#being someones first dm is such a good time

[spidybaby]

Double Face

Summary: Kylian acts different to you when other people are around.

Warnings: cursing, angst, name calling, gaslighting.

A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! Love you all ❤️ I've been away from tumblr and I really missed you and writing. Hope you all are fine 🤍

Turn around." He orders, making you turn to where he is. "I like that outfit." He smiles.

You smile back to him. Looking back again at your reflection to take a last look of yourself. You move to order the things you moved.

"I'm thinking about ordering some wine." He says, kissing the side of your head. "What do you think?"

You nod your head, smiling at him over the reflection of the mirror. Kylian smiles, finishing with the last details of his outfit.

You two take your time, you did your makeup, and he prepared his hair. When you finished, you called him.

"Ready to go?" You ask him, smiling from downstairs.

"Oui, madame." He smiles, walking downstairs to meet you. "A kiss?" You giggle, giving him a kiss. "Your first night in Madrid, I'm so happy." He hugs you tightly, kissing your shoulder.

Kylian and you have been together since the end of 2022. You met when you got hired at Paris Saint Germain as a sports reporter.

You even travel with the French National Team to the World Cup. Kylian needed you there not as a part of the team but as his partner.

He invited you to live with him in Madrid. You told him that you weren't so sure. You wanted to be able to work on the media as a reporter.

He got you a job as a La Liga reporter. You were beginning during the Valladolid vs. Villarreal game. You were so nervous because even tho you speak Spanish, you feel nervous about fucking things up.

"I'm happy too." You hug him. "Let's hurry, I don't want us to lose the reservation." You say, grabbing your bag from the table next to the stairs.

Kylian and you got to the restaurant. He loved the small, private places in Madrid. After all, he didn't want paparazzi or crazy fans to disturb your peace.

You were used to paparazzi and to crazy fans, even when people weren't as used to the two of you as you wanted.

You had to endure the rumors, the critics, the name calling, the people on the internet making fun of you.

It wasn't as easy as you wanted it to be. Being with someone as big as him was a problem. He was focused on football and making sure his team was good, that sometimes he forgot that he had a life outside the field.

When you took the job in Madrid, you made sure that Kylian and you were on the same page about life.

You weren't a child anymore, and the in and out type of relationships weren't your thing anymore. You want security, someone who's ready to take the next step if he needs to.

"I'm nervous about starting tomorrow." You confess to him.

"Why?' He asks, frowning. "Your second language is Spanish. You speak it so well and you have so much experience as a reporter."

"Thank you," you say, grabbing his hand. "I'm just feeling insecure, and I think being nervous isn't helping."

"You did an amazing job at the World Cup, and let me remind you that PSG hired you because of how good you were with the interviews and with the players during your internship."

You smile at him. Getting closer to kiss him. "I have to travel to Valladolid." You smile. "I'm happy about it."

The rest of the dinner was good, you two changed the topic to different ones. It was nice to be back with him and not having to see him over a screen.

When you are back home, you ask him for help with your luggage. "Heels or no heels?" You show him the shoes. "And if yes, pumps or stilettos?"

"Is both an option?" He asks, grabbing a stiletto. "I like this one, tho."

yourusermame

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yourusermame one down and a lot to go.

laliga our new favorite reporter

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km9lover not her calling him croissant boy 😭😭😭

You walk over the big tunnel of the stadium. You and the cameraman were talking about the sound.

"Mister Gonzalez asked for you to interview one of the madrid guys." He says, checking his texts.

"I'll try to get Jude." You say, making him nod.

The game was about to finish, so you needed to be quickly and try to interview Jude. Since he was the one who scored two goals, you need to be quicker than others.

When you made it to the field, you had two minutes left of the extra time the referee gave. You check the audio, and you check your reflection on your phone screen.

The stadium erupts in happiness as the Real Madrid wins. You smile at how the team runs to the field.

You noticed the smile Kylian has. After all the media says about him, you are happy that he has peace and happiness with this win.

"Y/n, here comes Jude."

You nod, standing to the side of the entrance. Jude smiles at you, stopping when you try to talk to him.

"Jude, can you give us an interview? please." You smile at him.

He nods, smiling and walking with you to where the camera is. You ask if the cameraman is ready.

You began interviewing him. Jude is so happy about his two goals, he dedicates them to his parents.

"Thank you, Jude." You smile.

He walks to another group of reporters who wants to interview him. You notice how other players are still on the field.

You interview a player from Barcelona. You feel tired but have to keep a smile on your face for the sake of the interviews.

You go back to the tunnel, saying your goodbye to your team. You text Kylian, asking him if he wants you to wait for him.

He asks you to wait for him outside in the corridor. You wait there, sitting on a bench that's there.

You noticed some players leave, one of them being Jude. "Hey there Missis Reporter." He smiles at you.

"Hi Jude," You stand up to talk to him. "Thank you for the interview. My boss was happy."

"No problem." He giggles. "What are you doing here?" He asks. "Do you need a ride? I can call you an Uber."

You smile at him. You were about to answer when you hear Kylian's voice. "Jude, you forgot this."

He gives Jude a folder of things. Congratulating him for the goals. Jude smiles at him, shy at all the congratulations he's receiving.

"Hey, ready to go?" He asks you. Making you nod.

"Oh, you now her!" He smiles at the two of you. "How do you know each other?"

You were about to answer, but Kylian does it first.

"She was part of the media team at Paris Saint Germain." He says.

You nod, not thinking much of it. "And now I'm here at La Liga."

"That's amazing. Welcome to Madrid." He smiles. "Thank you, Mate. See you around"

You both say goodbye. You two walk to where the cars are. You try to grab Kylian's hand, but he's quicker and grabs his phone.

"Want some sushi?" He asks, showing you on his phone the menu of a restaurant.

"Oui oui, monsieur." You say, intertwining your arm with his. "Maybe some dumplings too." You smile at him.

You enter Kylian's house. You have the groceries you just got. You walk to the kitchen, finding Kylian there.

"Hi." You say.

Your greetings make him turn. He smiles, moving from the wooden stool to get to you. He kisses your cheek.

"I got you all the ingredients to make your shakes in the morning." You say happily.

"You are the best." He says, kissing the top of your nose. "Let's me help you organize."

You two place the groceries while joking around. You love these moments with him. It makes you feel like falling in love again.

"Some friends are coming tonight." He says. "I wanted to ask if you can make us something for dinner."

"Mhm," you say. "Whatever you want, amour."

He smiles, showing you a recipe that he wants you to prepare. You got all the ingredients ready while he was preparing himself.

You prepared enough food for all his friends. Even making time to prepare something for them to have as a dessert.

You heard the doorbell, the maid Kylian hired to help around the house open the door. You hear a very known voice.

"Hola, can I come in?" Camavinga asks.

"Hola, Edu." You say, hugging him. "I missed you around."

"Missed you too. The National Break was hell without you there. The new reporter didn't even knew what to do."

You two make conversation. The doorbell rang again. This time, it was Vini and Jude. They were talking about some match they saw on tv.

You greet Vini while Eduardo greets Jude. You and Vini met before Kylian came to Madrid. They were friends, so he knew you.

