into believing there’s something more, so you shouldn’t expect an above-and-beyond treatment from a casual lay.

You must have learned this infinite capacity of forgiveness from Caleb.

Caleb cups your jaw and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “He doesn’t sound like a nice person.”

“Occasionally he’s nice.” The defence slips out of your mouth before you can mull it over.

“How much more occasionally bad should you take?” asks Caleb softly.

He’s starting to infuriate you. No matter how bad this guy is, he is your choice. You decide who to sleep with. You decide how far you want to get hurt and which pain you want to go through. There’s less risk in toying with a near stranger than Caleb. They’re disposable, he’s not.

“Right now, there’s only him,” you say, your tone clipped. “Drop this subject. I’m tired.”

“You deserve to be with someone who cares about your interests,” Caleb insists. “Someone who sees you more than just a body to be used. A casual arrangement doesn’t mean he can treat you like an object. Love yourself more. You deserve better.”

You let out a humourless laugh. “Who will treat me that way? Introduce me to that person then. I’ll fuck him for you.”

Caleb grinds his jaw and pinches your chin to meet his gaze. “No.”

You climb on top of his thighs. “Why not? Scared that I’ll have a better sex life and leave you behind? Maybe you like me in this situation. You get to be my saviour after a boring fuck. Console me until I feel fine again.”

Caleb glares at you in disbelief. “Trust me, I get no enjoyment from seeing you sleeping with other guys.”

“So what gets you off if cuckolding isn’t your thing?” If he won’t back down, you won’t either.

“You’re committed to being a menace tonight.” Caleb’s eyes flit across your determined expression and he shakes his head. “But sorry, I’m not in the mood to entertain you.”

This is exactly what you hate about him. Never says the truth. Never brave enough to claim what he wants. Does he think you would stick around forever just because he wills it? You feel like a side-piece in everyone’s lives. You’re wanted but not kept, as if there’s only so much of you they can handle before they run away screaming, regretting ever letting you in.

“I thought you wanted me, but you steer clear from me like you’d contract a deadly disease if you get too close,” you say.

“That’s not what I’m scared of.” At your challenging look, Caleb continues, “You don’t want to know the kind of thoughts I harbour when you’re around.”

You bunch his shirt into a ball in your fist and pull him closer. “Only when I’m around?”

Caleb tries to avert his eyes, but you yank at his shirt harder. He looks down, sounding hoarse. “No, not only then.”

With his lips in such close proximity, it would be so easy to steal a taste. His body is within reach also. Every cell in you calls towards him, and really, you would give yourself to him if things were less complicated. If you weren’t still tangled with another guy. The relationship is not exclusive, but you don’t want to do Caleb the disservice of not bestowing him your full care and attention.

But maybe a kiss is fine. Just one kiss.

“May I...” you trail off, your fingers dancing across his lips.

Caleb kisses your fingers and closes his eyes, his breathing harsh. Time stretches on for eternity before he finally speaks. “I don’t know.”

You bend down to press your lips against his fingers. Your heart breaks for him and yourself, for the circumstances you’ve put yourselves in. “All right, I won’t force you.”

“We can cuddle,” murmurs Caleb into your skin. He doesn’t want to part from you. You don’t have to ask him to know that it’s true. A part of him is still naked for you to read. He hasn’t completely shrouded himself away. You hold on to this truth. “Like the old times.”

You wriggle into his arms and he holds you flush against his body, but it feels nothing like the old times.

Your limbs are too long now and you’re too aware of each other’s presence. Proximity has never quickened your pulse before. It used to be enough just to be embraced and fall asleep together. Now you’re restless, your mind reaching for the mirage that’s always out of reach.

“I can’t hold you too.” You tilt your head at Caleb, watching his Adam’s apple bob when your breath fans across it. If only you could graze it without implying anything romantic or sensual. It’s tough to know where the line is drawn and who is drawing the line. “You distanced yourself from me first.”

Caleb looks pained. “I thought it was for the better.”

“Then why didn’t you disappear again after I left?”

“I thought about it,” he admits. “But acting on my thoughts is harder when I’ve seen the extent of danger you are in.”

“The safest I am is by your side,” you echo his past sentiment. It’s not a statement you entirely believe in. You are the safest with him, but you also feel the smallest.

You try to remind yourself that being small can be a good thing. Being hard to catch is freedom in itself. If nobody notices you, you don’t have to notice them too. Then, the physicality of your existence can be erased temporarily. Contorting yourself to fit the shape of those who want you has always been your strong suit. This isn’t much different.

