you’re an og girl. the men in the villa just don’t pique your interest and are frankly just boring. what happens when bombshell with the cute english accent takes a liking to you?
previous, next
the next few days in the villa felt like a romance book written by kennedy ryan herself. you’d grown to like djed so much it was almost sickening and completely overwhelming.
everyone in the villa noticed. the way your eyes followed him while he worked out, the way his voice seemed to soften every time he said your name. it was bliss all the way until you realized what show you were on.
whenever the other girls pulled him for chats, you tried your absolute best to pretend like you were cool, calm, and collected. but you were jealous. definitely.
even though he clearly didn't give anyone the same energy he gave you, you still felt some type of way seeing them in his space. there was just something so good between the two of you that you didn't even want to share a second of his attention.
on the flip side, alex had started exploring options with some of the other women in the villa, which honestly made you feel relieved. he was a genuinely sweet guy, and he deserved to find someone who could reciprocate his feelings especially with the way you were feeling djed.
he still made you breakfast in the morning, bringing over a plate of fruit and your coffee with that gentle smile. and you still slept in the same bed every night. sharing latenight chats, checking in on each other. but the romantic pressure was completely gone. you were friends more than anything.
and every morning when you woke up, your eyes didn't stay on the boy sleeping next to you. they immediately drifted across the room, looking for djed.
you needed to dial it back. and quickly.
as much as you liked djed—and god knew you were falling fast—you couldn’t go closing yourself off to him this early in the game. this was love island and even though y'all had spent the last couple of days practically glued at the hip, talking for hours, and sneaking stolen naps together on the daybeds in the shade (only to be quickly woken up by production lol), you had to keep your head on straight.
you weren't about to limit yourself, and as fine as he was, you couldn't expect him to just lock in on you completely without testing the waters either. you were gonna keep your options wide open. or at least fake it till you made it.
you and mari were sitting on the sunbeds near the ping pong table while djed and dave played a match. your head was resting comfortably in her lap, sunglasses shielding both your faces from the sun while her fingers massaged your scalp.
two feet from you, djed slammed the paddle down, his laughter booming as he took another point off dave. his shirt was off, skin glowing in the light, and even with your sunglasses on, you could feel yourself getting distracted.
“what do you miss most about home?” mari asked softly, leaning back against the cushions. “for me, it’s the music. oh my god, i miss the music so much. i just wanna hear a full song.”
“i miss my books,” you pouted, looking up at the clear sky and sighing. “oh, and cheeseburgers.”
mari burst out laughing, nudging your head. “girl, you are so real for that. a fat, juicy burger with fries sounds heavenly right now.”
“deadass,” you laughed, shifting a little. “just a big greasy burger, a thick romance novel, and zero cameras in my face. i’d sell my soul for that right about now.”
as you were laughing, talking about your routines back home, the men finally abandoned their ping pong game and came over to join the two of you.
you sat up, swinging your legs off the couch, and djed took the spot right beside you. he immediately wrapped his heavy, warm arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. you felt the heat radiating off him as he leaned down, his lips practically brushing your ear.
“you always smell so good,” he whispered into your neck sending shivers straight down your spine.
before you could even open your mouth to give him a flirty comeback, mari rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses and groaned loudly.
“oh, get a room,” mari snickered, right as dave sat down on her other side and casually wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into his chest.
“look at you talking,” you laughed, pointing at her and dave while you relaxed back against djed’s chest, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on your side.
she shoots her middle finger your way, making you and djed burst into laughter. he pulls you just a little bit tighter against his chest, his laugh deep and vibrating right against your shoulder.
for a second, everything felt so normal, so sweet—just the four of you joking around in the sun.
“i got a text!”
a voice shouted from across the villa, everyone froze. mari immediately dropped her hand from dave's, and djed’s grip on your waist tightened, his eyes darting toward the pool where the phone was ringing out.
you sigh, letting your head drop back onto his shoulder for a quick second. “ugh, we were doing so good. it’s been so peaceful in here.”
“c’mon baby,” djed said, his deep voice smooth as he pulled you up from your seat by both hands, effortlessly tugging you onto your feet.
y'all walked over to the fire pit where everyone was crowding around sam, who was holding the phone up with a huge grin on his face. he cleared his throat and loudly read the screen:
“islanders! pucker up. tonight you will take part in a kissing game presented by maybelline. #kissandmakeup #hotandbothered”
the whole courtyard erupted into loud cheers, shouting, and nervous laughter. before you could even react, djed leaned down, his long fingers reaching out to playfully tickle your side, sending a shiver straight up your spine.
“oh, i like the sound of that,” he whispered in your ear, his breath warm against your skin.
you bit your bottom lip, trying—and completely failing—to hide the grin spreading across your face. the truth was, you and djed hadn’t even kissed yet. the tension between you had been building up like crazy for days, but you’d been holding back out of respect for alex while things were still fresh. but with this challenge? all bets were off. you wanted to show out.
the camera cut to your confessional. you leaned back on the bright cushions, crossing your legs with a knowing look. the producer’s voice came from behind the camera asking if you considered yourself a good kisser.
“am i a good kisser?” you repeated, a slow, confident smirk spreading across your face. “well... i’ve never gotten any complaints.”
the producer chuckled before asking what, in your opinion, makes a bad kisser.
“for me?” you sat up, throwing your hands in the air. “it’s too much tongue. oh trying to swallow my entire lips, i had a boyfriend who did that once, i was irritated every single time. and bad breath. oh god, please let nobody have bad breath today, i am begging you!”
you covered your face with both hands, shaking your head, leaving the whole production team behind the camera laughing.
you and the girls headed up to the makeup room to get dressed while the boys got ready downstairs in the bedroom. the energy in the room was crazy. everyone buzzing excitedly at the thought of kissing the boys and finally having some actual fun after a week of pure dryness.
for the challenge, you pulled out a black lacy top and a pair of micro leather shorts that hugged every single curve and made your ass look amazinggg. your skin was glowing, from the oil you’d put on. and you made sure to spray extra of that vanilla perfume you knew djed liked.
you and andreina were right in front of the wall mirror strutting and posing while mari pulled out the villa phone to record it all for the unseen bits.
“yes, body! look at them!” mari yelled behind the camera, zooming in on you.
you caught your own reflection, threw your head back laughing, and bent all the way over to do a little shake for the camera, making the whole room erupt into screams.
“djed is about to lose his mind tonight,” andreina wheezed, holding her stomach.
you laughed, pulling your shorts down just a millimeter before checking yourself out one last time.
the boys went up first.
they stood lined up on heart-shaped platforms, completely blind to what was coming, wearing eye masks and noise-canceling headphones. they couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t hear a thing, and the kisses were 100% anonymous. at the end of every round, each guy had to try to guess which girl had just laid her lips on him and give a score out of ten.
dave was up first, then sam, then jayden, trey, alex, and finally djed at the very end of the line.
standing there blindfolded, the men were looking anxious as hell. arms swinging, hands rubbing together, nervous laughs escaping every few seconds. the girls were sitting on the bench, absolutely losing it, laughing behind their hands.
selah was the first girl up.
the camera cut to her confessional, her sitting up tall with a wicked grin. “i really didn’t come to play. i’m here to leave with a man!”
and she wasn't playing. selah stepped up to the platforms and went down the line, kissing each boy like her life depended on it. deep, lingering, heavy kisses that had the boys completely melting on the spot. arms were wrapping around her waist, heads were tilting—the boys were into it lips chasing hers the second they broke apart.
she’d skipped jayden, wanting to save him for last and when she finally got to him, she didn't rush it. she took her sweet time, sliding her hands up his neck and leaving a little something extra. a soft bite to his lower lip that had his knees looking slightly weak right then and there.
the girls applauded and cheered for selah while the guys shouted out their ratings. three eights, a nine, a six from someone who was just being a fuckin hater, and lastly, a ten from jayden.
mari was next. she held her own, getting an eight from sam, two sixes from jayden and trey, a ten from alex, a seven from djed, and a nine from dave, who was grinning ear to ear.
then came nikki. she was by far the worst kisser of the night.
the boys didn't hold back at all. comments like “too much tongue!” and “who the fuck was that?” you could clearly see on nikki’s face that she felt some type of way about the feedback. her jaw was tight as she walked back over, completely salty.
andreina went after her, followed by imani. and finally... it was your turn. the girls screamed, hyping you up as you adjusted your top, stepped onto the wooden deck, and took a deep breath.
dave was up first. you stepped up and kissed him sweetly, not wanting to do anything crazy—y'all were friends, and you definitely didn't see him romantically, but it was smooth.
then came sam. as soon as you stepped into his space, he opened his mouth way too wide, and you immediately got the absolute worst ick. you drew back quickly, your face wrung with pure disgust, barely letting his lips touch yours before moving right along.
jayden was next. the kiss was nice, comfortable, but nothing life-changing.
then you reached trey. you had to stand up on your tiptoes to bring his face down to yours. you kissed him slow and deep—it was actually a really good kiss. you would’ve rated it an eight yourself, which was hella high for you considering how dry his chat usually was.
next was alex. he didn't hesitate—his hands planted firmly on your waist the second you got close. as you kissed, your hands naturally slid up into his hair, and he kept pulling you closer and closer into his chest, until you finally broke away, catching your breath.
“oh damn,” you whispered to yourself, stepping back.
and finally... djed at the very end of the line.
you took your absolute sweet time with him. you stepped into his space, feeling the pure heat off his chest, and leaned in—kissing his neck first, slowly sliding up to his open chest, then trailing light kisses along his sharp jawline before finally capturing his lips.
the second your mouth met his, you could’ve sworn you heard him let out a low, heavy moan. all control went out the window. the two of you just stood there, hands wandering all over each other's bodies, pulling each other tighter until mari aggressively cleared her throat from the sidelines.
“ahem!”
you snapped back to reality and broke the kiss, stepping away while fanning your face with your hand.
“that was hot. as. fuck.” selah gasped, her eyes wide.
you bit your bottom lip, in full agreement, your whole body still vibrating from the touch.
the camera cut straight to your confessional. you were sitting there with your hair a little messy, clutching a pillow to your chest.
“i literally have no words. i’m speechless,” you admitted, shaking your head with a huge, breathless grin. “look... if this wasn’t love island? i probably would’ve fucked him right then and there. no shade.” you threw your head back and laughed, not even trying to hide it.
the boys went down the line giving their final scores. when it came to djed’s turn to rate your kiss, he didn't even hesitate, shouting out a loud, proud ten.
“that had to be my girl for sure,” he stated, a massive smirk on his face under the blindfold.
you gushed, hiding your blushing face in mari’s shoulder as the rest of the girls snickered. the connection was loud and clear.
now it was the girls' turn.
production handed out the eye masks and noise-canceling headphones, and you all lined up on the heart-shaped platforms. you couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t hear a single sound except the hum of your own breathing, and you had no idea what order you were standing in. you just knew you were the very last girl on the end of the line.
you shifted on your feet, smoothing down your leather shorts and trying to calm the wild flutter in your chest. taking off your sight made every other sense go into overdrive. the warm night air hit your bare skin.
you knew the boys were taking their turns coming down the line, blind to who was who. you could hear faint, muffled laughter from time to time, but for the most part, you were completely locked in your own head, wondering how each of them would handle you.
dave probably kept it respectful. sam was probably still out here opening his mouth like a mouth-breather. alex... you knew alex would be gentle and sweet, trying to prove his point.
but djed?
just thinking about those big, warm hands on your hips had your pulse racing under your skin. you stood there in the dark, biting your lip, waiting for the moment a pair of hands would finally find your waist and pull you in.
the first kiss was sloppy as hell. the second he made contact, you already knew that was sam. the second one was gentle. sweet, respectful. maybe dave. the third one was okay, but you definitely weren’t a fan of getting your tongue aggressively sucked on. if that was his thing, fine... but it wasn't yours.
the fourth kiss was alex. you instantly knew it was him by the soft, familiar way he caressed your back, and by the clean scent of his cologne. it was a damn good kiss, real tender and genuine. almost as good as djed.
he was next.
djed breezed right through the other girls down the line, completely unbothered, just trying to make his way straight to the end. you felt the radiating warmth of his body before he even laid a single finger on you. your breath picked up, the blind anticipation literally killing you in the dark.
without warning, djed took both of his large, warm hands and smacked them firmly on your ass, gripping you tight and pulling your hips directly flush against his.
you swear to god you could’ve moaned out loud right then and there. before you could even catch your breath or say a single thing, his mouth was came down on yours. rough, possessive, and so deep it made your head spin.
he trailed the kiss down to your neck, his lips warm and heavy, sucking softly on the skin right at your sweet spot. your hands immediately flew to the back of his head, your fingers tangling tight in his hair and pulling him closer, encouraging him to keep going.
behind you, the boys were completely taken aback by what was going on, shouting and wildly reacting to the sheer heat radiating off the two of you. djed finally moved back up to your lips, pressing a few soft, lingering pecks against your mouth before he slowly let go of your hips and walked away.
“oh my- fuck,” you blurted out, still completely blindfolded, your voice raspy and breathless. “game over, nobody else kiss me!”
djed’s deep, chesty laugh echoed as he walked away.
the last boy came up and kissed you, but you just lazily kissed him back. you had completely meant what you said. your head was spinning from djed’s kiss and nobody else was about to compete with that.
the second production called a wrap on the game and everyone was allowed to pull off their masks and headphones, djed didn't even waste a single second looking at anyone else. he walked straight through the crowd, his eyes locked onto you, and reached out to take your hand.
“let’s go for a chat,” he said, his voice low and steady despite the grin tugging at his lips.
“yeah,” you breathed out, nodding immediately.
he wrapped his long fingers tightly around yours, guiding you away from everyone else, up the stairs, and right into the speakeasy. the second the doors clicked shut, djed turned around to look at you, his eyes dark, heavy. the tension between the two of you unbearable.
you began talking, but it didn't take long before you shifted the conversation right back to the challenge.
“did you really have to smack my ass like that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
he threw his head back and laughed, that deep south london chuckle filling the small room. “oh please, you liked it.”
“you’re freaked out,” you laughed, shaking your head.
“only for you, baby,” he said smoothly, leaning in just a fraction closer. “did you like my kiss?”
“i don’t think i remember, exactly,” you lied, putting on a sweet, innocent face and acting completely confused.
“is that right?” djed smirked.
“yeah, i don’t know... i think i need a reminder,” you smiled, looking up at him through your lashes.
djed laughed as he hooked his long finger under your chin, tilting your head up toward his.
“did i tell you how good you looked today, baby?” he whispered against your lips.
“only fifty times,” you smiled against him.
he chuckled low in his chest before kissing you again—slow, deep, and completely taking his time. his hands moved smoothly to your waist, effortlessly lifting you up and shifting you right into his lap.
wrapped up in his arms, feeling the heat off his skin and his chest rising against yours, every single thought you had about "dialing it back" went completely out the window.
ᥫ᭡ fai speaks: i had to end it here omg, it was getting way too long! i’m just ready for them to couple up already
you’re an og girl. the men in the villa just don’t pique your interest and are frankly just boring. what happens when bombshell with the cute english accent takes a liking to you?
next
you’d been in the villa since day one. a whole week of waking up to the same bright ass neon lights, the same iced coffee, and the same five boys who just weren’t doing it for you. being an og girl sounded good on paper, but in reality? you were bored out of your mind.
the lineup was tragic. sam was a classic ditzy surfer boy who thought having a tan was a personality trait; his cockiness was draining. he was coupled up with nikki. trey was your usual type on the outside. tall, nice fade, pretty smile. but the man was just boring. trying to talk to him was like pulling teeth. a terrible conversationalist. he was coupled with andreina.
then there was jayden. tall, chocolate skin, crazy big biceps. but he hadn’t looked your way since the first coupling. he was coupled with selah. you didn't even have to ask to know you weren't his type; iykyk. dave was nice, shoulder length curls, a sleeve and chest full of tribal tattoos, but he gave pure friend vibes and he was coupled with amari.
then there was alex. your current couple. he liked you, he thought you were beautiful, and he genuinely tried. you didn’t care that he was white—that wasn’t the issue at all. something just didn’t click. it was like the slowest of slow burns, but without any actual fire. just smoke.
“something’s missing,” you told amari, venting on the daybeds while the afternoon sun beat down on you. mari was your closest friend in the villa, the only one who truly got it. she was also the only other black girl in the villa. “i guess it’ll grow with time, but it’s just off. like, the chemistry is completely flat.”
mari adjusted her sunglasses, looking over at alex who was currently doing push-ups by the pool. “i mean, he’s sweet. but sweet isn’t chemistry.”
“exactly,” you sighed, laying your head back. “matter fact, just tell production to bring some more men up in here.”
“amen girl,” you both laughed at that. but right as the words left her mouth, the infamous tone echoed across the courtyard.
“i got a text!”
everyone froze as you gathered around andreina. she unlocked the phone, her acrylics clicking against the screen. “islanders, america has been voting for who should go on dates with the new bombshells, djed and imani.”
“who the fuck is djed and imani?” you whispered to mari.
andreina gasped, her eyes darting straight to you. “you’ve been picked to go on a date with djed. please get ready to leave the villa,” she said before turning in the other direction, “jayden, you’ve been picked to go on a date with imani. please get ready to leave the villa.”
the boys started shouting, hyping jayden up, while alex just gave you a tight, nervous smile. you couldn't even fake the politeness, your face lit up immediately. clearly your cries had been heard.
the camera cut to your confessional. you sat on the colorful stools, leaning forward with a huge grin.
“i’m going on a date! finally, some real romantic shit is happening around here. but if he’s not cute, y'all can deadass just cut the cameras and send me home. not playing.”
back in the dressing room, it was pure chaos. the girls were rummaging through racks, throwing clothes around, trying to find the perfect fit. this was the first date of the season, you had to make an impression.
you finally settled on a bright orange bikini that made your brown skin pop in the best way possible. you sat at the vanity, pulling down your hair so it framed your face perfectly, pinning just one side back with a gold clip.