"Take a seat in the living room, I'll get some drinks for you." You smile at them. "Kylian is getting ready. He'll be here soon."

They all nod, doing what you told them to do. You serve some drinks, get some snacks on the bowls, and take it to where they are.

Kylian joins them not that long after. They were going to see an NBA game. You didn't wanted to interrupt, so you stayed on the side.

You finish the meal while they are enjoying the game. You were so into the video you are watching that you don't notice someone entering the kitchen until that person clears their throat.

"Hello, interview girl." Jude says.

"Hello, Mister Jude Bellingham." You giggle. "Do you need anything?"

"Can I get more juice?" He asks.

You nod, grabbing his cup and serving him more liquid.

"I thought you were just Kylian's friend." He confess. "Since he introduces you as an ex coworker."

"Well, we don't shout out to the world that we are a couple." You chuckle, passing him his drink.

He nods, understanding. "Isn't it weird to interview him?"

You were about to answer when Kylian entered the kitchen asking you a question. "Amour, can you serve the food?"

You nod at him. Smiling at Jude and excusing yourself to grab the plates that Kylian handed you.

Kylian tells Jude to go sit with the others. He waits for Jude to be out off the kitchen to turn to you.

"Smells so good." He says, getting closer and kissing your lips. "I bet it tastes as good as it looks."

"I hope so." You laugh.

He helps you with taking the plates. Since they were only four people, the two of you were enough to take them out.

"I've been craving the food since I step on this house." Vini says, laughing. "It looks amazing too."

Eduardo and Jude laughed at him. Kylian helps with passing the rest of the things.

"Are you eating with us, Y/n?" Camavinga asks.

"She won't." Kylian says. "She must be tired."

You turn to him, watching him with a confused look on your face. He ignored your eyes.

"Oh, don't be silly, come eat with us." Jude says. "I don't think you only cooked for us and didn't leave a plate for yourself."

"Like I said." Kylian says. "She's tired."

The room got quiet. You look at Kylian with a neutral expression. His response seems agressive.

You smile at them. "I'll bring you guys more drinks." You say after a few moments, moving back to the kitchen.

You took a deep breath, trying to put your best smile. You walk back, the boys are talking back again.

Camavinga looks at you and smiles, posing his hand on your arm, he squish your arm as a way of asking if you were okay.

You nod, understanding what he was trying to do. You grab his arm and squish it in return.

"I'll be upstairs, I'm kind of tired, as Kylian says." You wave them a goodbye.

You can help but notice the face of the boys. Kylian was looking at his phone. He didn't even lift his head or said thank you to you like the others.

You walk upstairs, the feeling of shame grows with every step you take. You try to excuse the behavior by saying it's about the stress he's feeling.

But that wasn't the first time it happened. You just haven't noticed it.

"He's a World Cup champion, and she's a sports reporter who got her job because she's with him." You read what the magazine says.

Melissa scuffs, rolling her eyes at the words that are coming out of your mouth. She can't believe someone took the time to write that and print it for other people to read.

"She's trying to become the new Sara." You say, laughing a little. "Well, I'm not trying to become Georgina but Sara." You laugh.

"I don't know which one is better." Melissa laughs with you, taking the magazine in her hands. "At least they printed a good picture of you."

"That's why I'm forgiving them." You joke. "Yes, they wrote that I'm a gold digger who's using my boyfriend's influence to work in Spain sports media, but on the pictures, I look amazing."

You two laugh, Melissa threw the magazine to the trash as you two walk back inside. You were enjoying a nice hot chocolate.

She prepared two snacks for you to eat while you sit on the couch and talk about life updates you have.

"When are you leaving?"

"I have to cover the Atletico de Madrid game in four hours." You say, checking the time. "And I have to be there two hours before, so in about twenty minutes."

You pick the things with her help. You excuse yourself, going to the room and picking your outfit before taking a shower.

You try to style yourself quickly, you add some natural makeup. It was winter, so you like to use a light blush.

You finish with yourself, walking downstairs and finding Melissa talking with her daughter. "Oh, Lana, you are awake!" You say happily.

She nods at you. Hiding behind her mom, making you and Melissa laugh. "Go before traffic gets worse."

You say your goodbyes to them. Hurrying to the stadium, thankfully, you got a little bit earlier than you needed.

You meet your team, helping them with preparing everything for the pre of the game. You place your mic and your earpiece.

"Mike, I'll go to the bathroom." You say, leaving your things on the side, where your things and the team things are.

You walk over the corridors, saying hi to some of the other news workers. You take your time, noticing how the players are taking theirs.

When you are back, you notice this other reporter. You roll your eyes at the presence of her. She's a bother, and you don't like her.

"I'm back." You say, playing the earpiece and your mic back in place. You check your watch. "Fifteen to get started." You say to them.

You check your makeup one last time, applying more gloss to your lips. You check if your teeth were clean from anything.

"So, did you read what Hola Magazine wrote about you?" She asks.

Your sigh, turning to her with a fake lip smile. "I didn't," you lie. "Why? What did they say?"

"Nothing, just some facts here and there."

You lift your eyebrow, facts?

You were about to answer her, but you shut your mouth. It's better that way. You know she only wants you to react.

They gave you the sign, and you two began talking to the camera. You can separate your personal life from your work life.

You don't care if Alessandra, the reporter, or any other person tells you something about you, you don't mind it.

Of course it made you feel weird. You wouldn't talk about someone the way they talk about you, or even create the rumors people create about you.

You finish with the segment, grabbing your stuff quickly and walking to the corner. You have to write down every possible thing that can help you to interview the players.

To your bad luck, Alessandra was seated next to you. You were hoping for her to be sent to the other side of the field.

You tried your best to ignore her. You don't feel like engaging in a conversation. You don't want to be her friend, and she doesn't want to be yours.

You concentrate on the game in front of you. Patiently waiting for something to happen.

You can't help but be distracted with your phone. Kylian was home, and he was trying to fond something.

You were trying to be quick and explain to him where you put that thing he's looking for. Quickly returning your attention to the game.

"Did you notice that De Paul has his girlfriend here?" She asks you. Pointing at the players' balcony. "She's an influencer."

You scan everybody at the balcony, not really being able to distinguish her away from the others.

"That's cute." You say, not giving too much attention.

"Have you ever been to Kylians' games?"

You nod, looking at the field. "Many."

She scuffs. "I mean, of course you have." She says, funny tone. "But not as a psg reporter, an fff social media person or a la liga reporter, but as his girlfriend."

You then think that you haven't been to any of his games as a girlfriend. You've been there, of course, but you were also working outside the field.

"I have." You lie. "Why?"

"Just curious." She shrugged. "Don't you love when players show off their girlfriends? It's so cute."

You nod, taking notes of an assist that Antoine did. You then look at her and nod again, you don't want to seem rude, even when you want to be.

"I never seen Kylian done that with you." She says, smirking. "If I recall, he has never mentioned you."

You knew that this was coming. Every time you guys had a kind of nice conversation, she had to be shady and threw you a comment about your private life.

"Why would he?" You ask, eyebrow raised. "His private life is only his."