“Sometimes I wish you could stand behind me,” says Caleb. “Use me as your shield.”

“And let them break you? A broken shield wouldn’t do anyone good. You’d only be buying time before they get to me.”

Caleb catches your wrist, his eyes a fervid fire that’s been more and more familiar to you. “They won’t. I’ll protect you,” he swears. “Let me protect you from this guy too. Do you even know his name?”

“I have a feeling you’d know more about him than me.” You hold your gaze and Caleb glances away. You’re aware of the kind of things he’s up to to keep you safe. There hasn’t been any illusion of him being sweet and trusting since his revival. You still can’t decide whether you’re fine with this new constraint of freedom.

“I hate to see you keep getting hurt,” he says.

“Tell me that again when you’ve stopped hurting me,” you speak flatly. “I knew it’d be like this since I rang him up. This is manageable.”

Caleb winces. “You shouldn’t have to keep managing your pain. Eradicate it if possible.”

You roll your eyes. “Speak for yourself.”

“It’s impossible in my case.”

“Then you have no say in mine.” When Caleb is still adamant about looking everywhere but you, you repeat with more force, “Do not interfere with my relationship. I’ll cut you off if you do.”

His jaw drops. The betrayal in his face isn’t faked. “You’re choosing him over me. I thought I was different.”

You clamp his mouth shut. “I’m choosing my freedom.”

“What about me?” he asks. “Where am I on your list? I remember how you used to follow me around, loudly proclaiming that I was the coolest person you’d ever known. That you were so lucky to have me. You were so little that I could fit you in the palm of my hand.” Caleb’s smile is sad as he drops his head.

“I didn’t know I was a hamster.” You punch his shoulder lightly. “I don’t rank you. You’re just here, in my heart.” You grasp his left hand, the one that can still feel you, and hold it against the left side of your ribs. “You float in my orbit always.”

From the table, your phone chooses the most inopportune moment to buzz and your hand reflex chooses the most inopportune time to pick it up. It’s automatic, groomed by days of waiting by your phone just to get a short reply from him. When attention is dangled in front of you, you can’t help but bite it, convince him that you’re still interested so he won’t go away, never mind how desperate you must look.

Pride only hurts you in the long run and that isn’t the kind of pain you revel in.

“Is it him?” Caleb’s hand curls into a fist. He could punch through your ribcage and you would allow him. Offer him your beating heart to make him happy. As proof of love, as repentance.

You hum in affirmation.

“Do you have a text-based relationship too?” he asks.

“When either of us is bored.”

“Well, you’re not bored now.” Caleb snatches the phone out of your grasp. “He already had you. Is that not enough? Let me see what else he wants to take.”

Your heart pounds. Caleb witnessing your flirting is the last thing you need. You shift your body up the bed so your head is next to Caleb’s, and relax after reading the text. He merely apologised if he was too rough. Maybe should delay the next fuck until you’ve healed. Drop a text when you’re ready. He’ll wait.

Caleb scoffs. “What a polite gentleman.”

“I told you. He can be nice.”

The glare Caleb throws at you is eerily reminiscent of his scolding when you tried to get out of your study sessions. “Nice is offering to bring you to the hospital and fetch your medicine. Nice is not pushing you when you’re not into it.”

“He’ll wait for me to heal,” you point out.

Caleb slow-claps. “Congratulations, you’re dating a dog.”

“Give me my phone. I want to reply to him.” You try to take it back, but Caleb shoves it into his back pocket, fully knowing your hands aren’t grubby enough to venture to his backside. Not anymore. It won’t be an innocent mischief if you do.

“He said he’ll wait. Make him wait. Reserve your speedy response for me.” Caleb pats his pocket in triumph. “How often does he text you anyway? Every day?”

Having Caleb barring you does help. If you leave him on read, you can live in the fantasy that you hold all the power, that this time, he’s the one kept on his toes. The moment you send a message, you’ll have to play the waiting game again, anxiety multiplying as you imagine the things that keep him from sparing a few seconds for you. You should prolong this sweet spot as long as you can.

You’re grateful that Caleb sends you constant updates about his ever-changing schedule. At least with him, you don’t have to guess where his attention lies. Well, not as much. He also has his moments.

You hope he won’t disappear again.

“Not really,” you mutter.

He raises his brows. “Do you want him to?”