“girl, you look tea as fuck!” mari said, leaning over your shoulder as you touched up your lip gloss. “fuck that whoever djed is, come on a date with me instead.”
“aww. thank you, baby,” you laughed, leaning in as y'all fake kissed for the mirrors.
alex walked in to give you a quick hug. “have fun,” he murmured. “not too much fun.”
“i’ll be back soon, my loves,” you sang happily, grabbing your prada sunglasses and walking out toward the front dock.
all the islanders lined up by the edge of the villa to see you and jayden off, though you knew they were really just trying to sneak a peek at the new bombshells.
the afternoon air in fiji was thick and humid. you reached the end of the wooden dock, the water slapping gently against the wood. jayden stepped down first, his hand wrapping around yours to help you safely into the sleek white boat production had waiting. you weren’t allowed to talk to each other when moving locations but you had so much trouble containing your excitement, the ep threatened to move you away from each other making the two of you giggle silently.
the water was crystal clear, but your head was running a mile a minute thinking about how crazy it was that you were even here in fiji right now.
back home in houston, you actually had your shit together. you’d moved there for work and you were good at your job. making good money, and doing very well for yourself. you had the cute apartment, the routines, your favorite spots in the city. it was comfortable. maybe a little too comfortable. you loved the city, but you’d been itching for a fresh start for months. you were open to moving, open to taking a leap, and completely ready for a real change of scenery.
that was the whole reason you agreed to do this crazy show in the first place. you were fun, flirty, and loved a good time as much as the next person, but dating back home was feeling repetitive. you wanted passion and romance. you wanted somebody understood you, and you were tired of settling for dry conversations with men who took themselves too seriously. so when that random recruiter reached out to you, you took the opportunity. and right now, you were so glad you did.
the boat pulled up to a private, secluded cove about fifteen minutes later. there was a gorgeous setup on the sand—a low wooden table, plush white pillows, and a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket. and standing right next to it was a tall, fine ass man, with a fresh retwist and a goatee. you couldn’t stress the fine part enough. he was wearing linen shorts and a matching shirt, a smirk danced on his lips as he watched the boat pull to shore.
as you stepped off the boat onto the warm sand, his eyes locked onto yours, and his smirk only grew. your stomach did a violent flip.
yeah. the slow burn was officially over.
“well damn,” djed murmured, his voice smooth and deep as he stepped forward to greet you. “the cameras really don’t do you justice.”
you just smiled, tilting your head and looking him up and down with a little playful sass.
“is that right?” you teased, stepping closer into his space. “it’s nice to meet you, djed.”
you couldn’t help but silently rejoice. the dry spell was officially over.
is this a safe space to admit that when theres no new fics for me to read i have nothing else to do with my life.. at all
i’m manifesting everyone with writers block to be able to snap out of it and feed the people,, you guys are the backbone of tumblr we can’t do this without you 😞
Warnings: stalking, delusional behaviors, extreme jealousy, non-consensual touching, masturbation, stealing of your items, mentions of controlling your diet, mentions of physical abuse, murder, physical intimidation/threats, there's an allusion to reader using a comb in her hair but hopefully it can be applicable no matter what your hair type/head hair situation is, Choso humps you like a dog yuck, fem reader MDNI
I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!
WC: 14K
DARLING PROFILE:
Nurturing
His darling doesn’t necessarily need to be nurturing in a traditional sense, but rather that they’re extremely empathetic. He values loyalty in relationships, whether platonic or otherwise, and he would be looking for a partner who is able to care deeply about those close to them.
He sees it as a sign of a strong moral compass and character, as a confirmation that they value connection and loyalty. He’s guided by his own strong set of morals, particularly when it comes to those he loves, and as a result he wants this trait mirrored in a partner.
And when he envisions this nurturing partner, he’s also making the assumption that with this more tranquil, sweet disposition will come another benefit in his eyes: a partner that is more of a homebody.
The association is almost completely based upon his own misconceptions about human culture and social patterns, but Choso would also desire the comfort in knowing that his darling isn’t out at all hours of the day surrounding themselves with strangers and potential threats to their safety.
There’s something alluring about the idea that his darling would prefer to curl up under a fluffy blanket with a good book or tablet rather than go out drinking with her friends. Of course, his darling can absolutely enjoy themselves from time to time (this happens much less once the talons of Choso’s infatuation have clawed their way into them), but in general Choso is smitten with his darling’s more subdued nature.
It feeds into his delusions, too – the thought that his darling is able to understand his worries and love for them, and is thus making the conscious choice to not worry him and instead stay indoors and away from curses, men, danger. It’s not true, of course, but to Choso it absolutely is – and with each kind word his darling says and every night they spend scrolling in bed rather than out on a dancefloor, Choso’s obsession only grows stronger, the roots wrapping around his heart tighter and tighter.
They’re just perfect – he’s not sure if he’s fertile, but he’s absolutely convinced his darling would be a perfect mother – convinced enough that he doesn’t even bother to bring it up, certain that they’ll agree to building a family together. And he believes that process should start as soon as possible.
Patient
As a general rule, Choso is most likely to fall for a darling with a softer personality. Of course, they can have vibrancy and spark, a passion for life and a fighting spirit that equal parts worries and endears him. But the traits that specifically trigger his more obsessive tendencies tend to be those that are softer, sweeter, a sign of his darling’s emotional maturity. And going hand-in-hand with this, his darling absolutely must be patient.
He’s only very recently stepped into the human world, and he’s completely, utterly out of his league. He understands the cold thrill of battle, vengeance and physical brutality, but the moment fists are discarded for words? He’s lost, thrown off balance and unsure of how to even understand his own feelings, much less being able to actually articulate them. He often feels as if he’s bumbling through most human interactions (which is, arguably, very true), and while he has Yuji as a reference and guide to positive human social customs, he’s still a late bloomer.
And so, his darling absolutely needs to be able to consider this when interacting with him. He needs someone who is able to explain each and every facet of human emotion and customs to him, to walk him through everything with care and encouragement without condescension.
A darling who is able to stick with him and not give up on him when he doesn’t understand basic things like a handshake or envy is a deal-breaker for him. He’s attracted to the way they stay loyal, how they don’t give up at the first sign of challenge, how they’re willing to stick by his side and let him make the same mistakes over and over all without that breathtaking smile of theirs faltering.
Choso isn’t particularly insecure, but he does become very self-conscious in the context of unfamiliar human social interactions – especially romantic ones. And so, even beyond just catching his eye, his darling needs to remain patient with him while Choso navigates his festering obsession and attempts at courting them.
Of course it doesn’t go particularly well, but a darling who’s able to simply brush him off and help him try again is an absolutely lifesaver for him – and unfortunately, this single trait is likely what spells defeat for his darling.
It’s the trait that he reveres them for, the attribute that makes him feel so close to and connected to them, and it’s ultimately their biggest weakness. They’ll become so fiercely protective over sweet, oblivious Choso (though he’s never particularly sweet, that low timbre of his voice and the ominious feeling associated with his half-cursed status never allowing his companions to ever completely relax) that their patience and desire to help him will eventually lead to them disregarding much of his concerning behaviors.
He’s still learning, they’ll reason.
He just doesn’t understand exactly what ‘I love you’ means yet, that’s all, they’ll convince themselves.
He doesn’t realize what physical intimacy means for humans yet, and does he actually even know what he’s asking for when he says he wants to ‘taste me’?
It’s Choso’s greatest treasure and his darling’s greatest downfall, and he’ll tell them as much once he’s got them securely under his thumb, right where they should be.
Easily distracted
In general, much of what fuels Choso’s obsession with his darling is a compulsive drive to be needed. He lives for his brothers, yes, but the picture perfect image of a family that he’s always nursed a hope he’d achieve one day is incomplete without one important, necessary component: his partner.
He wants someone who is a perfect match for him – someone to care for, dote on, to protect and love and shower with his time, energy, and affections.
And so, Choso tends to gravitate more toward a darling who, to put it bluntly, needs this sort of gentle care and micromanaging.
He wants someone who is obviously in clear need of an anchor, of a person who is steady and can keep them grounded. And so, a darling who tends to be a bit airheaded is an ideal match for him. He wants a darling who he can truly believe needs his help. He wants someone who will grow to depend on him, to want him to be by their side every minute of every day.
And while he’d prefer a darling with at least a moderate level of intelligence, Choso is endeared by pretty much any behavior that really reinforces this idea.
His darling is out walking and happens to notice a flower growing between concrete slabs rather than the rather suspicious pickpocket walking toward them? Well, they’re just lucky Choso had been following them for the last three miles.
They’re dicing an onion in the kitchen and are letting their mind wander, not noticing how the knife’s angle has shifted toward their fingers? Well, they’re lucky Choso’s standing directly behind them, dark eyes fixed on them and his hands prying the knife out of their fingers before they can even realize what’s happening.
A darling who’s more easily distracted really plays on Choso’s desire to feel necessary and important in their life, and it’s something that he’s actively looking for in a partner (whether he knows it or not). It’s just so cute – just how badly they need him, how they’d be utterly lost without his presence in their life.
So, so very endearing – so why do they put up a fight when he crosses boundary after boundary, claiming he’s being condescending when he doesn’t let them wash their own hair anymore? It’s for the best, he’s sure of it. And he’ll make sure his darling is sure of it, too.
Non-confrontational
Going hand-in-hand with his desire for a patient and easily distracted partner, Choso is most likely to develop an obsession with someone who he feels not only needs him as an anchor but as a protector, too.
He loves the fact that his darling is softer, sweeter, perhaps not great at standing up for themselves, because it only makes him feel more needed.
It makes him feel as if his darling wouldn’t be able to survive without him – as if they can’t live without him. It sends his protective instincts flaring up, his possessiveness increasing ten-fold when he thinks about how deeply his darling grows to rely on him.
It’s therapeutic, really, because Choso sees his relationship with them as perfect: he gets to dote on them and ensure that they’re cared for in each and every way (including fighting men and with ill intentions toward them, cutting off friendships he feels are no longer good for their mental health (which is nearly all of their friendships in his eyes, really), and become the strong, masculine provider he feels his darling deserves. In return, all his darling must do is stay dependent on him, to return his love eagerly and happily, and to let him worship and revere them in every depraved, disturbing way he feels the need to.
It’s unhealthy, sure, but these more negative traits in his darling only inspire the obsession to brew faster, spurred on by a determination to keep them safe and secure and sound.
And really, that’s exactly what all the movies and books tell him he should be doing – keeping them safe and happy. That’s love, right? So why is his darling so resistant to label it as such?
GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:
Delusional
With his brothers either dead, not yet realized as physical curses, or entirely unneeding of saving (every time Yuuji tells him this, he feels his heart shatter bit by bit), Choso’s somewhat lost. His entire life has been dedicated to protecting and looking after his family, and without them in the picture life feels dull, bland, pointless. He’s not entirely sure what his purpose is, and this is a very, very large factor in the development of his obsession with you.
That is, once Choso becomes aware of the feelings that seem to come from nowhere the moment you step into his line of sight, he begins to hyper fixate on you you you, deeming you his new life’s purpose, for lack of a better term. You become part of his family in many ways – of course, he by no means has platonic feelings for you, but the uncontrollable urge to serve and protect remains.
(He’s never noticed how tightly shirts fit Yuuji’s chest, for example, nor has he ever awoken in a cold sweat with the very vivid fantasy of Eso fresh on his mind and cum freshly staining the bedsheets. It’s different, because with you you’re a member of his family by virtue of being his ‘wife’ – his partner in every loving, domestic way.)
He becomes entirely consumed by the idea of placing you onto a pedestal in his life and shifting his entire focus on protecting for you, caring for you, and being as attentive and successful a lover as he possibly can be. Of course, his knowledge on the subject is very limited – his own conception was rocky at best, his mother and ‘father’ certainly not a good representation of what a loving union should be like. And while he quickly becomes bombarded with all the media-driven ideas of what romance and a healthy relationship look like, something gets lost in translation. That is, Choso is absolutely clueless, but has no idea that he is.
As a curse womb, his pride is high but his understanding of human emotions, customs, and traditions is extremely low. It takes him a long time to be able to articulate the feelings that overtake him at the thought of you – at first, he’s alarmed and, quite frankly, angry. Why is his pulse suddenly sky-rocketing when he catches a glimpse of your smile? Why are his palms suddenly clammy when he hears your voice? Why is he so unbearably hot when he smells even the faintest whiff of your scent?
It’s disorienting, this unfamiliar body reacting in unfamiliar ways, and Choso initially tries to disregard it. You must have some cursed technique that affects his body in such a strange manner – he senses no ill will, though, so he ultimately decides that whatever you’re doing to him doesn’t necessitate a worthwhile intervention.
And that works – for a brief time. He ignores the way he can’t stop staring at you when you’re near him, dark eyes raking over the curve of your nose, the lines of your shoulders, the swell of your hips and ass. He shrugs off the way his throat goes dry when you say his name, something sounding far too high-pitched threatening to tumble from his lips.
It's torture, to say the least, and with each passing incident it grows more and more difficult to simply write everything off as a side-effect of this body. He grows so frustrated, in fact, that he seeks Yuuji’s advice about the phenomenon. The conversation is awkward, to put it lightly, the younger sorcerer’s face twisting up in a bout of confusion and sympathy as Choso broods, his brows knitting tight as he details the bodily reactions he has to you.
Weak knees, over-awareness of his body, unstoppable urge to fix his bangs with trembling fingers, an uncomfortable sensation gathering in his lower stomach and groin when you bite your lip or bend over…
(Yuuji grimaces at that last one.)
As a response, Yuuji throws his arm around the half-curse, smiling cheekily and murmuring out you liiiike her! The conversation is long, drawn-out, Choso’s ignorance about human emotion leading Yuuji to explain each and every detail of attraction and romance he can muster, and all the while Choso’s alternating between staring at his hands and at his brother. He’s listening, yes, but as time passes certain words start to circle in his mind, ringing through clear as a bell the longer they marinate.
Yuuji said men who love a woman feel an undeniable urge to be around her. Check. He said they feel the need to keep her safe. Check.
He said they feel the desire to hold her, keep her warm, press their lips against her. Check.
He said they feel the urge to keep them away from any other men and entirely for themselves. Check, check, check.
Yuuji walks away from the conversation mildly pleased with himself and cautiously excited for his newfound ally, while Choso wanders back to his measly apartment with a dazed look in his eye. Love. That’s what Yuuji had called it. And so, as the sun sets and moonlight drips through his open window, Choso’s scrolling through the TV channels, flipping through the terrible romance novels and magazines Yuki had given him, even watching some of Yuuji’s recommended movies.
(He particularly enjoys the series Twilight, dark eyes widening slightly at the reveal that both Edward and Jacob – the love interests, or so he assumes – aren’t exactly human, either. Perhaps you’d like that too…?)
He’s eagerly consuming as much media surrounding the suffocating, glorious feeling of love as he possibly can, feeling his heart pound faster and faster with every scenario he reads about, every sign of mutual attraction he learns. And all throughout, he’s imagining you – would you enjoy these grand gestures of affection? Would you like him to serenade you or buy you thousands of dollars worth of expensive clothing and jewels?
(He’s never really tried to sing, nor does he have access to large sums of yen, but if you asked him to do it, Choso swears he’d do absolutely anything to fulfil your request. Besides, quite a number of the novels describe the woman as being aroused at the sight of the man taking violent and distasteful means to achieve his goals and win her – and Choso nearly drools at the thought of arousing you. The thought of you covered in blood – not your own of course – is enticing, too, if the way he licks his lips and swallows heavily is any indication.)
He becomes entirely consumed – and this is where his delusional behaviors begin to play a role. It’s not instantaneous like his ‘memories’ of Yuuji, but rather a slow, barely noticeable decline in fabricating all sorts of quality moments with you. Though you’ve likely never held a conversation for more than a few minutes (perhaps on a busy train or serving him at your workplace), Choso nurses onto a fake memory that you’ve spent whole evenings together; rambling about your likes and dislikes, coworkers, your feelings for him, anything and everything.
And the delusion runs so deeply that Choso can even distinctly ‘remember’ what you were wearing – a pretty purple summer dress, one that’d made Choso gulp. (Especially when you’d leaned in, pressing your chest against his arm and breathing out that you’d worn it just for you, Cho, so we could color-match…)
It’s vivid, so vivid in fact that he loses all knowledge that it’s not real. He’s entirely captivated by the idea that your relationship is founded on more than simply his carnal attraction to you and the copious, invasive amounts of information he’s gathered on your personal life, preferences, habits, and insecurities.
It’s alarming, and while he’s doesn’t often let these fake memories slip, every once in a while he’ll look at you, gaze dark and heavy and pleading, almost, low voice murmuring something about the sweet cinnamon bun you’d bought for him when you’d first met, your nervous laughter and regret palpable when he’d told you he doesn’t enjoy sweet foods. (Or that he eats at all, really.)
You’ll be left confused, struggling to remember the interaction in any way, but Choso will only lightly shush you, instead redirecting the conversation to some other topic, wanting to hear your voice ring through his ears like a drug. It’s subtle at first, and you won’t recognize what’s actually happening until it’s much, much too late – by that point he’s metaphorically sunk his claws into you, unwilling and incapable of letting go because oh, you’re what he lives for now, and please, won’t you be good for him? All he asks is that you listen to his commands, stay healthy and safe, and keep looking at him with that smile that makes his stomach twist in knots and something hot, heavy, and possessive stir in his guts.
It’s not so hard, is it? After all, Choso will give you absolutely everything you need – and soon, even you’ll struggle to differentiate what’s real and fake, what with the way Choso speaks with such authority that you’d be foolish to disagree.
Just smile, nod, let him pull you much too close, breath in your scent much too loudly, and murmur that you’re his, his, his.
Protective
Once his obsession with you forms, Choso is fiercely protective over you. It’s irrelevant whether you’re a sorcerer or not – he sees his role in your life as being your guardian angel of sorts. He idolizes you, bordering very strongly on worshipping you, and as a result he dedicates himself to ensuring your complete safety and security at any given moment.