"Oh, I know." She says, pressing a hand to her chest. "I just feel for you. I can't imagine being hide in so cleared light."

You shake your head no. "I'm not hidden."

"I mean, if you say so." She chuckles. "But if I'm honest, I wouldn't be surprised if next season you are not with us anymore."

You were about to answer her, but the referee marked the end of the first half. You excuse yourself, you place the notebook down, grab your bag and walking to the tunnel before the players.

You walk into the bathroom, locking yourself in one. You breathe a few times, trying to calm the urge to drag her by the hair.

You walk out, finding other reporters. You wash your hands and say a quick hi and goodbye to them. You grab your phone, texting Kylian to ask him if he found what he wanted.

He texted you a picture of him with a thumbs up. You reply with a picture of the corridor.

You try your best to keep calm. You don't want to make a scene by telling her to shut up or to mind her business.

You won't fall for that.

You can't help but not be able to concentrate the whole game. Rodrigo De Paul scored a goal, making a hand signal for his new girlfriend.

Something inside of you is making you feel some type of way.

As much as you act as if you are okay with the whole < private but not secret > kind of relationship Kylian wants.

You want to be able to go out and have fun with him at clubs and not be locked in the vip room away from the other people at the club.

You wanted to be able to go to the movies and not have to rent the movie or a whole cinema room for the two of you.

Or maybe be able to not feel like you are doing something wrong when you post about him on your Instagram stories.

You also know that being with him meant not doing a lot of "normal" things that common people do on a daily basis.

Or normal couples, like going to the park to spend a quiet time, you can't go to the mall and just shop around or have a meal without having dozens of people and paparazzi outside, waiting for him.

Sometimes you just want to be able to act like a normal couple and to be seen as something more than just the girl he's hiding.

Not the first time people called you that.

Not the first time people acted as if you were a gold digger who's about to baby trap him into giving you his fortune.

You have accepted that people are going to tell you that.

What you can't seem to accept is that he prefers for you to endorse the comments, hate, and critics over him issuing a statement for people to leave you alone and to stop the comments.

You make yourself believe that is because he's trying to show that others have no power over his private life.

But he has defended different things about that same private life.

Why can't he defend you like that?

You can barely concentrate during the interviews, making general questions instead of the ones you wrote on your notes.

Some of your teammates asked you if you were okay, worried about you looking so down. You blame it on probably coming with a cold.

Your boss told you that you could skip the next game. He didn't want you to work sick and coming with something worse than the cold.

You checked and noticed that the next game you were scheduled for was a Real Sociedad game in five days. This means that you are able to watch the Real Madrid game.

You feel happy, you weren't working and your boyfriend was playing. You will finally be able to see him play as his girlfriend and not as the reporter in the corner of the field.

You can't wait!

You enter your home happy and excited to share the news with Kylian. You left your bag and notebook in the entrance as you walk upstairs to find him.

Melissa and lana were back in Paris, meaning that the only person in the house apart from your boyfriend was Bryce.

"Bonjour!" You say, smiling at him.

He was on his phone, putting it aside when you walked inside. "Bonjour, amour." He says, opening his arms to you.

You close the door behind you and run to the bed. You jump carefully into his arms. "I missed you."

He chuckles, kissing your cheeks. "You saw me a few hours ago."

"I know." You say dramatically, sighing. "But I missed you all day long."

He grabs the back of your neck, bringing you closer. His lips crashed with yours, starting a kiss.

You let it happen for a while, relaxing into his arms. You almost forget about the news you want to share with him.

"Stop." You say between kisses. "I have to tell you something."

"Can it wait?" He asks before going back to your lips.

You shake your head no, "it's good news." You smile, placing your hands on each side of his head and lifting yourself. Now you are siting on top of him.

He places his hands behind his head. "Okay, go on." He says with a smirk on his face.

"My boss gave me good news." You start.

"You are getting promoted?" He asks, teasing you.

"No, I don't think we can get promoted here." You say. "Okay, so the news are-"

"You are covering the next clásico?"

"Well." You think for a second. "They don't even think about the next clásico yet. But, I wanted to say-"

"I'm thinking about the next clásico." He says, almost laughing at your desperation.

He knows that you love to say the good news quickly, so he loves to tease you and interrupt you as much as he can with questions.

"Kylian! Let me spit it out."

"Oh, pardon." He chuckles. "I just thought you like to swallow."

You can't help but blush. "I'm not reacting to that." You say. "I-"

"Oh, amour." He laughs. "Those rosy cheeks already did." He takes on hand from behind his head to your face, squishing your cheeks.

You take his hand into yours. "Let me finish!" You whine. He laughs and nods. "My boss gave me a few days off, meaning I can come to your next game!"

You don't seem to catch it, but his smile fades a little. "Oh, really?"

"Si!" You say. "Aren't you happy?" You ask.

He nods, a lip smile on his face. "I just thought that you might want to relax. You know how tiring games are."

You shake your head no. "I can take it." You say, leaning down to give him a kiss. "I want to see my champ play." You smile at him.

"Are you sure?"

You think he's just teasing you, not giving it mind that deep down, he hopes that you say that he's right and that you'll stay home.

"I mean, I'll need a jersey because I don't know where mine is, but other than that, yes."

He sighs. "I'll get you one tomorrow, I'll also ask for them to give me another ticket."

The tone was flat, not a single drop of excitement. You catch a little bit of that.

"You okay?" You ask, frowning a little.

He nods. "Want me to make you a sandwich?" He asks, changing the subject.

"Mmm, with extra cheese?" You ask.

"With extra love, bébé." He says, using one arm to lift himself with you still in top of him. "Love you."

"I love you more." You kiss him. "Very very much." You smile.

yourusername

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yourusername 🤍

View all 35,586 comments

k.mbappe 🤍

ethanmbappe Peux-tu répondre à mon texte ? 🙄

kylianwifee finally some wag conent related

km9xvini7 I know 😭 I hope she keeps posting like this

"Do you like it?" You ask him, waiting patiently for his answer.

He shakes his head. "Honestly. No, I don't." He says. Your smile drops, and you are about to get worried, but the way his lips curve in a smile. "I love it."

You smile, giving him a hug. "I made it with so much love." You say, grabbing his face and giving him a kiss.

"You are going to make me fat, a very loved fat footballer." He laughs, pecking your lips. "Did you enjoy the game?" He asks, kissing your forehead.

"I did." You nod, hugging him tighter. "You did amazing, champ." You smile. "I love seeing you play."

You let Kylian finish the food, still hugging him. You let him take his time with the food, and you yourself take some time to carefully caress his face.

You are so I'm love with that man.

"You are an amazing chef." He smiles, his nose bumping yours. "Want to go upstairs and watch your show?" He asks.

You nod, smiling like crazy.

"You have that early meeting tomorrow?"

"Noup, tomorrow is still free." You smile, grabbing the plate and walking to the sink, leaving the plate there. "Why?"