A familiar shame burns your face. Desperation turns you into a fool and it always, always shows its face to the person you want to hide it from the most. “It’s not like how I talk to you,” you hurry to explain. “We’re not close. We don’t cuddle like this. He doesn’t know how to comfort me like you do.”

This too, is desperation in its more rudimentary form. You don’t want Caleb to assume things that aren’t true and lose him completely. You don’t want him to be so furious that he cuts off all of your social network. You need to stabilise his emotions before they go haywire. He needs to be calm for you to be calm.

“No one knows you like I do,” Caleb responds in a low voice. There’s a ferocity in it that sends a pleasant shiver down your back. “He may have touched your body, but I’m the one who takes care of you. No one should be this familiar with every tic and quirk of yours. It’s my duty to know you and remember you. No one else’s. Don’t give your everything to him. You won’t have anything left in the end.”

“Do you think it’d be any different if I give myself to you instead?” you whisper.

Caleb nods. “Because I’ll give myself to you too. You won’t be alone anymore.”

You almost sob at his sincerity. It’s a promise he can’t fulfil, surely he knows that. Being with Caleb will still leave you lonely because he never completely lets you in. His idea of giving himself to you doesn’t mirror yours. The way he loves you is exhausting. You don’t want him to wreck himself for you. He never stops to think about the toll it has on the person who has to watch him break over and over.

You’re not that selfish.

“Caleb, I love you, but—”

He presses a finger to your mouth before you finish the sentence. “Don’t say you love me then follow it with a contradiction.” Caleb’s voice cracks and along with that, your resolve to set your foot down. “I’d rather go on with my life without hearing it from you.”

His eyes waver and you know that he’s waiting for you to refute, to tell him that you can say the three words and let them take shape as a lone entity, but—there’s always a but. Love is never easy between the two of you. It’s a fact set in stone from the moment you were set in the same household as him.

An urge to apologise bubbles up your throat. Would he accept an apology, or would you be gifting him an apple laced with poison?

In the end, you just nod. “Okay.”

It is not the answer Caleb is hoping for.

You turn your back against him so you won’t have to see what kind of poison he has bit into. You’re a bad apple. It must be tiring to deal with you. Only a matter of time before he weeds you out. There’s an expiration date to everything. People die and affection can be lost. You’re not the exception to the rule.

With caution, Caleb gathers his arm around your waist and kisses the back of your head. This kiss is allowed. It’s too solemn to escalate to anything more. You don’t look up, don’t make eye contact. Keep tears from spilling.

“For what it’s worth,” Caleb murmurs into your hair, “I love you too.”

You bite the inside of your cheek until blood explodes into your mouth.

You wish to forget it. The first time Caleb confesses without the protective film of platonic love shouldn’t be like this. You pat his hand with a steady rhythm. “There are better people to love out there.”

“My best is you. You’re my reason to live.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not.” Caleb drags you into the concave space between you until every inch of your body is touching. Your stomach flutters from the firm press of his arm despite it all. “Go to sleep. I’ll patch you up if your body is still sore tomorrow.”

You want to talk more, but what else is there to say? You possess the power to hurt him, you have used it to your advantage, and Caleb just lets you. This proves that the closeness he yearns for will only ruin him.

Remorse twists in your gut without the ability to free itself and make things right. Caleb is better than you. He always makes you feel better. You suspect there’s nothing much you do that doesn’t make things worse.

You chant a litany of apologies into the night. Nobody can absolve you from this sin. It’s a burden you have to bear on your own.

Footnotes:

I wanted to write about the grey area in sex where it’s consensual but you can’t shake off the feeling of being used after, and how Caleb would realistically react to it based on the limited information he’s gleaned.

I like exploring how Caleb and MC’s codependency shows up in different scenarios. It holds so much power to either make or break them. Combine this with a reader who never puts themselves first, trapping themselves in the FWB relationship and adding to the distance from Caleb... It was fun to dig into how insecurity can derail the relationship you care about the most.

There are a few mentions of Grandma and death to show that the reader is still affected by her death. I think grief is sneaky this way, making itself known even when you don’t realise it’s influencing your thoughts and decisions.

At this point, it’s a rite of passage to put all my blorbos through a complicated relationship at least once. I wrote the first draft in one day because I’m obsessed with making Caleb suffer. Sorry. He’s just so angst-shaped to me. I can’t imagine him in a simple happy setting. Maybe one day. Canon source doesn’t even allow him to.

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