This is especially true if you yourself aren’t a sorcerer – if you are, it’s unlikely that you’re more powerful than Choso, and so really, your position stays the same, with the sole exception that at least a small part of Choso is slightly relieved that you at least know how to use cursed energy. But if you aren’t a sorcerer? Or better yet, someone who’s entirely unaware of the curse world?
Oh.
His delusions kick up again, convincing himself that you’re entirely and utterly incapable of defending yourself against the wide swath of supernatural creatures jumping at the chance to sink their fangs into you.
He’s constantly plagued by thoughts of how they’d slowly rip you apart, your blood splattering in every direction, your pained, panicked screams growing louder and louder as their jaws snap down, biting and gnawing and tearing and feeding – It’s enough to have blood freely flowing from his mark, his fists clenched so tightly his nails leave an imprint against his palm, cursed energy flaring so highly and intensely that it knocks inanimate objects off any table, wall, or surface near him.
And really, it’s a mixture of rage and genuine terror that grips him at the thought. Rage, because how dare some filthy curse lay a hand on his lover? How dare they taint her with their disgusting germs and selfish, violent desires? And if the perpetrator is a human? Well, he’s not on Getou’s side, but the idea of slaughtering humans sounds more and more appealing, his cursed nature rising up and practically begging him to make the man suffer until he can no longer scream, can no longer plead, can no longer think.
And then, of course, there’s the element of terror. You’ve become Choso’s sole reason and motivation for existence, and the concept of you dying or becoming injured makes his heart clench in almost a sense of existential dread. Without you, what is he? Without your wellbeing and love to chase after, guard, and protect, then why is he even alive?
It’s a big enough question to leave him with his head in his hands, fingers shaking and eyes wide open, spiraling down down down until he’s nearly hyperventilating and only able to focus on finding you immediately and making sure you’re without a scratch, blemish, or wound.
And so, Choso takes his job as your protector very, very seriously – to the point that it’s suffocating. Even early into his infatuation, Choso is constantly hovering. He’s asking how you’re feeling, when you last drank water, what you’ve eaten that day, if you got enough sleep the night before. After each question he’ll patiently wait, those dark eyes trained exclusively on you as he holds his breath. It’s innocent enough at first, you suppose, his genuine concern for your well-being sweet. It’s endearing, really, that he wants to make sure that you’re feeling good – it’s kind, and it’ll make you feel seen and taken care of.
But then the questions slowly start slipping into more gray area – what started as a question of are you regularly brushing your teeth becomes how long do you brush for? What directions do you brush, and what kind of toothpaste? What brand of brush?
Simple questions of what’d you eat for lunch transform into how many bites of the protein did you eat, and what was the order that you ate it? Are you feeling any digestive pain? Have you passed gas in the last ten minutes?
Even more invasive questions are on the table as far as Choso is concerned: when did you last menstruate? Did you notice more clumps and clots than usual? When did you last masturbate? Are you thoroughly cleaning the toy each time you use it?
He’s not even remotely embarrassed, either, asking each and every question with a completely neutral face, his expression nothing if not openly earnest to know the answer. It’s off-putting after a while, but like most other things you’ll grow to simply associate it with Choso. He’s not been a human for long, and perhaps he doesn’t understand that asking about the color of your urine recently is not a normal topic of conversation.
(Nor is asking how many fingers you typically stuff yourself with late at night, but the oh-so light flush on his cheeks when he asks that clues you in on the fact that CHoso must know how inappropriate that is to ask. Right? So then why is he holding up that same number of fingers, curling and practicing a come hither motion all while you stare at him with your jaw dropped?)
And really, for the most part it is innocent – the paranoia for your well-being eats away at him nearly every hour of the day, and so knowing the answers to these questions not only quells his drive to learn every little detail about you but also soothes his anxieties. You’re safe if you’ve eaten both breakfast and lunch today, dinner right around the corner. You’re healthy if you’ve drank a few glasses of water today. You’re protected if he checks your pulse a couple times an hour.
It’s neurotic, really, just how panicked he gets when an answer doesn’t align with what he’s looking for, but his protective tendencies really come out when it comes to any situation where your safety is genuinely threatened.
Even a single bruise against your skin from you tripping over an uneven sidewalk has him shaking, strong hands shoving you onto the bed and wrapping you in all manner of blankets and plush pillows, taking your temperature and force-feeding you pain pills. He’ll settle you in and make sure you’re as comfortable and soft as humanly possible,sitting by your side and holding your hand in his for hours on end. He’s silent for most of it, simply staring at you from his seated position, occasionally letting out an uneven, drawn-out breath and gulping loudly.
(You’ll wake up to him lightly playing with your hair, licking his lips and bringing a few strands that’d come loose up to his lips, pink tongue flicking out to lick at the strand, his eyes fluttering closed and something like a whine slipping past his lips. It’s alarming, but the moment he notices you’re awake he’ll only softly smile, murmuring your name and asking if you’re feeling any better.)
He’s nursing you back to health, checking on the bruise every hour or so to see if it’s diminished, making sure to give you cold compresses and cooking you (very bland) soups while hand-feeding you. It’s all way too much and will leave you feeling childish and frankly patronized, but Choso doesn’t mean to belittle you. He’s genuinely trying to help, wanting to make you feel as good as possible to make up for his serious lack of judgement in not watching where you were walking for you. He should’ve gone in front of you, staked out the dangers, made sure to protect you like a good partner would. But he hadn’t – and so, this behavior only becomes worse when the threat is something more serious.
He panics when you hurt yourself through your own clumsiness? Well, the moment there’s a larger threat to you, his overprotectiveness only intensifies tenfold. Choso sticks to you like glue, and so it doesn’t often happen that you encounter a wayward curse or nefarious man with ill intentions. But when it does happen, Choso will stumble into the aftermath and absolutely lose it. When he returns back from checking on Yuji for a short afternoon, Choso wanders your usual routes to the store and work only to find you hunched over, coughing and wheezing, some man in a black hoodie running off with your purse clutched in his hand.
It happens faster than Choso can even process it – his first priority is you of course, rushing over to you as fast as he can, scooping you into his arms and sprinting back to your ‘shared’ apartment. He’s immediately ripping your shirt off of you (much to your very, very strained protests), and immediately sucking in a sharp breath at the way droplets of blood cascade down your side from the shallow cut the man had given you. Tears gather at the corners of Choso’s eyes, beading up and slipping down his cheeks as he whispers apology after apology, getting clean, warm, wet rags to wipe up the blood, bandages and gauze and disinfectant creams to dress your wound, putting you in the softest pajamas you own and gingerly setting you onto your bed.
He’s staying with you as his breathing grows more and more uneven, rage starting to bleed into the panic as he sees you slowly falling asleep. He’s irate, really, and immediately after your eyes finally close and your breaths even out he’s hunting the perpetrator down and absolutely pummeling him. He’s using Piercing Blood to slice him into bite-sized pieces, bringing the blood down again and again and again until all that remains is a large, lumpy pool of blood, all traces of the body gone.
(And no, he doesn’t think to wash the blood off of his skin before he rushes back to you, red smeared across his cheeks and forehead, splattered across his clothes, caked into his hair as he coos at you, thumb brushing against your cheek, his lips planting greedy yet shy kisses against your clothed arms and collarbone, his other hand ghosting his fingertips ever so lightly against the trace edges of the bandages. You’re safe now, he’ll tell you, low voice rumbling, you’re always safe with me. I would sacrifice myself a thousand times just to make sure nothing ever touches you.)
Depending upon the severity of the perpetrator’s actions, he’ll even bring home a souvenir of the kill for you – a man put his hand on your ass and squeezed? You find that same hand in a kitchen bowl by your nightstand, Choso eagerly waiting for you to wake up so he can show off his handy work. If the man irritates or scares you rather than actually hurts you, Choso’s tactics of murder are much less messy, and so he has pieces to scavenge for to show you. He’s more blinded by rage when the man has hurt you, though, so you’re much less likely to receive one of these ‘gifts’ in that instance.
(And Choso truly, honestly thinks you’d like this show of his faith in protecting you – it shows his capacity to be your provider and protector, right? He’s seen animals do it before, so why would humans be any different? Isn’t it romantic? Don’t you like it?)
He thinks of you as his reason for living, and Choso would rather cut off each and every limb than see you suffer – so really, it’s not worth it to fight the way he smothers you. Isn’t it just so sweet, caring, considerate?
Selfless
Going hand in hand with his clinginess and protective tendencies, Choso becomes – for lack of a better term – your slave. He’s so, so eager to do anything and everything he can to make you happy and feeling cared for, no matter what it demands of him.
Though he has a high amount of pride associated with his status as a half-curse, he has much less pride when it comes to traditional concepts of masculinity, boundaries, exploitation.
He wants to be your everything, just as you are his. And in his mind, this means that he should do everything he possibly can to make you happy, just as he’s sure you would do for him. And so, from the moment that he realizes he’s developed feelings for you (even before he’s able to pinpoint them as love with the help of Yuji and Yuki), he’s taking every chance and opportunity to try and please you.
He’s spending painstakingly long amounts of time poking at his cell phone as he types out a rather formal good night, I hope your sleep is restful. He’s frowning and grimacing as he mistypes yet again, the autocorrect warping his words into something unrecognizable, irritating swimming in his gut because dammit, he can’t remember exactly how Yuji said to use this damn thing.
He’s stopping briefly outside the convenience store late at night, dark eyes staring at the particular brand of chips you’ve mentioned you love. The packaging is cute, and there’s a couple stuffed up on the store counter, and before he can really even process it he’s already awkwardly handing over exact change to the cashier, bag in hand.
(And when he drops the snack off to your apartment that night, you’ll notice the way he sucks in a very sharp breath when your hands brush, your warm skin contrasting against his cold fingers, the sensation of you touching him genuinely knocking the breath out of his lungs. He’ll stand there staring at you for another couple of moments, frozen and wide-eyed, and only snaps out of it when you frown and call his name, your hand reaching out to brush against his clothed arm. Some part of him – one that he can hear Yuuji scolding in his head – urges him to rip off his top and ask you to do it again, to feel your entire palm against the scarred, hard lines of muscle against his forearm… But he ultimately stops himself even as his fingers twitch. Touch me, please, his lips almost form the words, just the barest of whispers beginning to slip past them, before you smile and welcome him inside, the moment over as soon as it began.)
He’s putting your groceries away when he comes home from shopping with you, moving like a silent shadow as he puts each and every can, produce bag, and product in its respective cabinet, refrigerator shelf, or counter space. And when you return from the bathroom after a few moments, you’re surprised to see the counters completely clean, not a sign of your groceries in sight aside from the paper bag it came in – the ones Choso knows you like to keep for other things. You’ll be delighted at his thoughtfulness, smiling at him and full-heartedly thanking him, making some off-hand comment about how you get too lazy to do it sometimes and how he’s such a life-saver. And Choso will only smile softly, endeared at how natural and right you look, how it feels so very correct to have you looking at him and letting him take care of you like this.
(Nevermind the fact that you’ve never explained to him where you keep your bags of rice, or which drawer holds which vegetables and meats. You’re too delighted to notice, but oh, Choso notices. He always notices – and when you go to cook later that night and find the onions in your produce bowl right where they should be, you’ll only smile, internally wondering at Choso’s attention to detail. Later on, when he’s able to put away your panties in the correct spots, organize your shower products into the exact order you use them, or put your vibrator – that you’d hastily put away when he knocked unannounced earlier in the day – back in its drawer. It’s less endearing then, surely, but for now, as you stand over the boiling water on the stove, it’s sweet.)
And really, as Choso’s delusions begin to warp his sense of reality more and more, this type of behavior only becomes more prevalent, his selflessness becoming uncomfortable for you to be around.
You’ve managed to drag him outside of the apartment under the guise of needing fresh air, and the park you’ve walked to has a small hill? He doesn’t even ask before strong arms are wrapping around your waist, only a grunt falling from him as he lifts you up and starts up the hill, ignoring the way you gasp and clutch at him, telling him that it’s really not necessary, I can walk on my own, you can put me down! He doesn’t, despite your insistence, and when he finally does after the hill has been climbed, he’ll only smile at you, telling you it’s no trouble.
He’s constantly trying to clean things and make your life easier, and for the most part it’s helpful – except that Choso also tends to take it too far, resulting in more work, expense, and effort on your part – like the trash, for example. He’s sitting on the edge of his seat as you dice up an onion in your kitchen, muscles so tense it borders on painful as he watches the silver knife slice down, down, down. He’s faster than you can see as he’s suddenly behind you, not forceful as he moves you out of the way but certainly not overly gentle. The blade is in his hands before you can blink, concentration etches into his features as he carefully slices, his voice ever so slightly cutting when he tells you to be careful, even kitchen knives can be dangerous.
When you leave to take a quick shower, you’ll return back to every vegetable in your kitchen diced and cut, packed neatly into bags in the refrigerator, Choso looking at you with this thinly-veiled thirst for your praise, hoping you’ll say how you appreciate him, thank you, tell him that he’s being so good for you.
Nevermind that you didn’t want all those vegetables cut and diced – he’s just trying to be nice, after all, and he doesn’t want you to touch that knife again. Don’t. He’s taking out the trash when he notices it’s full, having watched you do the same and not wanting you to strain your back with carrying it. And after you compliment him and thank him for making your house chores a lighter burden, he’s immediately perking up, throwing out trash bags the minute you put something small in it.
(Even a single napkin or paper towel will have him tying up the bag, carrying it to your complex’s dumpster, eagerly awaiting your praise and thanks and the way you’re looking at him when you say it.)
It’s kind and you’re thankful for his help, to an extend, but at he continues to forcefully stay in your apartment, it’ll become harder and harder to ignore the way Choso works so hard to make you happy. It’s embarrassing, to an extent, giving you a rather acute sense of second-hand embarrassment because how can one person be so singly desperate for your approval? After each good deed he’s looking at you hopefully, expectantly, frantically, needing you to see him and acknowledge him and admit that you need him.
Because really, that’s what his selflessness boils down to – he wants you to express just how much his presence and love completes you. He wants you to verbalize to him that he’s your ideal partner, just as you’re his. It’s an affirmation of his feelings, really, a non-direct admittance that you love him too – even if you don’t realize it.
So please, please tell him how amazing he is when he hand-washes your dishes. Give him a kiss on the cheek when he wordlessly begins rubbing at your feet when you mention they’re tired from standing all day.
(Ignore the way he marvels at the feeling of your skin against his, even if it’s just the ball of your foot.)
Tell him that you love him when he’s insisting on running your errands for you, wanting you to stay put in the apartment and let him do all the heavy lifting. Isn’t he just so charming? Aren’t you falling in love with him, too?
DEALING WITH RIVALS:
Choso is, by his nature, a possessive creature. You’ve given him his first taste of romantic, emotional attachment that isn’t purely platonic, and Choso slowly grows to grasp onto the feeling so hard his knuckles turn white. He grows addicted to the way you make his heart race, the ways his palms grow sweaty, the way he becomes hyperaware the moment your name is mentioned.
It becomes all-consuming, pleasurable in a way he didn’t think was possible, and as time passes Choso delves deeper and deeper into this sense of desperation, his feelings toward you growing in turn more and more problematic.
There’s a genuine sense of reverence he feels toward you, sure, but it goes hand in hand with the suffocating feeling of terror that plagues him when he subconsciously thinks of you being injured.
There’s an emotional high that leaves his breath stuttering and his entire body feeling on fire when you’re near him, but there’s also a sudden wave of panic that you’ll move further away from him, that you won’t stay glued to his side like you are now, that you’ll leave him.
And so while Choso is possessive, he’s really more territorial. You’re his – you belong to him in body, mind, and every way that’s important, just as he belongs to you. But because he’s only recently been introduced to human culture, feelings, social norms, Choso is painfully behind and inexperienced as to what constitutes a ‘normal’ amount of jealousy and ownership over someone.
And so, he – very quickly – goes from zero to one hundred in his views on your relationship, completely convinced that because he’s feeling such strong emotional ties to you, surely you must feel the same. Surely you must see him as an extension of yourself as he does you. You must think of him as your destined partner, the one you’re meant to spend eternity with and spend every waking moment with. You must perceive him to be your lifeline – the reason you live and breath.
You have to.
There’s simply no space for doubt in his mind that the sentiment is completely returned by you, and so while Choso’s possessiveness bleeds out in other ways, his territorial nature manifests primarily as him wanting to make sure that you stay pristine, safe, and untouched by others. It has less to do with a compulsive desire to keep you solely and exclusively for himself (though that’s certainly there, too, and he would not take it well if you were to express any sort of attraction toward another man) and more with an uncontrollable sense of anxiety that he’ll somehow let danger slip by him and instead target you. You’re weak in his head, regardless of your own personal combat abilities, and Choso completely, full-heartedly thinks that protecting you is his job.
It’s his duty as your lover (though you haven’t done more than very lightly, very awkwardly hugged), your life-partner, your protector to keep all others away from you to ensure your safety. He’s paranoid and believes that everyone who approaches you must have poor intentions, believing every human and cursed spirit to wish you harm or to steal some selfish thing from you.
(This includes your body and your attention, but because of the way Choso views your relationship dynamics, it’s less about him being jealous and more about him being convinced that you’ll be taken advantage of or hurt.)
And so, for all intents and purposes, Choso will not allow anyone whom he doesn’t already know and trust to get close to you. And this list is small – Yuuji, of course, as well as Yuki, Fushiguro, Maki, and to an extent Yuta and Gojo. He’ll allow you to be in contact with them, even begrudgingly letting them get physically close to you, but always with a watchful, predatory eye trained on the both of you. He’s ready to step in at a moment’s notice, hesitation only barely present as he cooly slides between you two, his expression dark and twisted up, cursed energy humming so strongly it’ll physically hurt.