He hugs you from behing, his lips kissing behind your ear. "I just want to spend some time with you?"

yourusername

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yourusername another day 😋

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meliissagateau get me a signed jersey

yourusername 🤨🤨🤨

ethanmbappe échauffe-toi, tu es le prochain

yourusername tais-toi, croissant

kykswifu9 I need her and kylian to post something together 😭❤️

jude5vini7 I think kylian mentioned before that he wants to keep his relationship away from the media because of how some fans criticize other players' girlfriends or wives

madridgirl23 @jude5vini7 I mean it makes sense 🤷🏻‍♀️ look at how people react to other players posting their partners, better be safe

You walked back inside the house, it was still early. You had an early game, and you are able to rest before dinner.

"Ky! Are you home?" You ask, leaving your belongings on the table next to the door.

You take the phone out of your purse, you notice that there was no text from Kylian other than the one where he asked you something.

You call him, trying to see if he was maybe out with a friend or up in the bedroom. You got into voice mail, deciding to ring him another time.

You walk into the kitchen, hungry for something sweet. You find the lady who helps you with the cleaning there.

"Hi!" You say to her. "You are here late. Is everything okay?"

She nods. "I was waiting for you." She answers.

"You are so sweet for waiting," you smile at her. "Do you happen to know where Kylian is?"

She nods again. "He left with Mister Tchaga to maybe somewhere important because he was very elegant dressed."

You frown a little bit, he never talked about any gala or anything like that, he even asked you if you wanted take out for dinner earlier in the morning. Maybe she was confused and they went to a party or something last minute.

"Mister Mbappe told his friend that you didn't feel well. Even asked me to wait for you to see if you feel sick when you return from work."

You feel more confused than before. Why would he lie about you? If he thinks that you are not well, maybe he should have asked you directly.

"If you want me to, I can prepare you something." She offers. "I know some remedies my mother used to give my brothers and me. Very effective."

You smile at her. "Gracias, I'll see how my night goes, and if I still feel sick in the morning, I'll let you know."

She nods, saying goodbye to you. You excuse yourself and walk upstairs. You open the door to your shared room and notice two suits.

One was thrown in the bed, and the other one was on the chair next to your bed. You can't help the confusing thoughts.

Did he mention the event?

Did you forget about it?

Did you say no?

You open X, trying to see if you can find any info about what this. It didn't take you that much work because as soon as the app loads, you find a tweet of a fan page.

It was a football gala for The Best. They were getting an invitation because they were getting some kind of awards there and also on the field.

Most of the players, if not all of the ones who have a partner, brought their partner. They were all posing for the cameras.

You feel hurt.

Kylian didn't even care about asking you.

Yes, you had work, but asking wouldn't take more than a few seconds. Plus, the game was at two pm. You stayed more than you should in the stadium because you were free.

If he asked you about it, you could have asked someone to cover for you or left right after the game.

You try to ignore the crying sensation. You need to talk about it with him. Maybe it was a big misunderstanding. Maybe you are exaggerating.

You take a shower, washing the stress you are feeling away. The hot water makes you relax, clear your mind from the names you want to call Kylian.

You do your normal routine. You want to be clean for bed, even tho there was still a long wait before bed, you wanted to rest.

You turn on your favorite show, watching some episodes. But you ended up disassociating into your own thoughts.

You took a little nap, trying to calm your mind from the noise. As people say, a good nap can fix everything.

You wake up, noticing the sun wasn't there anymore, you check your phone and noticed you have a few texts, it was the chauffeur. He sent you a few texts letting you know that he picked food for you per Kylian's request.

You thank him. Leaving the comfort of your sheets and walking downstairs to pick it up. You check the time on your phone 8:17 pm.

You overslept, you originally wanted an hour nap or so, but you don't have to be mad at the rest cause it felt amazing.

You open the bag, checking that it has your favorite food inside, you may be mad at Kylian, but he kind of won the privilege of not getting 1 of the 20 names you have ready for him.

You decide to eat in the kitchen, not wanting to get your sheets dirty. You seat on the big table he picked for the house.

Maybe it's your anger, maybe it's the disappointment, maybe it's just the fact that you now notice things.

But one thing you never noticed was how alone you were in that big cold house.

You had to eat alone most of the times, you have to wake up alone most of the days, you have to sleep alone because he was out or late training in the gym.

You never really made mind of how much it bothered you. Maybe because as you said "it's because he's not a normal person."

You finish the food, taking the containers to the trash. You wash the fork and knife you used, wanting to leave the kitchen as clean as it was before.

You were drying your hands when you hear the front door. You stayed quiet, not wanting to face him when you know Bryce was with him.

They talk a little bit, you can even hear Bryce ask if he knows how you feel.

Mad.

That's how you feel.

You hear them move upstairs, you wait a little bit more, wanting for Bryce to get into the guest room.

When you hear both door closing it when you know you have to get upstairs. You open the door, watching him get out of the closet.

"Hey!" He smiles. "I was looking for you."

You humm, walking to the bathroom and brushing your teeth. You take a few breathes before walking back to the room and get into the covers.

You wait for him to finish his routine. He was happy, you can tell ny the big smile on his face and how he was humming a song.

Before he could reach the sheets with his hand, you talk.

"How was the gala?" You ask, a very monotone voice.

"Amazing, very simple but kind of long." He answers as if nothing is wrong. "How was the game?"

"Why did you tell Bryce that I was sick?" You ask, not answering his question. "Not only I'm not sick but also I'm very mad at the fact that you lied!"

You try to keep your composure. You don't want to yell, you don't want to fight, you just want an explanation.

He stayed quiet, looking at you with a blank expression on his face.

"You are suddenly voiceless?" You ask. "You never told me about any gala, I had to find out via social media what it was." You continue.

"I did." He says.

"Don't." You say with a very stern tone. "You didn't, and you know it."

"I did." He repeats. "You probably didn't pay attention."

"Okay, when did you tell me?" You ask him, trying to prove a point.

"Why are you acting like this?" He asks, rolling his eyes. "I had an amazing day, can you drop it?"

"No, I can't. When did you asked me?"

He hides his face into his hands. "God, you can be annoying." He shout. "Probably like two weeks ago."

"Lies!" You shout back. "I was in Sevilla."

"Then when you came back!"

"You were in Valencia." You say. "You didn't tell me. And that doesn't even matter, what matter here is that you could've told me < Hey, y/n I forgot to tell you about this event, sorry about it> But no, you lie to me and you told your friends and even our maid that I was sick!"

He doesn't answer.

"Why?" You ask. "Why are you doing this?"

He shrug, not putting a little bit of care into it.

"Have you ever noticed that you never took me to any of your galas?" You ask, the sadness in your voice is evident. "Kylian, what is wrong? Talk to me!"

He rolls his eyes again, grabbing the pillow. He was trying to get out of the situation by leaving the room.

"Where are you going?" You ask, throwing the sheets off of you. "You are not leaving until we are done with this conversation, sir." You warn him.

You take the pillow away out of his hands. "Stop that." He says.

"I will, once you and I have a talk." You say, throwing the pillow back on the bed. "I can't keep pretending that everything is fine."

"You don't have to!" He yells. "We are fine."

"How are we fine?" You yell back, not caring about his friend or anything else. "Kylian, you are doing this on purpose."

"You are crazy." He says, walking into the bathroom. He slams the door, leaving you alone. "You are losing your mind!" He yells again.

You try to calm down, you need to have a serious conversation with him, and screaming won't get you to it.

You wait for him to get out of the bathroom. When he sees that you are not giving up, he groans.

"Can you not?" He asks. "You ruined my night."

The way his voice soundes so dark makes you shiver. He didn't even care that what he's doing is hurting you.

"I can say the same thing to you." You say with the same tone. "We can resolve this if you just tell me what the fuck is going on!"

"What do you want me to say?" He asks.

You shake your head. "The truth!"

"I haven't even noticed that you never came to one of my galas, maybe because you are not the center of my focus and attention."

That hurts.

"Okay," you nod. "I just want to know if this is going to continue, because I'm honestly so tired of this shit."

He shakes his head. "I don't know, are you going to keep acting this way?"

"Why am I being blamed?" You ask, angry at his attitude. "Kylian, you are the one who wanted this relationship to be off camera. Yes, I agreed. But I never agreed to being toss aside like if I'm not worth a shit."

You feel your eyes getting teary, you don't want him to say that you are creating a drama or anything. So you clean them quickly.

"I love you," you say to him. "Don't you love me like I do?"

He stays quiet, letting the minutes pass.

You never thought the silence can become so loud to the point that it feels like screams. You understood so much with that passive agressive action.

"Are you ashamed of me?" You ask. "I mean, you meet me as a reporter and you asked me to be your girlfriend when I was working as a reporter. So maybe I'm lost, but I don't get when we got to this point."

"I asked you to leave your work and come with me to Madrid." He says. "But you told me that you wanted to keep working on the media and even suggested a long distance relationship."

"Because I love my job, Kylian." You answer. "Is that a problem? You knew that I wasn't someone who was going to sit around and wait for you to come home with a fresh cooked meal and some fresh ironed clothes."

"Couldn't you just sacrifice something for me?" He asks. "I mean, you have everything here! You have a maid, look at this house and you don't even need to pay anything, not a single bill."

"So you wanted me to just leave my work and become your stay at home girlfriend?" You ask. "Would that be better? Would you be prouder of me?"

"Maybe" He says. The tone of honesty is what hurted the most.

"I worked my ass off since college to get where I am." You began. "Yes, you got me this job, and thank you for that. But if the price I have to pay is that you feel like I'm not good enough, then maybe I do have to change!" You say.

He nods, walking over to you. "I promise you that everything will be worth it." He says, smiling at your quick comprehension. "I'll give you everything you want."

You take a few steps back. "I don't think you understand." You say.

"quoi?"He asks, confused.

"Kylian, I'm not changing my job." You chuckle.

Maybe it was the pain turning into a laughing situation. Maybe it was a coping mechanism.

"Then what are you changing?" He asks, still confused.

"You." You say, smiling a little. "We are done."

[shinysobi]

chunhyangjeon redux

If I had time, I would learn to love him in a softer way, perhaps, where my hands are bloodied and bruised from trying to hold on too hard.

☆ historical!au jihoon x reader

☆ word count: 17.8k

☆ rating: M

☆ genre/warnings: historical, major character death, period-typical sexism, physical violence (not between jihoon and mc) angst, so much goddamn angst, fluff if you squint, but mostly angst

☆ notes: look i had a thought about guqin player lee jihoon, yapped to people, and that's it, this happened. many many thanks to @gyubakeries for beta'ing this, and @imujings for encouraging my delusions. dedicated to kae @ylangelegy, because I yapped in her dms about this first, and then this baby happened. banner from here. love you loads, everyone.

playlist: what kind of future, woozi | interlude: dawn, agust d | don't, eaeon ft. rm | blue side, j-hope | jashn-e-baharaa, a.r rahaman | shokhi bhabona kahare bole, rabindranath tagore (jayati bhattacharya)

The string breaks off with a discordant twang, and everyone winces, including the gardener, who's been weeding on the opposite side of the yard from me. I scowl, and Songhwa, my maid, offers me a drink of water. It does nothing to calm me down. My fury is great, and my present agony even greater. There's absolutely nothing that can stop me from breaking the instrument, my own arms,  or someone else's leg in the process.  

“Young lady,” Songhwa manages to whisper with a pitiful look, but I'm already on the warpath, angrily pushing the offending instrument away from my lap, and standing up to stomp around the yard. The gardener takes several steps away. “Young lady,  please,” she pleads again, to my better sensibilities (I have none) “you shouldn't get angry, you're still weak—”

“If you say ‘weak’ one more time, I'm going to jump in the well with a grindstone tied to my leg,” I threaten, before flopping down in an entirely unladylike manner, my hands threatening to rip out my entire braid, “they're going to hate me. Why did my mother go ahead and boast about me being good at the guqin? I hate the instrument, I've never played it. Why couldn't she tell them I'm good at the gayageum?”

“Well, you see—”

“And now I have to perform for the whole family. My would-be husband’s family. Does this make any sense to you, Songhwa?” I moan, before sitting up and glaring at the offensive instrument, “I'm going to burn it. I'm going to burn it and die.”

“Well, that would be inadvisable, lady,” Songhwa says, ever the picture of serenity. Good for her. She's not the one being sold into marriage, “the Master did say that you have one month to prepare for it.” 

“And one month is too little!” I stand up, determined to go into theatrics,  because then, at least, I'll have the privilege of being termed as a madwoman, and get out of this mess. “They've already delayed the marriage by years, not months, mind you, Songhwa,  but years, and then they tell me to perform for them? What do they think I am? A monkey?”

“Your father and mother both agreed to this marriage arrangement, Miss.”

“My father and mother are not the ones learning an entirely unfamiliar instrument a month before having to play it in front of an audience consisting of the Minister of War, so I don't much care about their opinions.” I mutter darkly, “Their opinions matter little to me.”

Songhwa now looks abjectly terrified, “do you mean the marriage, miss?”

“Not the marriage, of course,” I wave a hand, “I've always known I'm going to be married to someone I didn't know and wouldn't care about. I've known since I was sixteen, that I would be married to the third son of the Minister of War, whenever they saw fit. I'm talking about the absolutely unconscionable decision of making me learn the guqin in a month. And when my mother knows, that I'm proficient on the gayageum! This is insanity, Songhwa, insanity, I say.”

“Well, they're both zithers, so—” Songhwa begins to say something,  but shuts up immediately when I glare at her, “Very well. You require help, then.”

“I require a hammer, so that I may destroy this monstrosity and go back to playing my gayageum. Anything less than that is not acceptable,  I'm afraid.” A large fruit falls from the tree outside the yard as if on cue. How impudent. Do I need to consult with a shaman after all? “Tell my father that I shall not be playing the guqin for the Minister of War’s family. And if they insist on hearing me play, well, they’ll have to be satisfied with hearing me play the gayageum.”

“You see, Miss, that is the problem,” Songhwa grimaces, “the Madam said that the War Minister's wife said that playing the gayageum was—” she squints, avoiding my eyes, “was beneath the station of a minister’s daughter.”

“Ha!” two crows fly across the sky, “and as if she, with all her love for the Great Ming, has managed to make any kind of meaningful contribution to society save bullying her second son’s widow to death? Has she? And she comes to talk to me about the station I should maintain? She should learn how to shut up!”