But beyond these people, his reaction is even more extreme. He assumes the worst of people, naturally, and so the moment he realizes that the woman in the street is staring at you longer than normal, or that the man behind the counter at the deli is giving you a glance one too many times, Choso’s immediately on edge, every muscle visibly tensed.
The first time that he’d really acted on his impulses had not been pleasant – you’d been at the park, letting the sun shine down onto your face as he sat beside you on a park bench. It was a peaceful, warm May afternoon – the perfect temperature and a perfect time to simply relax and enjoy yourself. You hadn’t seen the man approach, but you’d certainly heard his screams, the smattering of warm blood across your legs a sign as to what exactly Choso had done to the man simply trying to ask you for directions. He wasn’t dead, per se, but with a severed leg and being unconscious, the least you could do was call him an ambulance.
You’d been livid with Choso; yelling, accusing, sobbing, asking him how he could have possibly done that to another human being, cursed nature be damned. And while Choso had ultimately apologized, it was done more out of a genuine sense of regret for having upset you rather than expressing guilt about permanently maiming the innocent stranger. Your anger had taken a long time to dissipate, but you’d eventually – somewhat reluctantly – brushed it off as simply Choso’s cursed nature forcing him into extreme instinctual decisions that you can’t truly blame him for.
(And Choso will stay quiet, those dark eyes purposefully kept very muted when you’d told him as much, choosing to omit the fact that he’d wanted to do even more damage to the man. He’d wanted to take his life and squeeze, to force him into an early grave because the thought of him approaching you to hurt you is simply too much for poor Choso to bear.)
And so, in an effort to not upset you he’s become purposefully much more controlled around men that get too close to you. This was done partly out of respect for your wishes, and also to try and stay in your good graces because god it felt agonizing to have you angry with him, like a pain he’d never felt before.
Choso practices this new extreme self-discipline just a few weeks later at the local supermarket. You’re humming lightly as you scan the aisles, grocery basket cradled in your elbow with a few assorted goods sitting comfortably inside. Choso’s trailing behind you a few paces away, matching his footsteps with the rhythm of yours. It makes him feel closer to you in some strange, intangible way; like you’re one and the same, your bodies moving in tandem and connected. His dark eyes are focused on your calves and feet, unblinking as he forces his breathing to align with yours, too.
He’s so focused, in fact, that he doesn’t notice the pair of too-perfect sneakers that start to approach you from another direction. You’re tapping your chin, eyes scanning over the large selection of onions and tomatoes on the produce rack in front of you. There’s too many options, and all the swirling prices are leaving your head spinning slightly.
Feeling overwhelmed?
A voice rings out beside you, the slight swagger making you stiffen up ever so slightly. You turn to look and are met with a man a few inches taller than you, looking at you with a smirk spread across his lips. You half-smile, nodding slightly and turning to look away, not wanting to engage with him. He seemed pretentious, just based off those two words, and with Choso uncomfortably close, you didn’t want a repeat of the park incident. (Even if the man felt smarmy, unlike the stranger whose leg was still missing.)
At your obvious disinterest, the man’s smile only widens. Don’t feel like talking, huh? You’re still tense, but irritation is starting to well up in your chest. Gripping hard at the plastic of your grocery basket, you pointedly ignore him. From the corner of your eye you can see Choso’s gaze suddenly snaps from the ground – had he been staring at your feet? – and toward the stranger. His eyes go slightly wide then narrow, his entire body suddenly on edge and flexed, ready to move at a moment’s notice.
For a brief second you brace yourself, terrified to feel that all-too-familiar splash of hot, thick blood against your skin, but nothing comes. Instead, the man opens his mouth again, taking a small step toward you. D’you hear me, bitch? Just because you’re cute doesn’t mean you’re allowed to ignore a guy when he’s talking to you.
Your brows furrow, teeth gritting together, and you see the way Choso’s eye twitches. He’s taking a step forward before you can even try to stop him. The air feels cold as he glares at the man, his own stature taller and wider than the other man’s. Choso’s eyes go dark as he glares down at the smaller man, his voice unnervingly cold and low as he mutters you’re disgusting.
It doesn’t go over well.
The man’s bristling, his face turning slightly red as he takes a step toward Choso, who’s moved to be slightly in front of you. The fuck did you just say, you ugly ass –
He’s cut off by Choso’s glare sharpening, cursed energy flaring for a brief moment, irritation brewing in his stomach. Though his gaze may look fixed on the man’s, internally he’s noting and assessing the man’s threat level. Minimal cursed energy that’s too sporadic to possibly be under the man’s control. Obviously not a sorcerer. The man’s stature looks to be rather scrawny, little muscle filling out the ill-fitting brand sweatshirt stretched across his chest. What is the word Yuuji said the other day? Tacky… No visible weapons, but it doesn’t stop Choso from widening his stance slightly, calling up his technique to be prepared in the blink of an eye.
He doesn’t sense the man’s strength as being significant enough to pose a sincere threat against Choso, but the same can’t be said about you. You, who’s much weaker than your ‘lover’ (regardless of whether you are or not, Choso firmly believes this), who seems to be the target of the man’s rather tasteless and aggressive pursual.
Shut up, you’re irritating us. Choso’s voice is still cold, and you pray that the man will get the clue and turn on his heel, practically running out of the produce section. But of course not – instead, you watch with baited, nervous breath as the man snickers, baring his teeth and making a lunge to grab at you. It’s too fast for you to even respond, only a small yelp spilling from your lips as Choso becomes a blur.
Thick, strong fingers wrap around the man’s bicep less than a moment later, nails digging into the man’s skin. Choso’s eyes are wide, veins bulging at his temple, every muscle in his arm flexed as he breaths heavily.
Don’t fucking touch her, he growls out, lowering his head slightly to match the man’s height. It’s taking everything in his power to not slice the man’s neck clean through with Convergence, the image of you looking at him like some sort of monster haunting him in the back of his mind. He won’t hurt the man if it’s what you wish (though the thought tastes sour, something thick and heavy and ugly settling in his gut), but the man’s already wincing, shrinking back from the suffocation of his glare and the pinpricks of blood his nails are conjuring up even through the fabric of the man’s hoodie.
Fuck man, whatever, just get off me, Jesus, what the hell’s wrong with you?
He’s wiggling and prying his arm out, but Choso’s grip remains steadfast, mental images flashing through his head of this man lunging out to you, his mind unable to not jump to immediate worst-case scenarios of what this scum was planning to do to you. It makes him feel sick, protectiveness and unease welling up in his chest and making him grip even harder, grinding his teeth and nearly hissing at the stranger. It’s only when the familiar feeling of your hands against his back that he snaps out of it, his breathing heavy and forcing his chest up and down in uneven intervals.
Choso, please don’t, please can we just go?
You’re pleading with him, pressing your face against his back, doing anything and everything to pull him out of whatever trance he’s been put under. You don’t like this man, surely, but even you don’t want to see him sliced open and dismembered. Choso’s shaking slightly, the combination of rage at the man and awe at the feeling of your body against his leaving him confused, frozen and unsure of what to do.
At the feeling of his confusion, you internally shudder but act before you can think – pressing your lips against the defined muscles lining his spine, the sensation making something like a whine slip past Choso’s lips. You hadn’t wanted to, but your inkling seems to have worked as Choso’s grip on the man goes slack, the stranger falling to the floor, before clumsily picking himself up, grumbling loudly under his breath about how you’re not fucking worth it, some freak isn’t worth it, bet she’s not even that good…
He’s walking away as fast as he can without seeming too eager, but before you can even breath out a sigh of relief Choso’s turning around, a soft pink settled onto his cheeks. He’s whispering your name under his breath, lips curving around the syllables, something reverent and uncomfortably final about his tone.
He doesn’t push you for another kiss right then, but he’s forcing you to keep his hand firmly clasped around yours, quite literally trapping your fingers against his palm, ending the shopping trip then and there because you have enough, we’re going home. Now. He doesn’t mention the kiss, at least not in the car ride home or for the rest of the day, but he’s staring at you, looking at you in a way that feels much too invasive and much too intimate. It’s like he’s looking into you, and he keeps licking his lips, his eyes briefly breaking contact with you to let them roll to the back of his head. It’s creepy, frankly, and after a good few hours of watching you sleeping peacefully in your bed (the one you still seem hesitant to let him into, but he’s sure you’ll eventually get over it – they always do in films, perhaps you’re just more shy?), only then will he slip outside.
And as he tracks the man’s cursed energy, letting his blood spray and splay onto the shitty carpet of his lackluster apartment, Choso can only grin. The murder – or slaughter, really – is drawn-out, but Choso leaves the now sticky, wet apartment to return to your side, kneeling beside your sleeping form. He’s carefully examining your arms and legs, checking over your face and neck for blemishes, taking note of every scratch and bruise with a clinical sort of determination.
Once he decides you’re safe, that no physical harm has befallen you, he’ll only slowly sigh, leaning his head against the mattress and simply watching as you breath in, out, in, out, matching his breathing with you. You’re just too precious and sweet, and so he’ll behave if you want him to – that is, he’ll still absolutely be killing any human that threatens to get close to you, but he’ll do it out of your sight.
It’s a win-win situation, really – he gets to eliminate any threats to your safety while ensuring you look at him with those pretty, glossy, perfect eyes he loves so much. You’re just so damn perfect…
TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:
Because Choso has very limited experience living amongst human beings, he’s not particularly well educated in what the pacing of a romantic relationship typically looks like. He has no reference points for how long to wait to kiss you, to say he loves you, to slip a pretty, glittering ring onto your finger.
(And for many of these milestones, Choso can’t even properly articulate exactly what it is that he even wants to do to you – he’s following his instincts most of the time, fueled by a desire to have you looking at him and touching him as often as possible. Really, really often, with as few articles of clothing separating you as possible.)
And as a result, he has absolutely no cluehow long to wait to bring up the idea of living together, much less how he should bring it up in the first place. He doesn’t even realize how big of a step it is; he’s consuming all this romantic media, but the movies all seem to tell him that moving in should come seemingly a few weeks after meeting. They all seem to wind up in the same living space – the one-bed trope, the down-on-their-luck-and-oh-it-seems-their-partner’s-place-is-the-only-possible-option.
He just assumes this is natural, and as the woman is always so very pleased, he assumes you will be, too. You’ll be happy to live with him, yes? He loves you and so you must love him too, and this will only prove it. Now you don’t have to play coy or pretend that you don’t like the way he openly stares at you, the way he’s always at your heels in public, the way he sometimes makes decisions for you with your best interest at heart.
(He’d ordered your food for you once in public, and while you were too shocked to say anything, Yuuji and Kugisaki – your lunch companions – certainly were not. Kugisaki had whacked him upside the head and lectured him, while Yuuji grimaced and muttered not cool, man. Choso didn’t totally understand, but he knew to be careful the next time – only giving suggestions, and letting you ultimately tell the waiter. Though, the waiter’s playful wink had him clenching his fist under the table, working very hard to control himself and not slice the man’s head off with his technique – Yuuji had warned him that women typically don’t like violence, though Choso idly wonders if you’d like it if it was in defense of you. The films say it’s romantic, after all…)
Moving in together simply makes sense in Choso’s mind, and so it’s extremely likely that one day he just sort of… doesn’t go back to his own apartment. He’ll show up with takeout and a small, strangely robotic smile when you open the door, sitting too close to you on the couch while you watch the movie you’d told him was a must-see – a cultural touchstone, if you will.
You won’t say anything about the way he wraps his arm around your shoulders, physically pulling you into him, his other hand finding your thigh and running his thumb in small circles.
You won’t say anything about the way he leans down a bit and puts his nose against the crown of your head, deeply inhaling and not even pretending to watch the film.
You won’t say anything because you’re not quite sure what to even say, convinced that Choso’s unawareness of human customs means he’s confusing platonic feelings with romantic actions, that it doesn’t mean what you really know it does deep down inside.
The movie will crawl by at a snail’s pace, the dialogue suddenly stretching a lifetime, and when it’s finally over you’ll worm your way out of his grasp. He’ll pout up at you, only standing and returning his arm around you – but at your waist this time, to which you’ll let out a nervous laugh. You’ll thank him for the takeout and subtly try to edge him toward the door, mentioning how late it is, how tired you are, how the walk back to his apartment is long so he should probably get started.
Choso will only nod, and tell you in the most monotonous voice that he will be staying here tonight. It’s not a question.
He’s firm, no wavering or hesitance in his voice, and try as you might to redirect him, he just doubles down and responds with the same air of sureness, not a hint of doubt present. Eventually you’ll give in, begrudgingly telling him that he’s welcome to spend the night on the couch, convincing yourself that perhaps Yuuji had told him about sleepovers or some other childish friendship experience, and you knew Choso would have no reason to not believe him. At least, no reason to think of why it’s inappropriate given both your relationship with Choso and your ages.
You’ll pull your entire supply of blankets and a fluffy pillow from your bed, even an extra toothbrush and towel for him in case he’d like to use them. (Choso cocks a brow at this – why wouldn’t he just use yours? When your eyes go wide and you meekly ask which item he means, his confusion only deepens as he responds with both, of course.)
He’s not completely sure why you’ve relegated him to the couch, but he’ll obediently stay there for the night, eyes staying wide open as he dutifully listens to every breath you take through the wall separating your living space from your bedroom. His superhuman hearing comes in handy, his eyes falling closed as he counts your breaths, a steady one, two, three…
And when morning comes and he’s still there, you’ll worriedly shrug, heading off to work and assuming he’ll wander his way out at some point. But when you get back that night and he’s waiting at your kitchen table, knee bouncing and immediately approaching you as you open the door, you’ll be forced to wonder exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into.
And even if you try to bring it up with him, Choso will just point blank tell you that he doesn’t understand. Don’t all lovers do this? And while you’ll laugh off the fact that he considers you lovers despite you having never done anything even remotely romantically intimate or sexual, it gets harder and harder to do it.
Eventually, he’ll be staying every night, forcing his way into your bed by simply not listening to your explanations of why it’s inappropriate. He’ll insist on making all of your meals, being careful to use ingredients that are nutritious and high-quality, keeping in mind all sorts of food idiosyncrasies of yours that you know you’ve never told him. He’ll start mixing your clothing with his, forcing his way into your sweatshirts and insisting on you wearing his robes, despite the possible mismatches in sizes between you.
(He’ll also start wearing some of your more personal items – he knows the lacy lingerie you keep stuffed away at the very far back corner of your drawer isn’t necessarily for men, but he knows you’ve worn it, and what’s yours is his, just as what’s his is yours. So when he slips it on for the first time, the pretty pink color standing out against his pale skin and dark hair, Choso can only idly trace patterns along the lace detailing. They’re clean, but he swears he can feel the phantom touch of your cunt against the material – warm and wet and so very empty. As the day progresses, the only giveaway that he’s wearing them will come in the form of the frequent readjustments he makes – the material isn’t made to contain his genitals, of course, and he’ll blatantly reach down inside to move his shaft or scoop a ball back into the soft material. And when you receive them later that night, with his unbothered expression as he hands them to you, you really, really shouldn’t ask why they’re warm. Or wet. Or sticky.)
He’ll begin to function as an unwanted, uninvited roommate – he’s cooking and cleaning, doing more than his fair share of the domestic duties, but what makes the situation so uncomfortable is that Choso really, truly doesn’t understand why you’re uncomfortable. He’s done everything right – provided for you, listened to your needs, keeps any wayward curses that come near your apartment complex from getting even remotely close to you.
He’s the ideal partner – so why do you still reject him? He doesn’t understand, and it only leads him to try harder.
He’s getting all the advice he can – chatting with Yuuji, asking for a woman’s perspective from Yuki, even going so far as to bite the bullet and ask fucking Gojo, who claims to be such a lady’s man.
(Of course, Choso’s recounting of what’s transpired between the two of you is wildly misleading to those he seeks advice from. He’s claiming that you agreed to live together, that you’re always showing him that you care, that you’re pleased and happy when his cold fingers brush your soft skin. And so of course Yuuji’s giving him a sympathetic look and slapping him on the back, his megawatt smile leaving Choso nearly blinded as he says to keep it up! She’ll see that you’re great any day now, and it’ll all work out! Of course Yuki’s tapping her chin, a devious smile spilling across her lips as she wiggles her brows and tells him to get her something raunchy, maybe she’s just feeling bored! Keep things spiced up so that it doesn’t feel dull and monotonous, ‘kay? Of course Gojo is practically jumping with glee, excited to be helping this oh-so-clueless curse with his woman troubles – too bad the only advice he can offer is to boast more in the hopes of impressing you and ‘reigniting the spark of young love’! Nevermind that Choso’s five times his age, and Gojo himself isn’t much older than you.)
And frankly, even as he ups the acts of service and pushes even further into your life (following you to work, waiting outside your building the entire day just to walk you home, picking up your fork or chopsticks and feeding you himself, insisting on washing your hair and scrubbing at your teeth for you), there’s almost something too earnest and raw about it for you to be truly angry. Choso’s never bashful, really, unless you’re brazen and initiating things yourself – to which you’ll be blessed with the slightest tint of red along his cheekbones and under the markings on his nose – but there’s this sense of unbridled yearning for you that will simultaneously unnerve and endear you.
Because really, while this objectively stronger, terrifying curse of a man simply will not leave you alone, there’s something oddly flattering about his persistence, his dedication to you, the way he always needs physical contact and never, ever looks away from you. There’s something about it that will make you feel seen and cared for in a way that you’ve never felt. You’ll feel needed and wanted to a degree that’s overwhelming at first but will satisfy each and every possible insecurity you have, and really, how can you be expected to just give that up? Sure, it might be alarming that he collects your discarded pads and tampons to nibble and suck at later, but with time you’ll find yourself absentmindedly just giving him the used products, something warm fluttering in your heart when he swallows heavily and maintains eye contact the whole while.
Yes, it may be disturbing that you’ve stumbled across him with his hands clasped to activate his technique, your terrified male coworker cowering across the alleyway from him, but you’ll find yourself making all sorts of excuses for Choso.