“Miss,” Songhwa is close to tears now, “miss, you must not be so loud. What if the Madam hears you? What will happen to you then?”

“I’ll die,” I say, seriously, and she huffs, “No, I’m serious. I’ll die, and then I will haunt this house until the end of time.”

With that, I flop down next to the imported guqin, brought in only the other day by a trader from the Imperial Ming, and go silent. Songhwa takes this as a sign to bring me something to eat, and returns momentarily with a couple of candied orange slices, no doubt swiped from the kitchen, and the two of us sit in the late morning sun, in companionable silence. There are two songbirds on the tree, and the sun is mild; it's early autumn, and the biting chill of winter will come much later. For now, they are happy, content in their own world, trying to survive yet another day. 

It's Songhwa who breaks the silence first. “Miss,” she turns to me, a serious look on her face, “do you really want to get married to the son of the War Minister? You have been betrothed to him for so long, and he kept delaying the marriage on account of his examinations. Then he delayed it because he had to deal with bandits near the village he governed. He keeps delaying it, and there are rumors of him being a womanizer, going to gisaeng houses, and being one of the worst kinds of man possible. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with him?”

I sigh. Songhwa is fiercely loyal and has been ever since the day I bought her freedom and gave her a name instead of the plaque that had hung around her neck, with a number instead of a name, but her loyalty makes her a danger to herself. I knew. I had been anticipating this ever since the news came of the confirmation of the wedding date, but one thing I had failed to calculate was how much Songhwa hated the idea of me marrying that man. 

“You must not repeat anything of what you just said, to me or to anyone else,” I say, and her face drops, “you know why I’m telling you this, Songhwa. Your life is just as expendable to these people as mine is, even less so because you are a servant.”

“Miss—” Songhwa begins, and I wave to cut her off. 

“It’s not about what kind of person he is, or what are the things he is known or rumored to be doing. He is a man, and therefore, he has no sins. I’ve always known my duty is to be married well, to be an asset to my parent’s reputations, and to move away from my home. It sounds difficult to you, Songhwa, because you are so young,” she makes a face at that, “but a woman’s duty is always more important than her own self. Even more so when you’re a member of the nobility. Then they’ll force the ideas of imaginary respect into your mind, and it’ll grow so big that you would not be able to walk properly.”

Songhwa giggles, “Would you like to go to the market, miss?”

I clap my hands, “Excellent.”

—

The market is a sensory nightmare. Vendors selling everything, from expensive silks to cheap norigae flock to the streets, calling out their wares. Songhwa moves closer to me as we move through the crowds, she keeps a firm hold on my skirts, afraid of getting lost in the throng of people. Usually, the marketplace is for me to savor what remains of my freedom, roaming amidst the people who are, ostensibly, less privileged than I am, but at the same time, freer than I can ever imagine becoming. I come to the market in a masochistic bid to remind myself that my station is fleeting; my freedom is imaginary, and that being a woman has essentially destroyed my prospects of ever being free. 

But not today. Today, as fate would have it, I have a mission to carry out. This is the reason why the day finds Songhwa and me at the gates of the Plum Flower House, and Songhwa is tapping her foot impatiently, both out of fear and frustration. On either side of us, there are brightly-colored pavilions, with streamers of colorful paper waving in the air, and tranquil ponds where fish lazily swim by. It’s a picture of happiness and serenity. I hate this place. The facade breaks as easily as ripping apart one of those colorful banners hanging from the eaves, and all one can find underneath is the growing rot that has captured Joseon society. I hate how I have to tolerate this monstrosity, and how we have made its existence into a part of our daily lives. Songhwa, beside me, is uncomfortable, frustration etched on her features. Your betrothed comes here almost daily, she had said, why do you still want to go through with the marriage? 

Truth is, there’s nothing that I can do, as a woman. I have to put up with a womanizer of a husband and an overbearing family, all to protect the honor of my father—a concept that I have been taught, but one that eludes me at every step. 

“Miss,” Songhwa moans from  my side, hands fisted into my skirts, “do we really have to be here?”

“Yes, Songhwa, we kind of have to,” I reply sweetly, “since we’re about to ask for help from someone, it’s only fair that we go and ask them directly, instead of making them come to us for it.”

“I—you’re asking for help? From who?” Songhwa almost shrieks, and three women in colorful hanboks stare at the two of us. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d disapprove,” I reply, looking around, “and despite what you have to say about the music scene in Hanyang, there’s one thing that is always true.”

“Which is?”

“You can never really remain anonymous.” I give her a large smile, one that she does not return, “Songhwa, do you mean to tell me you really have no idea about the new player at the Plum Flower House?”

“New player?” Songhwa narrows her eyes in an effort to be intimidating, which falls adorably flat, “Miss, have you been sneaking out again? You know, if the master gets to hear about this, he is not going to let you go out anymore, he’s already reduced your trips to the market, Miss. We had to lie to your mother and almost sneak out of the house, Miss. You cannot be meeting men outside of the house.”

“So I should have brought him into the house?” I raise an eyebrow, dragging her away, “listen. The music is coming from that pavilion.”

Songhwa wants to open her mouth and ask me exactly what it is that I have been looking for—when the two of us are forced to stand still, because, from the pavilion in front of us, with overhanging branches of plum trees that obscure our vision, comes the most beautiful music. Songhwa stands, transfixed. I pick up my skirt and walk closer to the source. 

The player is sitting with his back to us, but his guqin is on his lap, and he’s plucking the string carefully, slowly, while coaxing a familiar melody out of it. It’s an old song from the Great Ming, one that I had heard being played by an ambassador to the King, once, five years ago. I have remembered it ever since. If I close my eyes, I can imagine the calmness of the piece, flowing over me in a serenade that is almost otherworldly. I've wanted to learn this piece on the gayageum for a long time, and I've failed every single time. And yet, he's here, playing the piece with an ease that comes from years of practice and innate talent, almost monstrous in its simplicity. 

“What's the piece that he's playing?” Songhwa asks, voice a low murmur. I guess even she's mesmerized by the playing. 

“The ambassador from Ming told me the piece is called Mist and Clouds over the Xiang River,” I say, picking up my skirt and stepping into the pavilion, “that was a great performance, Lee Jihoon.” 

The player stops and glares at me. He's dressed in a pale blue hanbok, his shoes and hat set aside. His hair is gathered in a knot at the back of his head, wisps of black hair falling to his shoulders.  He keeps his hair much shorter than usual, I notice idly. It makes him look wild, and in the right light, I can imagine a faint glow coming off of him.  

“Why is the youngest daughter of the Minister of Rites in the Plum Flower House?” he asks, setting the guqin down, “Miss, you shouldn't be in a den of iniquity like this one.” His voice is sharp, a contrast from the gentle music floating from the instrument earlier, and the ends of his sentences fray, making him sound like a caged wild animal, being presented to a nobleman to satisfy their curiosity. 

“I don't think I should be taking advice from the main player of the said den of iniquity,” I say, settling down in front of him, “Or is it because of your father that you're here?” 

His face takes on a hard look, and he stands up, his hair falling in a curtain around his face, “if you want to talk about my father, I'd suggest you leave. Immediately.”

“Take a seat, Lee Jihoon,” I say, “I have not come here to talk about your father, although I could spend an afternoon and an evening talking about him. I’ve come to you with a proposition.”

“A proposition? Made to a player in a den of sin?” his voice is dripping with sarcasm even as he resumes his seat before me, “I’ll assume that you’ve lost your way. Please see yourself out, Madam. As you know, it will be inappropriate of me to accompany you to the gates.”

I scowl, despite marveling at how easily he has managed to get under my skin, “I am not a madam.”

“Ah, but you will be, soon, won’t you?” He smiles, “We here at the Plum Flower House get to hear things too, especially when it concerns such an important client of ours.”

I sigh. Of course, that is why they know. They all know, someone in my mind tells me, they all know your fiance comes here every night when he’s in Hanyang. “It seems people are aware of my betrothed and his—indiscretions,” I reply through gritted teeth, “however, this does not concern him. I come here to seek counsel for an entirely different matter.”

“Then why are you here, Miss? I doubt very much that spending time with someone who plays the guqin at a kisaeng house is high on your list of things to do.”

“It does not,” I reply, and he raises an eyebrow, “it concerns the instrument you were playing.”

His eyebrows remain raised, but he has a curious smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “the guqin? You want to buy my instrument?”

“I don’t want to buy it from you,” I roll my eyes, “teach me how to play the guqin.”

He stares for a beat too long, and I’m compelled to return his gaze, needlessly piercing, almost as if he wants to commit me to memory, and I ignore his gaze to focus on my hands instead, fisting them in my skirt. All of a sudden, he laughs, loud, melodic, completely at odds with his voice from even a moment earlier, and I’m taken aback because his laugh is a departure from his voice, so on edge, sharp and brittle enough to cut glass. His laughter is high-pitched, free in a way I had never thought of him being. He laughs and laughs until Songhwa is itching to get away, and I am considering just walking away from the pavilion. Who does he think he is? Laughing as though it did not take me a whole afternoon to pick up the courage to ask him for his help. I would not be sitting here, forcing myself to be subjected to this, if he was not as good as he was. 

“Forgive me, Lady,” he says, mock-respect evident in his tone, “I seem to have forgotten about my manners.”

“You don’t say,” I murmur, watching him compose himself. Infuriating. 

“I am merely wondering at the turn of events which would have the daughter of the Minister of Rites come to me, the player of a courtesan house, for his help in playing the guqin,” he says, “you can get anyone to teach you how to play, Lady.”

“No one is as good as you are,” I say simply, hoping that the boost to his ego will make him agree to this arrangement, “I want to learn from the best. And the word is, you’re the best in Hanyang. A fact that was corroborated by the playing I just heard. Xiang River, right?”

“You know the piece,” he says, half to himself, as though he cannot bring himself to believe me, “I’m sorry, Lady, I cannot help you.”

He stands up, picks up the instrument, and prepares to walk away from me. It’s your one chance,  a voice tells me, you’re never going to get back this opportunity to make the damn Minister of War pay. And unfortunately, it’s right. If I manage to fail at this task, they might actually break off the engagement, something that will make me happy, it ensures that my father will never be respected, for as long as he lives. Who would respect a man who could not control his daughter, the one person he was supposed to have full control over? 

“Would you prefer it if I go to your father, then?” I say, loud enough for him to turn back and glare at me, “I wonder how they would react, to having their long-lost son come back from the Great Ming, only to have him become a player in a courtesan house.”

“You would be greatly advised to keep that mouth of yours shut, Lady,” he practically runs up the steps to where I am seated, “I’m afraid going to my father would be difficult if one finds themselves dead, right here.”

Oh, he has claws. I smile, extracting a hairpin from my head. It's my grandmother’s gold dwikkoji, bequeathed to me on her deathbed—something I have never let out of my sight. Encrusted with rubies from the Kingdoms in the South Seas, with a large pearl set in the middle of it, bought from an Arab trader who traded it for spices in the Indian Sea, it is ostentatious, suited perfectly to my grandmother’s tastes, who never let anyone forget that she was a daughter of the Joseon King, given away to my grandfather who then became the Right State Councillor. It is only fair then, that I am trading away this memorabilia, to the disgraced son of a concubine. Lee Jihoon stares at it, the meaning of the gesture plain as day in front of him. I could not have been more clear even if I had slapped a box containing ten gold nyangs in front of him. 

“Are you trying to bribe me, Princess?” he mocks, picking up the headpiece and admiring it nevertheless, “a keepsake of the Late Princess Jeonggun. Almost offensive in its flamboyance. Why are you giving it to me, Princess?”

“Consider it payment, Lee Jihoon,” I say, standing up so that I can stare directly at him, “if you want, I will provide provenance of it. It is payment for teaching me the ways of the guqin.”

He laughs, and again, I am caught by how strange it sounds. In the middle of a gisaeng house, hearing this laugh should be illegal, almost—and shakes his head, “And if I refuse?”

“Then I go to the Minister of War,” I smile, relishing in how it drops just slightly, “and I tell him all about his son.”

With that, and a flourish of my skirt, I stride off of the pavilion, holding Songhwa by the arm, “Let’s go, shall we?”

We have not taken three steps when there’s that loud, sharp voice, calling out from behind me, “Wait!”

I turn around, “really? This fast?” 

Jihoon strides up to me, holding the hairpiece in his hand, a lazy smirk playing on his face. “You win, Princess. I’ll teach you.”

I raise an eyebrow, “you will?”

“Be here tomorrow, in the afternoon,” he turns around, “don’t be late, Princess.”

“Why, that little—” Songhwa makes a run towards him, but I stop her, gesturing to just go back. He’s been defeated, Songhwa, I tell myself as we make our way through the crowded streets, he’s finally been defeated in something by someone. And he has to teach me how to play. 

—

Unfortunately, as I had expected, Songhwa does not let me off easily. She corners me as soon as we step foot into my family’s home, quickly sliding the doors shut behind her as I collapse onto the silk bedding, fixing me with an impressive glare that would have even my mother running for her life, “Did you really have to give him the keepsake from your grandmother?”

I fix her with a look but say nothing, choosing to pull the hairpins out of my hair, and settling down on the bedding. Songhwa, emboldened by my silence, rages on, “What if the Master comes and asks for it? Why did you have to give away the most expensive piece of jewelry in your possession? What if you have a need for it later on? What will you do then?”

“I’m not such a fool to give him my most expensive hairpin without a thought as to how it might affect me, Songhwa,” I say, sternly, and she shuts her mouth, “neither my father nor my mother is aware of the gift grandmother gave me, mostly because she never told them of it. To her, it was something to be disposed of in secret, and the only witness to this was the nurse who stayed with her till the day she died.”

“And me.” Songhwa points to herself, “I’m aware.”

“You know what happened to the nurse who was there with Grandmother when she was sick?” I say, voice light, but Songhwa sees it for what it is, and sighs, evidently put-upon, and takes a seat on the floor, “You should stop threatening to kill me if you want to ensure that I never open my mouth.”