He’s still new to the whole human thing, he doesn’t understand emotional regulation well, he probably mistakenly thought your coworker was trying to hurt you.
Over time, you’ll become completely complicit with Choso’s behavior – to an extent even enabling it, as he grows more bold in crossing your boundaries. It’s a vicious cycle, but ultimately you’ll wind up blaming yourself – after all, when it comes down to it, what can you really complain about?
A strong, painfully whipped half-curse that would stop at absolutely nothing to make sure that you’re safe, happy, and trapped by his side? Well, couldn’t it just be so much worse?
PUNISHMENTS:
Because Choso never explicitly kidnaps you and rather just inserts himself into your life, the dynamics of your relationship are a bit complicated. Of course, he’s the instigator in most ways – he’s the one that could kill you with a flick of his wrist if he so desired after all. (Though just the thought gets him hyperventilating, frantic to see you and make sure that you’re still intact and breathing.)
He’s the one pushing the envelope of your ‘relationship’ to every extreme much too quickly and with far too little proper communication. But at the end of the day, if it’s not about your direct safety or health, Choso will often acquiesce to your demands. Of course, making sure that you avoid curses, questionable men, and sharp objects is non-negotiable, as is making you drink enough water every day.
But Choso isn’t a monster – if you want Thai food for dinner or to watch a certain TV show, he’s more than happy to cater to you. (Perhaps even eager, really, if the way he immediately says yes is any indication. He’ll diligently write down exactly what you want, going to the restaurant himself to order and pick up the food all so that you don’t have to take a step outside the apartment – all so that he can see the way you light up at the sight of him, the way you’ll wrap him into a hug, the way you’ll let him hold the chopsticks up to your lips and feed you, the way you’ll be much more hospitable and receptive when he sits too close to you and lets his hands linger on your thigh for too long.)
If you want to shower or bath, he’s not delegating your personal grooming habits but he will, of course, need to be present in the bathroom with you for safety reasons. He’ll be perched on a chair or stool in the corner, lips slightly parted and breathing heavily, those dark eyes not blinking once as you try to cover your body with as many bubbles as possible in the bathtub, but he won’t insist on actually being in the tub with you.
(Should you offer, though, Choso’s literally ripping at his clothing, tearing everything away before you can even finish your sentence, strong arms scooping you up and gently settling you into the tub, kisses being pressed against every inch of your skin he can reach.)
He’s intense, yes, and unable to fulfill your requests that involve distancing yourself from him or rejecting his role as your caretaker and dutiful protector, but he’s not too terribly controlling. But with that said, even Choso’s patience with you has its limits.
He’s a worshipper in every way, thinking of you as an angel, something divine and perfect, someone completely and utterly made for him, just as he was made for you. But there are times when Choso doesn’t fully understand why you don’t seem to see this reality.
There are times when he’s sure you must be confused – why do you not tell him I love you back? Yuji has mentioned that women often ‘play hard to get’ – is that what you’re doing? Why? You already have him, why would you need to play games with him? He’s not going anywhere, he swears – he’d rather rip his own arm off than be away from you for even five seconds, so how could you ever possibly entertain the idea that he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life pressed against your side, inhaling the air you breath out, totally consumed by you you you?
Why do you pretend to not like when he touches you? He’s not pushing too far, he doesn’t think – your clothing is still on, and he’s only touching your thigh. Why are you shivering? Is this good? He’s read that sometimes women do this when they’re aroused – so why can’t his superior sense of smell pick up on anything between your legs as you tremble?
It’s confusing, and Choso will be equal parts confused and frustrated. Why must you test him like this? Can’t you see that he’s already in love, just as you are with him? It’s infuriating, really, and so the most similar thing you’ll experience to a ‘punishment’ with Choso mostly fear tactics that he isn’t even aware he’s inciting.
His delusions aren’t normally too terrible to deal with if you choose to just turn a blind eye, but it’s in these moments that it will become uncomfortably obvious that Choso’s view of reality is not accurate. And most of the time what triggers this behavior falls into two main camps: you verbally or physically lashing out at him, or you hurting yourself in some way.
(Generally speaking, Choso is often more devastated about the latter, but it’s very rare that you’ll receive a punishment as a result of you trying to harm yourself. You’ll see him cry, feel the way he presses you too tightly against his chest, his fingertips digging into your soft flesh because he forgets his own strength and needs to make sure you’re still present, still real, still alive. But he won’t punish you – rather, you’ll spend the day curled in his arms, his nose pressed tightly against your neck and he breathes in and out, murmuring your name under his breath like a prayer.)
Rather, you’re much more likely to be on the receiving end of his ‘punishments’ if you were to lash out because your misbehavior doesn’t fit his perception of your relationship. You hitting him or begging him to not touch you doesn’t track with the romantic, life-long partnership he’s convinced himself the two of you share, and so he’ll often become angrier in these situations. He’ll never hurt you (that’s a line he’s unwilling to cross no matter how enraged he is, simply because he’s so concerned for your health that the thought makes him physically ill), but you’ll watch his body language change in real time.
It’d been a rash decision, in all honesty – the straw that broke the camel’s back in an otherwise shitty couple of weeks. Choso had been ‘moved in’ for going on a month, your couch smelling of his cologne (one he frequently asks if you like, his voice husky but strangely vulnerable, his stuttered breath as he hears you lean in and sniff difficult to ignore), even your bed starting to take on the scent. Day after day of coming home to him eagerly awaiting by your apartment door, cold hands already grabbing your jacket and pulling it off of you, smoothing down your hair and swallowing heavily, always leaning in and stopping himself like he’s waiting for something. It’s uncomfortable, but what’s really caused you to be so on edge is the exact same thing that he’d been doing moments ago.
The box of pasta in your hand was suddenly gone, Choso’s own hand clutching the cardboard and wordlessly placing it in a cabinet behind you. You’d only taken a long breath, trying to calm yourself – he was probably just trying to help, right? Maybe he felt guilty about the freeloading in your apartment?
But then you picked up the bananas and suddenly they were gone, too, his heavy footsteps padding over to the fruit bowl. Your eye had twitched, but before you could say anything Choso was back at your side, a soft smile on his lips as he told you sit down, I’ll put everything away.
You opened your mouth to protest, but he shook his head, guiding you over toward the couch. I can do it, just relax. You’ve worked hard today. And really, as you sit tensed up on the couch, anger flushing through your system, you can’t even articulate exactly why you’re so mad. Was it his tone? The thinly veiled condescension? Or maybe it was the way he moved your body with such ease, obviously not having to even try to get you to stay put on the couch and do exactly what he says?
Or maybe it had all started even before this (exceedingly rare) solo grocery visit – was it when he grabbed the comb out of your hands yesterday and told you your arms will get sore and tired, let me do it before forcing you to sit down in front of him, the process taking much longer than it would have otherwise?
Or maybe it was when he’d heard you groaning last week in pain, clutching your abdomen and wincing as you headed to the bathroom to change your tampon?
(Of course, him following you in and crouching down between your legs, cheeks flushed a bright red and his breathing unsteady as he offered to take it out for you, it will be easier if you don’t have to do it certainly didn’t help your mood. Nor did the wet spot on his trousers when he stood back up, or the way that you caught him sneaking the used tampon out of the trash later that night.)
You weren’t entirely sure, but all of it together pushed you to clench your fists against your thighs, jaw working as you stared straight ahead.
Why are you treating me like I’m incompetent? You’re not my boyfriend, so stop pretending like you are.
The moment the words slipped from your lips the apartment went eerily silent. The rustling noises of him digging through the grocery bags suddenly stopped, the sound of your own heartbeat suddenly much, much too loud. You bit your lip, eyebrows twisting together as regret settled in your chest, the fear starting to climb up your throat as you turned slightly to face him.
A scream ripped its way out of your throat when you’re suddenly faced with dark eyes, pale skin, and black hair mere inches away from your face, Choso’s body suddenly right beside your own without you having heard a single sound. You’d known he wasn’t human, sure, but this? The scream forced your body backwards onto the couch, your chest heaving as you stared at him in fear, his expression entirely blank.
You were still breathing hard, Choso taking a step closer and closer, Adam’s Apple bobbing and his fists clenching, a wave of something like confusion slipping across his face before returning back to that flat look.
You’re lying, is all said to you, his voice low and unsteady, like something was fighting its way up. I know you’re lying.
Your hands were still shaking, even as you pressed yourself further back against the couch to create more distance between the two of you. Your mouth open and closes, fear pumping through your veins leaving you paralyzed.
Say it to me. Tell me you’re lying.
It doesn’t sound like your own voice when you answer, stuttering and shaking as you say ‘m lying, I’m lying I promise!
He stares at you for a moment, the tension nearly suffocating you, before he lets out a low, long breath. Don’t scare me like that again.
And, twenty minutes later when his arms are wrapped around your waist, thighs curved behind your own and his body practically molded against yours in a fetal position on your bed, he’ll finally speak again.
Yuuji said that lying is bad, and that partners shouldn’t lie.
He’s quiet for a moment, contemplative, and your heartrate spikes up again in response. I know you didn’t mean to. You would never do that to me. Would you?
He buries his face further against the soft skin of your neck, a shiver running down your spine at the sensation. He’s always so cold, even his breath against you has goosebumps prickling up along your skin. He grip on you tightens.
Please answer me.
You can feel his breathing getting heavier, and quickly you’re forcing out in a voice much too high that no, of course I would never lie to you! I lo- A small sob wretches up your throat, but you bite it back. I love you, I’d never lie to you.
Your voice is just a whisper now, quiet enough for you to hear the way Choso groans, hips pressing into your ass harder as he squeezes you to him even tighter, something wet slipping against the nape of your neck. He’s crying, you realize, and even though you tell yourself not to, guilt settles in the pit of your stomach.
You don’t say anything else, even as Choso’s tears continue to fall. You don’t say anything as he starts to murmur I love you back at you, his hands no longer staying stationary. You don’t say anything as lips press against the curve of your neck, suckling at the juncture of your jawline and ear, his lips clumsy, inexperienced, hungry.
You don’t say anything even as he starts to rut against you, his breathing turning low and heavy, groans and whimpers of your name becoming harder and harder to ignore. You don’t even say anything as he suddenly whines your name and a slurred I love you directly into your ear as something wet and hot seeps against the curve of your hip, or even as he slowly comes down, petting your hair and mindlessly toying with the soft fat of your stomach.
What is there to say, really? How can you say anything, when you’ve let it get this far? The guilt eating away at you transforms into something darker, sadder, worse, and as Choso drifts off into sleep with your name whispered on his lips, you can only stare into the darkness of the room, tears slipping down your own cheeks.
What can you even do?
OVERALL DANGER:
4/10
As a yandere, Choso is less inherently dangerous and more intensely, borderline unbearably steadfast in his belief that what he thinks you need is correct. He’s entirely convinced that he knows what’s best for you, and that while you’re smart and a grown woman, you’re still in need of protection and care.
He’s attentive to your desires and likes, aiming to please you and make you smile (preferably at him, perhaps even with his name falling past your lips), but his ultimate purpose is to protect you. Regardless of the reality, he full-heartedly believes that he is stronger than you, and thus his role is to be your guardian angel. He’ll provide for you and protect you from other curses or ill-intending humans, ready to fight to the death to keep even a slight scratch or frown off your pretty face.
You become his absolute everything – his every thought, feeling, and action stem from a motivation that involves you. And at the start, you’ll think it’s sweet. You’ll think it’s endearing that he’s so steadfast in his worship of you, finding it strangely flattering just how intense he is when he’s saying things like I swear to protect you until my dying breath or you mean absolutely everything to me. It’s oddly romantic, but as time passes that twinge of adoration deepens into a festering, open obsession, his feelings for you becoming more and more smothering with each passing day.
He’s so unaware of human customs and relationships that he dives headfirst into every major milestone, relying entirely on instincts, Yuji’s (well meant but ignorant) advice, and the romance media he consumes, believing it’s entirely realistic.
So really, he’s not the worst yandere by any means – he’s loving toward you, but perhaps too much. He’s obsessive, constantly fabricating all sorts of memories of the two of you and twisting your words into meaning so much more than you originally meant.
He’s unnerving, painfully stubborn in his overprotectiveness and insistence on your ‘relationship’ being loving, genuine, real, and mutual, and at a certain point you’ll stop trying to explain that he’s moving too fast or that it’s way too early to start a family together. He just doesn’t understand, and eventually that encyclopedic knowledge and unwavering dedication he feels toward you will be too much for you to fight.
After all, Choso knows exactly how you tick, what makes you smile and frown and laugh and scream – you’re his after all, and isn’t it a lover’s job to love their partner? Please them? Be their sole reason for living?
So really, just accept that you’ll never be able to brush him off – he’s attached to your hip, eyes fixed solely on you and long, pale fingers wrapped around your softer, warmer skin, and there’s not a thing you can do about it.
If Yuji was asked to describe his girlfriend? There was only one way ⸻ pink, glittery, vanilla scented, pretty.
But don't be fooled. Most men would want a way out. Yuji does not. In fact, if he could be anywhere in the world, he'd choose to be with you.
He is exactly where he wants to be.
"Yuji?" You're sprawled on his bed, watching as he games. It's some dumb fighting game he'd insisted on buying.
"Hm?" He doesn't glance up from the console.
"Do you know where my lipgloss is?"
He immediately abandons his game, clocking into his boyfriend duties. "Which one?"
"The clear gliterry one." You reply, watching as he searches the wrinkles in his duvet, under his pillows, the floor, his desk.
"Have you checked your bag?" He asks as he peers under the bed.
You glance towards your little pink handbag. "No." You frown. Reaching for the bag, you rummage around a bit. "Found it! Thank you, Yuji. You're the best."
He beams at the praise. "Of course, baby." He tosses himself down beside you, watching as you apply the lipgloss.
As the designated taste-tester, once you've coated your soft, juicy lips in shimmering gloss, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours.
You make a small whiney sound in the back of your throat. When he pulls back, your lips are pushed out into a pout.
He licks his lips. Vanilla flavoured. "10/10, baby." He says trying to go in for another taste.
"Stoppp," You giggle, pushing him back. The sound makes him smile.
He is absolutely, undeniably obsessed with you.
"Fine." He relents with a dramatic, mock sigh, rolling over theatrically.
"C'mere." You whine.
The second he rolls to face you, you're on top of him, your thighs on either side of his torso. His hands instinctively find your hips to hold you there. You take his face gently, holding his chin with one hand, as you lean closer, applying the shimmering gloss to his lips. Your breath mingles with his. Yuji stays perfectly still until you're done, then his tongue darts out to lick his glittery lips.
"Yuji!" You huff as he laps up the gloss off his lips. He grins up at you unapologetically.
pda obsessed!choso who is always looking for an excuse to kiss you. he'll wrap his arms around your waist and kiss your shoulders, your neck, and even your arms and hands if you aren't using them. he'll do it even as you're checking out your groceries at the supermarket, ignoring the disgusted stares of the cashier and other customers.
pda obsessed!choso who will pull you to sit on his lap when you're hanging out with your group of friends. he loves to rub circles into your hips or your thighs and stare up at you while you talk to everyone else, completely enamoured by your beauty. the second you're done talking he'll lean up and shamelessly make out with you, tongue and all. he'll make out with you for as long as he likes and doesn't care that he's pulled you out of an active conversation.
pda obsessed!choso who walks with his hand in the back pocket of your jeans because he loves the feeling of your ass rubbing against his hand. he doesn't take his hand away even when you stop walking and stand still to check your phone and instead gropes and squeezes your butt with both hands. you try and push him away out of embarassment but his grip is too strong so you just let him squeeze to his hearts content.
pda obsessed!choso puts his arms around your shoulders and gropes your tits while you wait in queues. he does it so often that you hardly even notice when he slides his hands into your bra and starts squeezing. it's only when he begins rolling your nipple between his fingers that you squeal and slap his hand away, and he switches to kissing your exposed skin instead.
pda obssesed!choso just wants to touch you constantly. whether it be holding your hand, petting your head or groping you, he's happy as long as his hands are on you.
a/n: this is my first tumblr post so i hope its good lol
pda obsessed!choso who is always looking for an excuse to kiss you. he'll wrap his arms around your waist and kiss your shoulders, your neck, and even your arms and hands if you aren't using them. he'll do it even as you're checking out your groceries at the supermarket, ignoring the disgusted stares of the cashier and other customers.
pda obsessed!choso who will pull you to sit on his lap when you're hanging out with your group of friends. he loves to rub circles into your hips or your thighs and stare up at you while you talk to everyone else, completely enamoured by your beauty. the second you're done talking he'll lean up and shamelessly make out with you, tongue and all. he'll make out with you for as long as he likes and doesn't care that he's pulled you out of an active conversation.
pda obsessed!choso who walks with his hand in the back pocket of your jeans because he loves the feeling of your ass rubbing against his hand. he doesn't take his hand away even when you stop walking and stand still to check your phone and instead gropes and squeezes your butt with both hands. you try and push him away out of embarassment but his grip is too strong so you just let him squeeze to his hearts content.
pda obsessed!choso puts his arms around your shoulders and gropes your tits while you wait in queues. he does it so often that you hardly even notice when he slides his hands into your bra and starts squeezing. it's only when he begins rolling your nipple between his fingers that you squeal and slap his hand away, and he switches to kissing your exposed skin instead.
pda obssesed!choso just wants to touch you constantly. whether it be holding your hand, petting your head or groping you, he's happy as long as his hands are on you.
a/n: this is my first tumblr post so i hope its good lol
SYNOPSIS; michael wants your babies. that’s literally it.
THEMES; unprotected sex, heavy breeding kink, toxic dynamic, controlling behaviour, secrecy, oral (m!receiving), degradation, isolation & michael getting a lil physical when he’s jealous (not w reader), angst i guess, lots of dirty talk
NOTE; i had thradera!mike in mind for this but you can imagine him however you want. heavily inspired by massive attack’s dissolved girl. in ref to the person requesting more toxic!mike. masterlist can be found here.
That was the only way to describe it, in those early months, when the relationship was still new enough that every touch felt like a revelation. Michael didn’t just want to be near you. He wanted to be around you, threaded through you in some way that made it impossible to tell where he ended and you began. He called you baby from the first week, constantly, the word a substitute for your actual name. His voice dropped half a register when he said it, low, intimate, even in public and even when his brothers were in the room making kissing noises, and laughing at him for being so gone.
“I’m not gone.” He protested once, his arm draped across the back of a booth at a restaurant in Encino, his thumb tracing the ridge of your shoulder through your blouse while Tito pretended to gag across the table. “I’m just, you know… attentive.”
“You’re sick.” Marlon corrected, pointing a breadstick at him. “You’re love-sick, man. It’s embarrassing.”
Michael’s mouth curved, though he didn’t look at Marlon. His dark eyes found yours, bright with something private that belonged to the two of you alone. His thumb continued moving against your shoulder in that slow, deliberate rhythm, less an absent-minded habit, but more a declaration of ownership disguised as tenderness. "Let them talk." He murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. "They don’t know what this is."
He was right. They didn’t.
What it was, in those first months, was intoxicating. He paid attention in a way that felt like being the only person in the entire world. He noticed things no one else noticed, the way you twisted your napkin when nervous, the exact shade of lipstick you favoured, the way your voice changed on the phone depending on who was calling. He catalogued you with the same meticulous focus he brought to a recording session, turning you over in his mind like a mix he was trying to perfect, except the scrutiny was so warm and wrapped in genuine delight, that it never occurred to you to call it what it actually was.
He was generous too, which made it impossible to see the edges of what was happening until you were already inside it. Not just gifts, though there were plenty of those. A gold bracelet arriving in a velvet box on a Tuesday for no reason. A leather jacket you’d pointed out in a window once, then forgotten about three minutes later. Flowers so constantly that the vase on your kitchen counter was never empty.
He gave you access. The private phone number, a key to Hayvenhurst, a seat in the studio during sessions where you’d sit in the corner with a book while he worked, occasionally glancing up between takes to make sure you were still there, still his. Every gift was a thread. Every key, every phone number, every come with me, baby, I want you there was a stitch in a life being built around the two of you alone.
Your friend Jennifer noticed before you did.
“You’ve been busy.” She said over the phone one evening, her tone carefully neutral.
“I haven’t been busy. I’ve just been with him.”
“You’ve been with him for three weeks straight. I called your house four times last week.”
“He likes having me around. Is that a crime?”
“No.” She paused. "Just don’t disappear, okay?”
You laughed it off. You remember that now, the sound of your own laughter, completely dismissive, because you could not fathom what she was talking about. How could you disappear when you’d never felt more seen? Michael looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world full of illusions.
You didn’t call Jennifer back that week, or the one after. It wasn’t deliberate. Life simply filled up with him, every hour accounted for, every evening claimed, until weeks bled into each other and the sound of her voice on the phone started to feel like a voice from another version of your life.
In those early months, what you knew was that he was beautiful, he was kind, he wanted you close and he made you feel like the centre of everything. The sex was unlike anything you’d ever experienced.
The sex. God, the sex.
He was starving for you. The first time you slept together, in his bedroom at Hayvenhurst with the door locked and the lights low, he undressed you like he was unwrapping something sacred. His fingers careful at the buttons, his mouth following each newly exposed inch of skin with a focus that bordered on devotional. He kissed your collarbone, your stomach and the inside of your wrist. He pressed his forehead against your hip bone and breathed you in, his eyes closed, his hands gripping your waist like he was trying to anchor himself.
So when he finally looked up at you from between your legs, the expression on his face wasn’t just desire. It was hunger. A hunger so deep and consuming, that it made your breath catch, because you’d been wanted before but you’d never been devoured, and that was what Michael did. He devoured slowly with a single-minded focus that made you feel like the only woman who’d ever existed.
The first time he came inside you, he didn’t attempt to pull out. You hadn’t discussed it. You were on the pill and he knew that, but something shifted in him at the last moment, some primal instinct that overrode logic. His hand tightened on your hip, his breath ragged against your throat. He buried his body as deep as it could go with a groan that sounded less like pleasure, more like a man finding religion. When the trembling stopped and the sweat cooled, he stayed inside you. He propped himself on his forearms and looked at you with those beautiful eyes.
I want to get you pregnant, he’d say, the words rolling off his tongue like a confession he’d been holding for years.
You laughed because you thought he was joking.
He wasn’t joking.
It became a thing after that. Not a conversation, not a boundary you set or a fantasy you explicitly agreed to. It became a thing the way all the most dangerous things in your relationship became things. He talked about it while he was inside you, when his control was slipping, when the polite, gentle Michael the world knew dissolved and the raw, obsessive one took his place.
You want that, baby? You want me to fill you up? You want me to get you pregnant? He would say, his voice dropping to something almost unrecognisable. His hand pressed flat against your lower stomach like he could feel the possibility of it, like the idea of putting a baby inside you short-circuited every rational thought in his head.
You said yes. You always said yes. Not because you wanted to get pregnant, you were careful. You were a rational person living in the real world. But the way he said it, in that desperate voice laced with something darker, made yes the only possible answer. The breeding talk wasn’t about babies. It was about permanence. Him wanting to be so deep inside you he could never be removed, to leave a mark so profound it would outlast both of you. It was a language the closest his desperate, obsessive brain could get to articulating that need.
He finished inside you every time and you noticed that. You didn’t think about what it meant, but some part of you registered the consistency, the way he’d thrust deep and hold still after, his hand finding your stomach, his breath evening out against your neck like a habit he had no intention of breaking.
The first time you rode him was your idea. You’d been laying in bed, tangled together in Saturday morning light, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh, his mouth pressed against your temple. You shifted on top of him with a slow confidence that caught his breath. His hands found your waist immediately, instinctively, gripping hard enough to bruise. The sound he made when you sank down onto him was grateful in a way that made your chest ache.
“Oh God.” He breathed, his head pressing back into the pillow, eyes half-closed. “Baby…”
“Look at me.”
His eyes found yours, wide and dark, his hands tightening on your waist. His thumbs pressed into the soft skin just above your hip bones. The lazy Saturday morning dissolved into something deliberate and dangerous, because you were on top, you were in control, except the expression on his face wasn’t submission. It was hunger.
“Move.” He murmured, his voice rough as his hips rolled up into you once experimentally. His jaw tightened. “C'mon, baby… move for me.”
You moved slowly at first, your hands braced on his chest, feeling the rapid percussion of his heartbeat under your palms. The angle was deep like this, impossibly deep, every roll of your hips drawing a sound from him that evidenced his desperation. His fingers dug into your waist hard enough to leave marks you’d find later, in the mirror, with a kind of detached wonder.
His eyes never left yours, not once. He watched you move on top of him with that beautiful, consuming focus. So when you started to pick up speed, when the pleasure built in earnest, his hand slid from your waist to the back of your neck and pulled you down.
“You feel so good.” He murmured against your mouth, his lips barely touching yours. “You have no idea, baby. You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Tell me.”
His grip tightened as his other hand pressed flat against your lower stomach, that same gesture, that impossible tenderness mixed with something far more primal.
“I’m gonna fill you up.” He whispered, his hips snapping up to meet yours as his rhythm faltered, every element of his control slipping. “I’m gonna get you pregnant, baby. You want that? You want me to put a baby in you?”
“Yes.” You gasped, because the angle was too good and the look in his eyes was too consuming for any other word.
“Yeah?” His hand tightened on the back of your neck. “Say it again.”
“Yes.”
“Again.”
“Yes, Michael.”
He came with his face buried in your throat, his groan vibrating against your skin, hips pressing up into you so hard you felt him everywhere. The pulse of him deep inside. His arms wrapped around your back to crush you against his chest like he was trying to merge your bodies together.
You thought it was sweet and you thought it was passionate. You thought the breeding talk was a harmless expression of desire that made the sex hotter and the intimacy deeper, without seeing the seed of something else buried inside it. Something that looked like worship but grew like a root system, spreading quietly beneath the surface of your relationship in directions you wouldn’t discover until much later.
You didn’t see any of it. Not yet.
──── ୨୧ ────
It was industry, the kind of event Michael normally navigated with practiced ease. That smile, the handshake, the gentle deflection of every person who wanted a piece of him, his body language open and warm while his eyes stayed careful, keeping you close without appearing to.
You wore the black dress he’d bought you, the one with the thin straps that made his breath catch when you’d tried it on, his hands settling on your hips from behind.
That one, baby, get that one.
You felt beautiful in it, standing beside him with his hand on the small of your back, a glass of champagne in your hand, the room buzzing with industry faces, flowing conversations and the low hum of a band playing something Motown in the corner.
The man’s name was David, an A&R guy from Capitol, the kind of confident that came from money rather than talent. You noticed him, how his smile was too wide, his handshake too firm, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative tour of your body that lasted too long before he remembered to look at Michael.
“Jackson.” He said with a grin, clapping Michael on the shoulder like they were old friends. They weren’t. “Good to see you, man. And who’s this?”
“This is my girlfriend.” Michael responded, his voice even, his smile fixed in place.
David’s eyes returned to you. “Lucky man.” His gaze dropped to your bare shoulders, tracing the neckline of the dress. “Very lucky.”
The conversation moved on and David drifted. Michael’s hand remained on your back, his thumb tracing a slow circle just above the curve of your spine. You thought it was over until David appeared again forty minutes later, drink in hand, leaning against the bar where you’d gone to refill your champagne.
“Hey.” He spoke casually, the kind of friendliness that felt like a door held open a little too wide. “You having a good time?”
“I am, thanks.”
“You look like you’re having a good time.” He took a sip, his eyes dropping again, like the act of looking was something he wanted you to witness. “That dress is something else… Michael’s got taste, I’ll give him that.”
Your smile tightened. “Thanks.”
He laughed, leaning closer, slightly closing the proximity between the two of you. “Bet he doesn’t let you out much, huh? I wouldn’t either, if I were him… Must be hard to share something like you.”
It was the kind of comment that sat in the grey area between compliment and proposition, the kind most women learned to navigate with a polite laugh and a strategic exit.
You were preparing exactly that, the excuse, when Michael appeared at your side. You hadn’t seen him approach. His hand located the small of your back, not gentle this time, his body angled between you and David in a way that wasn’t casual but was exactly as territorial as it looked.
“What did you just say to her?”
Michael’s voice was quiet, not raised nor heated. Quiet in a way that made the air between the three of you feel dangerously thin. His smile was gone. Not replaced by anger, but something more controlled, the calm of a man who’d heard exactly what he thought he had and wanted it repeated so there could be no misunderstanding.
David blinked. “Hey, relax, man, I was just—”
“No. Say it again.” Michael’s head tilted slightly, his eyes fixed on David’s face with an intensity that made your stomach clench. “Go on, say it again. What did you just say to her?”
"Jackson, come on, I was just being friendly—"
"Say it again."
David’s grin recalibrated, settling into something uneasy. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by it alright? We were just talking.”
Michael stared at him for a long moment. Long enough for David to shift his weight, to glance sideways, to realise with dawning discomfort that the man in front of him wasn’t going to let this go.
Then Michael’s hand shot out and shoved David square in the chest.
David stumbled backward into the bar, glasses rattling and ice spilling, his drink sloshing over his hand as he caught himself. The sound was small and the impact was contained, but the room noticed. Heads turned and conversations topped. The band played on for a few bars before trailing off and in the sudden quiet, Michael took a step forward, his hand still extended, his breathing controlled but his body coiled.
“Don’t look at her.” Michael said. "Don’t talk to her. Don’t come near her again."
David stared at him, stunned, a red flush creeping up his neck. “What the fuck, Jackson—”
Jermaine was there. You didn’t see where he came from, but suddenly he was between them, his hand flat on Michael’s chest, his body acting as a wall. “Mike. Mike, that’s enough.”
Michael didn’t listen. He tried to push past, his shoulder driving into Jermaine’s hold. His eyes were still locked on David, his voice dropping to something low and vicious. “Touch her again, I swear I’ll—”
“Michael.” Jermaine’s hand fisted in the front of Michael’s shirt, yanking him back hard enough to stop the sentence mid-breath, his other hand gripping Michael’s shoulder. “Don’t. Don’t do this, not here.” He growled into his ear.
Michael strained forward. His whole body was trembling, every muscle taut, his jaw clenched so hard the tendons in his neck stood out like cables. For a long moment, you thought he’d shove his own brother aside, thought he’d get past Jermaine and finish whatever he’d started. The whole room was watching. Every pair of eyes were fixed on the three of them, on Michael Jackson trying to fight his way through his older brother to get to a man who’d spoken to you wrong.
You stood behind them, your champagne forgotten, your hand pressed to your mouth, shocked, because this wasn’t the man you loved, this was something else entirely. Something you’d seen flickers of in the bedroom but never in public and never with witnesses.
Jermaine held him and steered him toward the exit, one hand on his chest, the other on his arm. Michael let himself be moved, but barely, his body rigid, his strides long and mechanical, not looking back.
Jermaine got him to the door before looking at you over Michael’s shoulder, his expression complicated, somewhere between apology and warning.
“Get him home.” He said quietly.
──── ୨୧ ────
Michael didn’t say a word in the car.
Not when you climbed into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut behind you, not when he turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the driveway without looking in your direction, not for the entire forty-minute drive back to Hayvenhurst while the city lights smeared past the windows in long, blurry streaks of gold and white.
His hands were on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road with the blank focus of someone choosing where to look so they wouldn’t have to look somewhere else.
You tried. His name left your mouth somewhere around Encino, testing, and it dissolved into the quiet without leaving a mark on him, without so much as a flicker in his expression.
You said Michael, it wasn’t like that and his knuckles tightened on the wheel, the skin stretched white over bone, but he didn’t flinch and he never turned his head. You stopped talking after that because there was nowhere for your words to go except back into your own throat, choking you, so you sat in the passenger seat watching the streetlights pass over his face in intervals, each flash catching someone you didn’t quite recognise.
The gates opened and he parked. Michael got out of the car without waiting for you, without reaching for your door, without the hand on the small of your back that was always there, every single time without exception. You stood in the driveway, watching his back disappear through the front door and the distance between you felt like something measured in miles rather than the handful of feet it actually was.
The house was dark except for the foyer light someone had left on and you could hear his footsteps ascending, steady and unhurried, the sway of a man moving through his own house at his own pace who happened to not care that you were standing in it. You followed him up because standing alone in that foyer felt worse than following someone who didn’t want you behind him.
The bedroom was empty when you reached it, the bathroom door already closed, water running behind it in a steady rush that filled the silence the way his silence in the car had.
You sat on the edge of the bed in your dress, your heels still on, your clutch still in your hand because you couldn’t remember putting anything down since the car. You stared at the wood grain of that door until the lines blurred and your heartbeat stumbled over itself.
You replayed the party on a loop. David’s out of pocket comments, the sound of Michael’s shoes on the floor behind you in the half-second before Jermaine grabbed him. The look on his face when he turned toward you. Not jealousy, but ownership. The look of someone watching a stranger put their hand on something that belonged to them while they were standing right there.
You put your clutch on the nightstand and kicked off your heels before reaching for the drawer out of habit, looking for a chapstick, something to fill your hands with so they’d stop shaking.
Which was when you clocked the notebook.
It was small, encased with black leather, the kind you’d buy at any stationery store. It was sitting on top of a pair of folded reading glasses and a tube of hand cream, nestled among his things with the quiet belonging of something that had lived in that spot for months. You picked it up and opened it before your brain had finished deciding whether you should.
The first page had your initials at the top in his handwriting, neat and startlingly familiar, the way his handwriting always was when he was being careful.
Below that, dates arranged in columns. Cycle days marked in one colour, ovulation windows in another, little circles around certain dates with times noted beside them in the margin.
Some days were starred. One entry read simply day 14 with a circle around it and, in smaller, more deliberate handwriting beside it
Held her still after.
Months of it. Months.
Your vision did something strange at the edges, the lines of text blurring and sharpening in sequence. You turned it and found more of the same extending back further than you could have guessed, each entry uniform in its neatness and patience, the handwriting consistent throughout, which meant he hadn’t started this casually and grown more invested over time.
He’d been this deliberate from the very first entry. He’d been watching your body more carefully than you’d been watching it yourself, every slow night when he held your hips a certain way, every time he pressed deeper and stayed after with his breath warm on your neck. His hand would find your stomach and rest there, and it hadn’t been tenderness nor had it been a habit.
It had been precision.
You closed the notebook before putting it back exactly where you’d found it. You slid the drawer shut and sat on the bed with your hands in your lap, the water still running behind the bathroom door, trying to decide whether to scream or hold the notebook up when he walked out and say what the fuck is this, Michael.
You thought about calling Jennifer from the landline downstairs, except Jennifer hadn’t called you back in two weeks and the thought of explaining any of this to anyone made something inside you curl up and hide itself away like a small animal retreating into a place too dark to be found.
The water stopped. He came out in boxers and nothing else, droplets still clinging to his collarbone and he didn’t look at you. He walked to his side of the bed, pulled back the covers and turned his back to you within seconds, the rigid line of his shoulders facing you like a wall.
He didn’t speak to you that night. He didn’t speak to you the next morning, either, leaving the bedroom before you woke, the sheets cool where his body had been. You found him in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. When you said his name he looked up at you with polite, empty eyes, the kind of expression you’d give a housekeeper or a stranger. He said morning the way someone says it to be polite, then looked back down at the paper.
That was the first day.
The second day was worse because he moved through the house like you weren’t there. Not cruelly or dramatically. He simply existed in the same rooms as you without acknowledging that your presence required anything from him. He ate breakfast while you stood in the doorway. He went to the studio, then came back. He ate dinner in the kitchen while you sat across from him, your food untouched, your throat too tight to swallow and when you tried to talk to him he responded in short, courteous sentences that gave you nothing, the way you’d respond to someone making small talk in a waiting room, pleasant and completely devoid of substance.
I’m fine, thank you. The session went well. I think I’ll read for a bit before bed, he’d say.
You didn’t sleep. You lay next to him on the mattress that suddenly felt enormous, the two feet between your body and you stared at the ceiling. You listened to the measured cadence of his breathing, too even to be asleep but too controlled to be anything but another form of the silence he’d wrapped around you like a punishment.
The third day broke something in you.
You’d spent the morning in the bedroom, sitting on the bed, standing at the window then back sitting on the bed again, cycling through the same thoughts the way you’d been cycling through them since the car in the same loop.
Your chest ached, physically. A dull, heavy pressure behind your sternum that made it hard to breathe and impossible to think about anything other than the distance between you and him and what it would take to close it.
You missed him, that was the obscene part. He was in the same house, sleeping in the same bed, standing in the same kitchen and you missed him like he’d died.
You found him in the living room that evening. He was on the couch, reading, one leg crossed over the other, his glasses low on his nose. The lamp cast warm light over the pages and the line of his jaw. He looked up when you walked in with that same polite, empty expression, the one that said ‘yes?’ without saying anything at all and your legs carried you across the room before your brain had finished deciding what you were doing.
You dropped to your knees in front of him.
Not gracefully and definitely not seductively. Your knees hit the carpet hard enough to bruise, your hands landing on his thighs and you looked up at him with everything you had, everything you’d been holding for three days, the desperation and the ache that had taken up residence in your chest like a second heartbeat. His expression didn’t change as he watched you from behind his glasses, the book still open in one hand.
Your hands were shaking when you reached for his belt. You fumbled the buckle, your fingers clumsy, your breath coming in short, uneven pulls but you got it undone and moved to the button of his jeans. His hand came down and covered yours.
Not to stop you, to hold you still.
You looked up at him. His eyes were dark behind his glasses, his lips barely parted and his voice was quiet when he spoke, low and controlled, the first real thing he’d said to you in three days.
Take it out.
Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down. His cock was already hard and the sight of it made something in your stomach clench, a wave of want so sharp it bordered on pain. You wrapped your hand around the base and leaned forward, opening your mouth.
You didn’t think about the notebook. You didn’t think about the dates or the careful, patient handwriting that had been tracking your body for months like a project. You didn’t think about what it meant that you were on your knees in front of a man who had been planning your future without consulting you, mapping your fertile windows and holding your hips still on day fourteen while you lay there thinking it was love.
What you thought about, with your lips stretched around him and your eyes wet, was how much you liked this.
The fact that you had to work for it. The fact that he’d made you wait, made you ache, made you lay next to him for three nights feeling the absence of his warmth like a wound that wouldn’t close, until your body overrode your pride and carried you across the room, dropping you to the floor in front of him.
There was something in the degradation of it, the submission of it, the way it felt to need someone so badly that the act of kneeling at their feet and opening your mouth felt less like humiliation and more like relief, like permission to stop pretending you hadn’t been breaking since the car.
──── ୨୧ ────
The driveway was dark, the house lights off, the only sound the tick of the engine cooling under the hood and the crickets in the hills beyond the gate. You were bent over the rear bumper of the Mercedes with your palms flat against the warm metal and your cheek turned to the side. The night air hit the backs of your thighs where his fingers were sliding higher, tracing the edge of bare skin, finding nothing beneath the fabric.
His breath caught.
“You’re not wearing panties.”
It wasn’t a question. It was the broken sound a man makes when he’s just discovered something that’s going to ruin him, his voice stripped of every layer of composure he usually carried.
His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you back against him so you could feel him, the hard length of his cock pressing through his jeans against the curve of your ass, hot even through the denim and he rolled his hips once, letting you feel every inch of how hard he was.
“I didn’t think you’d notice.” Your voice came out breathless, wrecked already and he laughed against your ear.
“Didn’t think I’d…” He shook his head, his mouth pressing to the curve of your neck, his breath hot and uneven. “Feel that? Feel what you do to me, baby. You make me feel like a goddamn virgin. Every time... every single time I get this hard for you like I’ve never done this before.”
His hand slid between your thighs from behind, his fingers tracing the slickness already gathered there and he groaned, low and guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“Shit... you’re so wet.”
His other hand fumbled with his belt, the buckle clinking and you heard the rustle of fabric as he pushed his jeans down just enough. Then the blunt, hot head of his cock was dragging through the wetness between your legs, sliding along your folds without pushing in, coating himself in it, teasing both of you. Your hips pushed back involuntarily, chasing him and his hand came down on your hip and held you still.
“Put your knee up... right here on the bumper, baby. Let me get at you.”
You lifted your right knee onto the chrome edge of the bumper, the metal cool against your skin. The position opened you wider, tilting your hips back toward him. He made a sound, a wrecked exhale that stuttered halfway through and his cock pressed against your entrance, the head nudging in just enough to make you gasp, just enough to feel the stretch start and then he stopped. Michael held himself there, not moving an inch. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave a stain.
“I’m so crazy for you... do you know what you do to me? Do you have any idea?”
“Michael…” His name fell out of you like a plea, your voice cracked down the middle and his hips jerked forward involuntarily at the sound of it, the head slipping in just barely before he caught himself and held still again.
Then he pushed in. One slow, deep stroke, his cock sliding into you inch by inch, the stretch burning then blooming into something vast and consuming that made your elbows buckle against the bumper. Your forehead pressed into the metal. A sound fell out of you, something between a moan and a sob and he bottomed out with his hips flush against your ass, his thighs pressing into the backs of yours and his cock so deep inside you that you could feel him in your stomach.
“Oh... oh fuck…” The words barely made it out, muffled against your forearm where you’d buried your face.
He didn’t move. He stayed buried to the hilt, his hands roaming your body with the slow, deliberate exploration of a man mapping terrain he intended to own. One hand slid up to grip your breast through your dress, his palm molding to the shape of you, his thumb circling your nipple through the fabric until it hardened beneath his touch.
The other hand flattened against your stomach, his palm pressing low, just above where his cock was splitting you open and he held his hand there, feeling himself inside you through the thin barrier of skin.
“You’d make such a... beautiful mama.”
The words landed in your chest like a stone dropped in still water, ripples spreading outward through your ribs and something in your lower belly clenched around him so tight that his breath stuttered and his hips jerked involuntarily, a shallow thrust that punched a moan out of both of you.
He laughed, low and breathless, his mouth pressed to the curve of your neck, his tongue tracing the sweat-damp skin there.
“You liked that, didn’t you? You liked hearing that.”
“Don’t…” You started, but you couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t know what you were going to say. Don’t stop, don’t say that, don’t make me want that. Your hips pressed back into him and whatever protest you’d been forming dissolved into a moan that vibrated through your entire body, your pussy tightening around him involuntarily and his groan in response was ragged, almost pained.
He started to move. Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that withdrew until only the head remained inside before sliding back in with a patience that bordered on cruelty. Each thrust angled deep, dragging against that spot inside you with a precision that made your vision fracture at the edges, your breath coming apart in ragged, uneven pulls.
His hand moved from your breast to the small of your back, pressing you down into the bumper, holding you at the angle he wanted, the angle that let him hit exactly where he was aiming. The pressure of his palm against your spine sent shivers cascading through your entire body.
“Today’s your day, baby... your special day. You know that?”
His voice was low, spoken against the shell of your ear with the quiet certainty of someone sharing a secret. The words sank into you without landing, your brain too fractured by the devastating drag of his cock to process what he meant. His hips rolled forward, deep, deliberate, and your fingers scrabbled against the bumper for something to hold onto, your nails scraping the paint.
“I can feel it. I can always feel it when it’s your time. You get tighter... softer inside. Like your body knows, baby... like it’s ready for me."
His hand moved from the small of your back to your hip, gripping hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there as he pulled you back to meet each thrust with a rhythm that was slow enough to be torturous and deep enough to make your thighs tremble against the backs of his.
You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the way he swelled slightly at the base, the way the head of his cock caught on that spot inside you with each withdrawal before pressing back over it on the next stroke, a relentless, calculated repetition that was building something vast and terrifying at the base of your spine.
“Oh god…” You pressed your face into your forearm, your teeth catching the skin there, biting down to muffle the sounds that were climbing out of your throat with each thrust.
His pace didn’t change, that was the cruelty of it. He kept that same slow, devastating rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of you with the methodical patience of a man who had all night, who wasn’t rushing, who wanted to feel every second of this.
His hand moved from your hip to between your thighs, his fingers finding your clit with a familiarity that made your whole body jolt, like he knew exactly where it was without looking, like he’d memorised the map of you.
“You’re so close, baby... I can feel it. I can feel how tight you’re getting.”
His fingers worked in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his cock, the dual sensation building on itself in waves that grew higher each time, but pulled back before you could fall over the edge. You were sobbing now, your forehead pressed against the bumper, your hips pushing back against him with a desperation that had nothing to do with technique or rhythm, just the need to be filled, to be taken, to be broken open.
“Please…” You didn’t recognise your own voice, desperate and barely audible over the sound of his hips against yours. “Please, Michael, I want it... I want it so bad…”
“I know you do, baby. I know... but I want to feel you first. I need to feel how bad you want this.”
His fingers pressed harder on your clit, the circles tightening and his cock drove deeper, the slow rhythm finally giving way to something harder, more urgent, his hips snapping forward with enough force to push you into the bumper, the metal creaking beneath your hands.
The dual sensation was annihilating, his cock hitting that spot inside you while his fingers worked your clit with a precision that made your sight darken at the edges, your breath coming in short gasps that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.
“I’m gonna fill you up tonight, baby... I’m gonna cum so deep inside you.”
“Please... oh god, please…”
“Look at me.” His voice was low, wrecked, barely holding together, but the command in it was undeniable. “C’mon turn your head, baby. Look at me while you cum.”
You turned your head, your cheek pressing against the warm metal of the bumper. He was right there, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and blown wide. His composure was fracturing in real time, the controlled rhythm falling apart into something raw and desperate, his hips driving into you with a force that pushed you up the bumper with each thrust.
The sight of him, the undone look in his eyes and the way his jaw was clenched tight against the sounds climbing out of his throat, pushed you over the edge.
Your orgasm hit like a rupture, a white-hot wave that started at the base of your spine and crashed through your entire body with a force that stole your breath. You clenched around him in rhythmic, desperate pulses that made his composure shatter completely.
His hips stuttered and his rhythm broke, his hand on your clit faltering as the sensation of you tightening around him pulled a sound from his chest.
“That’s it... that’s my girl. Give it to me. Give me everything.”
He fucked you through it, his strokes growing erratic, his groans falling against the back of your neck in hot, uneven bursts. The aftershocks were still rolling through you, each one pulling a fresh moan from your throat, your body clenching around him in waves that seemed to go on forever.
He was close, you could feel it in the way his cock swelled inside you, the way his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, the way his breath came in short gasps against your shoulder.
He came with his cock buried as deep as it could go, his hips pressed flush against you, his body going rigid from head to toe. You felt the hot pulse of him inside you, each throb accompanied by a groan that shook through his chest into your back, his hands gripping your hips so hard you’d see the fingerprints tomorrow. He pulsed inside you for what felt like minutes, his cock jerking with each wave, his cum filling you in hot, thick spurts that you could feel flooding the deepest part of you.
“Oh god... oh god, baby…”
He stayed inside you and pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, his breath ragged and hot against your skin. His cock softened slowly but he didn’t pull out. His hand slid from your hip to your stomach again, pressing low, holding himself there.
Then his fingers moved.
He reached between your legs with his other hand, not to clean you up, but to where his cock was still nestled inside you. His fingers gathered the wetness that was leaking out around him, his own cum mixing with yours and he pushed it back in.
His fingers slid alongside his softening cock, pressing his cum deeper into you, curling gently, making sure it stayed. He scooped more, his fingers working with a methodical patience that felt almost ritualistic, each stroke pressing another drop back inside, his other hand staying on your stomach, pressing down, holding everything in place.
“Look what I did to you, baby... look at that.” He groaned, his voice almost tender.
His fingers worked methodically, pushing every drop back inside and his hand stayed on your stomach like he was trying to hold something in place through sheer force of will. He pressed a kiss to the base of your spine, his lips lingering there for a moment.
“Stay right there for me... don’t move yet, just... stay like this for me.”
“I’m not moving.” Your voice was barely a whisper, your cheek pressed to the warm metal of the bumper as your body trembled with aftershocks. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He kept his fingers inside you for a long time. Long enough for his cum to stop leaking and for the wetness between your thighs to cool.
His hand on your stomach stayed pressed low, his palm warm against your skin and you could feel the weight of what he wasn’t saying in the gentle, possessive pressure of his fingers.
You knew about the pill. He knew about the pill. You’d been on it since before you started sleeping together and he knew that, but had never once questioned it, had never brought it up and yet here he was with his fingers inside you, scooping his own cum back into your body with the careful attention of someone performing a ritual they believed in more than logic and the small pill packet in your bathroom cabinet that made all of this pointless.
“Michael... you know I’m on the pill, right?” You spoke, your voice quiet, almost careful. You were testing something you didn’t have words for.
“I know.” He responded, but his fingers didn’t stop. His voice was steady, absent, like the fact was irrelevant. “I know that, baby.”
He didn’t explain because didn’t need to. The way his hand remained pressed to your stomach, the way his fingers kept working, gentle and thorough, said everything his mouth wouldn’t.
His fingers slipped out of you and he pulled his boxers and jeans back up, then straightened your dress, smoothing the fabric down over your thighs, his hands lingering on the curves of your hips, his touch possessive even in its softness.
He helped you off the bumper, one hand on your elbow, the other on your waist and he looked at you in the dark, his eyes catching the faint glow from the distant house lights. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone.
“You good, baby?”
“Yeah…” You exhaled shakily, your hand finding his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m really good.”
You were better than good. You were full of him, still feeling the warmth of him inside you and the impossible tenderness of a man who had just fucked you over the hood of his car and then spent two minutes making sure his cum stayed where he put it.
You leaned into him, your forehead against his chest and his arms wrapped around you, holding you close, his chin resting on top of your head.
He held you like that for a long time. Long enough for the night air to cool the sweat on your skin and for the driveway to feel like a private world, just the two of you in the dark.
You didn’t think about the notebook. You didn’t think about the way he’d said today’s your day with the casual certainty of someone who’d been counting, or the way his hand had pressed against your stomach like he was holding something in place, or the way his voice had cracked when he said you’d make such a beautiful mama like it was something he’d been thinking about for a long time and finally let slip.
──── ୨୧ ────
Before you knew it, it was your birth control.
You noticed it on a Tuesday morning, standing at the bathroom counter in one of Michael’s old shirts, the cotton hanging past your thighs. You reached for it out of habit, the muscle memory of six years of the same motion, pushing the foil through from the back, catching the small white disc between your finger and thumb.
You held it on your tongue for a moment. The familiar bitterness sat there, waiting to be swallowed.
You looked at the packet. The rows of pills, four weeks, twenty eight days, each one stamped with a day of the week. You looked at the small white disc on your tongue before your eyes dropped to the sink.
You spat it out.
It landed in the basin with a soft, wet sound. You turned the faucet on and watched it dissolve as the water carried it down the drain in a milky swirl. You stood there with the taste of it fading on your tongue, your hands braced on the edge of the counter, your heartbeat slow against your chest.
You’d been thinking about it for days, since the night you’d opened the drawer in the bedroom and found the small leather planner with your initials on the first page. Cycle days, ovulation windows, dates spanning months, stretching back before you’d even realised he was paying attention. Before you’d realised anyone was paying attention to something like that, something so intimate and quietly possessive that it made your stomach ache when you understood what it meant.
You thought about the car. The hood warm under your thighs, his hand pressed low on your stomach, his voice saying today’s your day with the certainty of someone who’d been counting.
You thought about the way he’d said I know when you mentioned the pill, his fingers not stopping, his voice steady, like the fact was irrelevant.
You thought about every time since then, the way he moved inside you on certain days, deeper, more deliberate, the way he held your hips still afterwards, the way his hand pressed against your lower belly like he was keeping something in.
He’d been studying you, learning the architecture of your body with the same patience he gave to everything he wanted and you’d only just noticed. You’d only just started paying attention to the days, to the pattern, to the way his rhythm changed when the notebook said it mattered.
Your thighs pressed together. The warmth spreading downward, slow and deliberate, pooling low in your stomach. You looked at the packet again before picking it up and you turned it over in your hands, running your thumb across the foil backing.
He knew your cycle better than you did. He’d been finishing inside you on your supposed fertile days with the quiet focus of someone executing a plan and you’d let him. You’d spread your legs for it, arched your back for it, begged for it without knowing why it felt different on those days, why it felt more urgent, more like something being done to you rather than with you.
Now you knew.
You opened the packet and looked at the remaining pills. Tomorrow’s. Thursday’s. Friday’s. The whole rest of the month, lined up in their neat little rows, waiting for you to take them.
You closed the packet and set it on the counter.
You didn’t put it back in the drawer.
You went back to bed. Michael was still sleeping, his face buried in the pillow, one arm stretched across the sheets where you’d been laying. You slid in beside him, your back to his chest, his arm coming around you automatically. He pulled you close, his hand settling on your stomach in the same spot with the same pressure, like even in sleep his body knew where to hold you.
The spot where he wanted to put something.
Your eyes closed with your thighs still pressed together. You could feel the warmth between them, that insistent pulse of something that wasn’t going to go away. You thought about the way he’d held your hips still on ovulation days, the way he’d pressed into you deeper, the way he’d stayed there after.
He’d been trying, quietly and patiently without asking, because asking would have given you the chance to say no.
And now you weren’t going to say no, you weren’t going to say anything at all. You were going to let the pills sit in the bathroom, untouched and you were going to let him keep doing what he’d been doing whilst you stopped pretending you didn’t know what it meant.
You pressed back into him, fitting yourself against his chest, his arm tightening around your waist.
You didn’t think about the pill. You thought about what would happen without it and a twisted part of you liked it.
────୨ৎ────
The public thing started at a dinner party in the hills and became a pattern after that.
You didn’t remember whose house it was. What you did remember was the murmur of twelve people talking over wine and his hand on your knee beneath the tablecloth. That slow, patient climb of his fingers beneath your skirt. The way you kept your face perfectly still while his fingertips traced the edge of your underwear, sliding underneath, finding you already wet from twenty minutes of anticipation you couldn’t show anyone.
You remember the casual excuse he made with the smile that put a room at ease.
You remember the hallway and bathroom at the far end. His hand over your mouth, his cock inside you before the lock finished clicking. Someone knocking. His voice through the door, steady and betraying nothing while his hips were pressed flush against yours.
You remember finishing against him whilst his cum flooded into you in thick, slow pulses, his groan muffled against your neck. Then his hand on the small of your back as he led you back to the table, your legs shaking beneath your skirt, his cum already warm and spreading inside you. Someone handed you a slice of chocolate cake and you picked up your fork.
That was the first time.
After that, it happened at a charity gala, his fingers working you to the edge during the silent auction while a woman talked to you about her foundation.
After that, a listening party for an album that wasn’t his, his hand up your dress in a back corridor while music pulsed through the walls.
Then, the Grammys afterparty, his fingers sliding into you in a coat closet while cameras flashed thirty feet away, his mouth on your neck, your orgasm muffled against his shoulder. Him straightening your dress, smoothing your hair, walking you back out with his hand on the small of your back like nothing had happened.
Each time, he finished inside you and you’d go back to wherever you’d been, a table, a crowd, a room full of strangers, with his cum inside your underwear, pressing your thighs together under your skirt while you smiled and made conversation in an attempt to pretend your legs weren’t shaking.
There was one night you thought about more than the others. An event at Hayvenhurst, some industry thing with too many people in the living room.
He’d taken you upstairs between courses, fucked you slowly against the bedroom door with his hand cradling the back of your head so it wouldn’t hit the wood. He took his time because he always did at home.
When he finished, he pulled out with the kind of care that made your chest ache before tucking himself back in and kissing your forehead. You went back downstairs in a white dress with no underwear because he’d pocketed them, grinning at you from across the room for the rest of the night while you sat on a velvet couch with your knees pressed together, his cum slowly seeping into the fabric beneath you.
He waved at you once, from across the room and smiled before taking a sip of his drink. You smiled back.
You were learning the shape of it. Not just the sex, not just the thrill, but the architecture of what he was building. The way the control lived inside tenderness. The way the public and the private were collapsing into each other, until you couldn’t tell which version of him was real. The man who cradled your head against the door, or the one who put his cum in your underwear and sent you back to a party.
You thought about the notebook, the tracked dates, the fact you’d stopped taking the pill.
Then his hand was on your knee again and you weren’t thinking about anything at all.
────୨ৎ────
It happened the way things always happened with him. Slowly, then all at once, then so gradually you couldn’t point to the moment it became permanent.
Your apartment lease lapsed. You found out after the fact, a forwarded letter from your landlord you opened at Hayvenhurst over breakfast. Michael didn’t look up from his coffee when you mentioned it. He just said you don’t need it, baby, soft and obvious, the way someone says the sky is blue. You put the letter in the kitchen trash and forgot about it by noon.
Jennifer stopped calling. Not because anything happened, but because you stopped being available for brunch, then for weeknight dinners, then for the Sunday calls that used to stretch past midnight.
You’d pick up the phone and Michael’s hand would find your knee under the table, his thumb tracing a slow circle, his eyes on the television, his mouth doing nothing in particular. You’d tell her you’d call back. You wouldn’t. Eventually she stopped dialing and you didn’t notice the silence where her voice used to be.
Your manager started calling Hayvenhurst instead of your old number and Michael took the messages. He relayed them at dinner, paraphrased, sometimes days later. He told you which meetings mattered and which ones didn’t and he was always right. That was the worst part. He was always right.
He ordered for you at restaurants. Not every time, but often enough that you stopped looking at the menu, stopped caring what arrived, started trusting the food that appeared in front of you because he knew what you liked better than you did.
He spoke for you at events, fielded questions with his hand on the small of your back, his answers so smooth and complete that you didn’t need to add anything. You stood beside him and smiled, letting the warmth of his palm on your spine say I’m here, I’m his, I’m fine.
Your world didn’t shrink, but it narrowed, like a lens finding focus. Everything that wasn’t him blurred at the edges until you couldn’t see it anymore.
You didn’t notice when it happened, that was the thing. You never noticed because it was already done before you thought to look.
────୨ৎ────
The mirror was in the bedroom, mounted on the wall beside the closet, taller than you, framed in dark wood that caught the lamplight in uneven strips. You’d looked into it a thousand times whilst buttoning your blouse, adjusting your earrings. It was furniture, it was nothing, until he positioned you in front of it.
His hands were on your hips, turning you gently, guiding you until you were facing the glass and he was behind you. You could see both of you in the reflection, his chest against your back, his chin above your shoulder, the dark line of his eyes watching you watch him. His hands slid from your hips to your waist, fingers pressing in, holding you still.
The cabinet was below the mirror, the surface cluttered. You put your hands on it, fingers curling over the edge, your knuckles white against the wood. The surface was cool under your palms.
Michael pressed against you from behind. You could feel him, the length of him, the pressure as he lined himself up. He held you there as he breathed against your neck, his fingers digging into your waist. His eyes locked onto yours in the glass, waiting. He was always waiting now, always giving you the space to say something, to stop it, to pretend you hadn’t already made every decision that led to this moment.
You watched yourself in the mirror. Your face flushed, your lips parted, your chest rising and falling in pulls. His hands were on your body, cladding your skin, his mouth close to your ear. He looked like he owned you and you looked like you wanted him to.
“I stopped taking it.”
Your voice came out quiet, not as an announcement, but something smaller, something that had been sitting behind your teeth for weeks, months, waiting for the right moment to fall out.
The words hung in the air between your mouth and the glass, and you watched them land on his face in the reflection. His expression didn’t falter and his breath didn’t catch.
He already knew.
Of course he knew. He’d known before you’d decided. He’d been tracking the days, the numbers, the windows in his notebook and when you’d stopped swallowing the pills, spitting them into the sink, watching them dissolve under the faucet, he hadn’t needed to see it to feel the shift in you. He’d known the way he always knew.
He pressed his mouth to your shoulder, warm and deliberate, his lips flat against your skin. His breath held and then released in a slow stream that raised goosebumps along your arm before he pushed forward.
You felt him enter you. A single, fluid motion that filled you completely, his hips flush against your body, his hands sliding from your waist to your stomach, holding you against him. You watched yourself take him, how your mouth hung open, watched your fingers whiten against the cabinet edge, watched his hands on your belly like he was holding something in place.
He didn’t move, he simply stayed buried inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back, his mouth still pressed to your shoulder.
You had never loved anything more in your life.
Not the way you loved him. Not this. Not the fullness, the weight of his hands, the knowledge of what he was doing and why and how long he’d been planning it. You loved the notebook and the pills dissolving in the sink, the way he’d never once asked permission because he’d never needed to. You loved the cage he’d built around you, the beautiful, airless cage that smelled like his skin and the sheets you slept in every night.
You knew what it was. You knew it was toxic and irreversible, the kind of love that hollows you out and fills the space with itself until you can’t remember what you were before it started. You knew. You watched yourself know it in the mirror, your face open and flushed his body moving behind you now, deep inside of you.
pervy best friend!choso who has to fight back a groan as you rub his bulge, looking up at him as if you have no idea of the affect you're having on him.
"w-what are you doing?" choso doesn't even attempt to control himself, thrusting shamelessly into your hand. you roll your eyes and roughly squeeze his bulge. you can't believe he's asking what you were doing when he had his mouth all over your chest just seconds ago.
"you think i don't know that you've been perving on me this whole time?" you squeeze him again and watch as he squirms under your touch. he can hardly think right now, let alone reply to you - his mind completely overtaken by your lips, your eyes, your nipples, and the thought of your warm, wet pussy.
choso's thoughts are interrupted by you climbing onto his lap and sitting your pussy directly over his length. you grind on him, feeling his thick cock throb underneath you. he looks absolutely pathetic with his cheeks flushed red and his lips trembling as he tries to make sense of what's going on. he can feel you leaking all over him and he absolutely loses it when your shorts slide to the side and he realises you're not wearing any underwear. choso decides he can't take it anymore, grabbing you by your hips, taking off your shorts and flipping you over so he towers over you.
"w-wait choso-"
"you have no idea how long i've wanted this," choso interrupts you, and with that he bends and presses his lips to yours, kissing you with a hunger so intense you can almost taste it. your arms fly to his head and your fingers tangle themselves in his hair, pressing him closer to you. his tongue teases yours, licking all around your mouth. you lose track of how long his mouth has been on yours, and at this point it doesn't matter because both of your lips are numb.
choso feels completely dizzy with desire, his boner becoming unbearably painful. still kissing you, he slides his cock out of his boxers and starts stroking himself. he pulls away from you, a glimmering string of spit connecting your lips. he spits a thick glob of spit onto his cock and lets it roll slowly down his shaft. choso is in awe of you - looking utterly ruined, your lips swollen and glistening with his spit, your nipples unbelievably hard, and your pussy shining with your arousal.
you can't believe the sight in front of you either. choso's body is absurd. you always knew he was muscular, but you never knew just how massive and chiseled he was, with his broad shoulders narrowing into a slender waist, and the outline of a 6-pack indented deeply into his skin.
not to mention the view of him kneeling over you, moaning and slowly stroking his cock, glossed with pre-cum and his spit. you were so wet it felt like you had pissed yourself, and your pussy throbbed achingly at the thought of choso inside you.
"you're so perfect," he whispers as bends down to kiss your neck. his fingers travel down to your folds and he smiles when he feels just how ridiculously wet you are.
"fuck, you're so wet for me," he slides a lengthy finger in and you gasp, your hands reaching up to grab his muscular arms for support. he moves further down to your breasts and his mouth is on your nipples, licking and sucking on your buds. he slides another finger in and the stretch makes you squirm and grip his arm harder.
"mm, choso", you're moaning in his ear and the sweet sounds of your voice threatens to send him over the edge. his mouth leaves your nipple and lands on your stomach, leaving moist kisses on your skin as he travels down to your wetness. once he gets to your sopping pussy he uses his fingers to part your lips and almost cums in his pants at the sight of you. he licks a stripe up your folds and then kisses your clit. the sensation makes you writhe, so he grabs your hips to still and pushes your pussy to his mouth.
choso licks your folds like a starved dog, with no rhythm or rhyme to his movements, just pure hunger. the feeling of his rough tongue on you is driving you insane with pleasure, making your legs shake and drawing out the loudest moans from you. his hands move to your ass, squeezing and slapping at the fat as he continues licking you. the slurping and squelching sounds he's making with his mouth are downright vulgar. choso starts to suck on your clit, inserting his two fingers back into your hole and pumping them back and forth.
"f-fuck, hng.. s'too much," you can hardly speak now, your legs shaking uncontrollably as your orgasm nears.
"you can take it baby."
you climax on his face, and choso slurps up all your juices, not letting a single drop go to waste. he stands up and his cock stands thicker and prouder than ever. the sight of it makes the saliva pool in your mouth and you crawl slowly towards it, your legs still weak from your orgasm. you only manage to mouth at his tip before he pulls you off with a moan and sets you back on the bed.
"f-fuck, i can't wait," choso mumbles, and you can hear the desperation in his voice. you spread your legs for him and choso settles between them, rubbing the head of his cock between your puffy folds. you're both so sensitive and choso feels like his dick might explode if he doesn’t get inside of you soon.
he holds your legs apart with his hands and finally pushes into you, the stretch making you cry out.
"shit you're s-so tight, can't believe i'm inside you," choso rambles, lost in the sensation of your pussy clamping down on him and the feeling of his hips snapping against yours. he bends head down to meet yours, capturing your lips in a fervent kiss. your tongues are tangled together and teeth clashing, your mouths barely able to keep up with the face past of choso's thrusts.
"your pussy feels so good," choso whispers against your lips, grabbing your waist and pressing you as close to him as physically possible. you're dripping all over his cock and both of your thighs are covered in your juices. he flips you around so that your ass is pressed to his hips, increasing the pace of his thrusts. he reaches a hand around to rub circles into your clit, and you feel yourself about to cum once more.
"gonna cum cho... d-don't stop," you sob, but you're not even sure choso can hear you. he's completely hypnotised by the wet grip of your pussy, his cock twitching as he thrusts deep inside you. your spongy walls feel so good around him and choso can't focus on anything else except the warm wetness of your pussy. he's grunting and moaning relentlessly, watching your ass ripple everytime his hips meet yours.
"shit, you're milking me..need to cum in this sweet pussy," he's babbling now, and his hips start stuttering.
"f-fuck, fuck im coming", choso grunts , and his mind is completely overcome with bliss. you cum at the same time as him, crying out as you milk him through his orgasm. you feel his cum spurting inside you, filling you up to the brim.
choso's cock is still buried inside you as you both crash back onto the bed. you feel some of his cum leak out of you and drip down your thigh and onto the bedsheets. the only thing you can hear is the sound of fast panting - both of you are thoroughly fucked out.
"soo, you knew what i was doing this whole time?" choso grabs your waist and pulls you even closer to him to ensure his cock doesn't slip out of you.
"mhm."
"and you didn't say anything?"
"nope."
"you're an even bigger pervert than me."
a/n omfg im so nervous to post this but i hope you all like it! also wanted to say thanks so much for 500, i had no idea this acc would grow so fast 🙇♀️
pervy best friend!choso who thinks you're his lucky charm and wants you to sit in his lap while he plays video games. while you're perched on his thighs with his arms on either side of you, he kisses your neck and nibbles on your ear as his fingers fiddle with his controller. when he wins a game he'll turn your face towards him and give you a peck on the lips, calling it a 'celebratory kiss'.
pervy bestfriend!choso who insists on coming with you whenever you want to buy lingerie - a second opinion is always useful right? he'll pick out a set in your favourite colour and wait for you outside the dressing room. once you're out, you give him a quick twirl bending down and shaking your ass a little. he'll come up behind you to help you 'adjust your bra strap', but really it's to feel your plush ass against his dick. you know exactly what he's doing and push back against him, grinding softly against his growing erection. when he coughs out a groan, you feign innocence, asking him sweetly if he's okay.
pervy bestfriend!choso who takes advantage of the fact that you become extremely affectionate when you're sleepy. whenever you go over to his place and end up sleeping over, you cuddle him tightly, wrapping your arms around his neck and throwing one of your legs over his own. choso feels his cock strain against the fabric of his boxers as you wiggle against him in an atempt to get comfortable, feeling your tits pressed against his arm and the warmth of your pussy against his thigh.
pervy bestfriend!choso who can't believe his luck when he looks over too see that the strap of your tank top has fallen all the way down and exposed your bare breasts. He stares as your tits rise and fall as you breathe, basically inviting him to suck on them. He leans down to watch your nipples harden and his mouth is on them in seconds. I mean, how could he possibly resist? Choso's eyes are half-lidded as he swirls his tongue around your bud, his spit coating every inch of your nipple.
pervy bestfriend!choso who is too focused on your chest to notice that you've been awake the whole time, watching him groan as he sucks your nipple passionately. Choso only realises you're awake when your hand travels to his hair and you start running your fingers through his thick strands.
pervy bestfriend!choso whose face is flushed in embarassment as he tries to explain why he was latched to your nipple just seconds ago but immediately shuts up when he feels your hand start to caress his bulge.
pervy bestfriend!choso who can't believe he might actually get to fuck you.
pervy best friend!choso who takes any oppurtunity to touch you. if he needs to get past you, he'll grab your waist and move you himself instead of saying excuse me. if you're upset or in need of comfort, he brings you in for a hug and holds you as tightly against him as he can so he can feel your tits press against his chest. of course his main goal is to help you feel better, but he'd never miss the chance to have your body against his.
pervy best friend!choso who comes over as soon as he can with painkillers and your favourite snacks when you tell him you're on your period. he carries you back up to your room whilst gently rubbing your back to soothe you. choso is the most warm blooded person you know, so you ask him to lay down in your bed with you so he can be your life sized hot water bottle. you practically climb on top of him once he's there and are quickly lulled to sleep by the warmth of his body. once you're asleep he adjusts your position so that your pussy is sat directly on top his bulge. he'll slowly grind up into you, groaning softly as you snore quietly into his shoulder.
pervy best friend!choso who eyes your cleavage whenever you're in a revealing top. when you're studying together he snatches your pencil case away and holds it behind him so you have to lean over to get it back from him, practically shoving your tits in his face in the process. choso especially loves it when you wear a tank top with no bra and your perfect nipples poke through. he wants nothing more than to pull your top down, close his mouth around your nipple and suck on them until he cums.
pervy best friend!choso has an entire folder full of pictures of you. he sneaks photos of you innocently eating bananas, sucking on ice lollies or licking ice cream and makes a mental note to jerk off to it later. sometimes he'll drop something on the floor and ask you to pick it up for him, just to have you on your knees in front of him. he snaps a picture of you the exact moment you look up at him, imagining that you're sucking him off. when choso gets home he scrolls through the photos as he strokes himself, picturing his cock is in your mouth instead and that it's his tip you're sucking on so sweetly.
pervy best friend!choso who likes taking you on long road trips with his friends even though the car doesn't have enough space for you. you have no choice but to sit in his lap with his hands tightly holding your hips to keep you steady. if you're wearing a skirt he'll slowly lift it higher and higher, until your panty clad pussy is right on top of his dick. choso takes advantage of the speed bumps and potholes, thrusting up into you at the same time the car bounces.
pervy best friend!choso who has no idea that you're aware of everything he's doing and that you enjoy it even more just as much as he does.