“It’s better that you don’t know, Songhwa,” I reply, “you do know what happened to the nurse who stayed with my grandmother when she was ill. She was killed three months after my grandmother died, presumably by people who thought the old, infirm woman was holding state secrets. I do not understand why you insist on knowing my family’s secrets even though you will most definitely get killed in the process.”

“It’s a testament to how much I respect you, Miss,” Songhwa says, seriously, lighting a candle in the semi-dark room, “it is already killing me that I cannot accompany you to your in-law’s house. What do they want, refusing to allow servants to be sent from your childhood home? It’s decidedly unfashionable, people are already talking about it.”

I know why they have made that demand, but I wisely keep my mouth shut. I don’t think we need to investigate the death of a minister so close to my wedding, but Songhwa is fully capable of eviscerating the Minister of War and his entire household, sentries be damned. She does not pick up on why I am silent, instead raging about the apparent lack of respect shown towards me, and I watch her amusedly as she pulls out the books that I will not be allowed to take with me when I leave my home. 

“Easy, Songhwa,” I smile, “one would think you were my mother, instead of being my companion.”

“I am your maid, Miss, there’s a difference.” Songhwa sighs, “Do you still think asking that man was the best course of action? You could have received help from anyone you want.”

“He’s still the best in Hanyang, no matter how much we try to ignore his existence,” I say, pickling at the seams on my bedding, “even you saw how good he was. That’s not just hard work, it’s also talent. And that kind of talent should not be languishing in a—in a courtesan house, of all places.”

Songhwa nods, “You also brought up his father when he didn’t agree to teach you.”

I smile, “That’s because I know a little secret about him.”

—

As promised, I make my way to the pavilion at the Plum Flower House, leaving Songhwa behind, the guqin heavy on my back as I manage to haul it across the marketplace. Lee Jihoon stands in the middle of the pavilion, smiling as I walk up to him, out of breath and bent over at the waist, perspiration dotting my forehead. He raises his eyebrows as I make my way up the stairs, flaunting a wide grin as I set the instrument at my feet, “you’re late. I did specifically say afternoon, did I not?”

“Apologies, for I do not own a water clock,” I breeze, unwrapping the linen coverings of my guqin, “and I think it would be treasonous to own one.”

He laughs loudly, again, before settling down, “I hear you are proficient at the gayageum. Why can you not play that for your in-laws? You can always play the gayageum for them, instead of learning an entirely new instrument.”

“That new instrument is what my prospective mother-in-law is partial to,” I give him a wry smile, running my hands over the silken strings of the guqin, “my preferred gayageum is too lowly for her, it would seem.”

 Jihoon observes my dress, plain pink and blue cotton hanbok, nothing of the pale blue silk that I had worn to the House the previous day. My braid falls over my shoulder, short but neatly tied off with a ribbon at the end. I had foregone the usual norigae at my waist too, opting for a slightly longer jacket instead. This way, I look like a maid, someone unimportant who came here to take lessons from a master. Not the daughter of a powerful man. As far as disguises go, I could have done better. 

“You look like a maid,” he smiles at me, and even someone like me, who has no idea about social cues, can understand that it's all mockery—as usual—and he continues, with that annoying smile fixed on his face, “it seems a little inappropriate, teaching you out here.”

I stare at him, because we are in the open, in the middle of the day, with no one to misconstrue what we are doing, and he thinks it is inappropriate. I want to take my offensive guqin and whack him around the head. He points to his clothes, and then to mine, “I dressed up for you. Now I think I should have borrowed one of the work costumes of the many people who come here to work for the gisaengs.”

I scowl. He’s wearing a pale green hanbok today, with his hair gathered in an elegant topknot, the wide headband sitting prettily against his skin, making for a sharp contrast. Strange man, I tell myself, as he settles in at a comfortable (more importantly, respectable) distance from me, and picks up his instrument. When he bends his head, I can see his copper sangtu, wisps of his hair peeking out from within. It reminds me of the first time I had seen him, his hair wild and untamed, and it's a shame how beautiful he could be, if only for the unfortunate accident of his parentage. 

Still, as he begins to teach me the basics of how to play the guqin (in a manner entirely different from what I am used to), I find myself thinking less about how disagreeable he was and more about his talent. If I were a lesser woman, I would have been jealous. All I could think about was how solemn his hands looked as he plucked the strings, instructing me to follow his lead. 

—

Songhwa waits at the back of the house as I hurry back in, ushering me into the yard as soon as the curfew bells ring. 

“How was the first lesson?” she demands, as soon as I place the guqin on the floor, picking out the plain hairstyle I had fashioned it in, “you never wear this one outside of the house.”

“Thought I should try my best to fit in,” I groaned, lying down on the bedding, “never thought learning an instrument would be so difficult.”

Songhwa raises an eyebrow, “I thought you said he was a genius.”

“He is, which makes it even more difficult,” I groan, suddenly overtaken by a fit of childishness, “it was as if I had been forced to come to terms with the fact that I was in fact, not a genius, and that all my efforts, monumental though they might have been, were actually no match in front of an actual, real, genius.”

She laughs, “You seem taken in by him.”

I bolt upright in bed, “I am not. He is annoying, as he is allowed to be—I am merely commenting upon the fact that he is a genius, and I am not, no matter how much I would love to be.”

Songhwa sighs, before sitting down in front of me, “Miss, I do think you’re a genius.”

“Nice of you to spare my feelings, Songhwa, but I’ve seen him perform. Twice, in fact. And there’s no way I, or anyone, even the legendary Bo Ya, could measure up to his skill. His hands—” I turn to look at her, eyes narrowed, “what do you want me to say?”

She raises an eyebrow, “You seemed to have found his hands interesting.”

“Enough!” I clap my hands, shaking the embarrassment away in what must have been a formidable challenge, and usher Songhwa out of the room, “I wish to sleep now. Tell the maids to send my meal to my room, please.”

After Songhwa leaves, I fall back onto the bed, waiting for the maids to bring me my dinner, trying my best to expel the image of Lee Jihoon playing the guqin, his long, elegant fingers coaxing the slow tunes out of the instrument, a testament to my utter lack of genius. And yet, I can’t find to bring myself to be jealous, because I am not a lesser woman. I am, shamefully though it might be, aware of the limitations of my talent. Besides, I am almost twenty years old. I’m not a child who might get jealous at the prospect of facing the fact that I might not be the genius that I once thought I was. 

And yet—and yet I spend more than a fashionable amount of time that night, thinking about his hands, moving across the strings. 

—

Surprisingly, it gets easier after that first day. The both of us talk less about our choice of clothing and more about how to play the guqin, and I can feel myself improving daily. Jihoon doesn’t make it a secret about how much he absolutely hates the idea of teaching me, but this too, I’ve managed to take it in stride now. 

“How long will you be pestering me to teach you?” he asks, barely a fortnight into teaching me, “I doubt you want to establish a new qin school in the middle of Hanyang. And I don't want to spend my days teaching a noble lady how to play my instrument.”

I pull a face, “Can't you just focus on teaching me?”

He pulls a wry smile,  “Maybe I wish to be rid of you.”

“Too difficult for you, Teacher,” I smile, before returning to pluck the strings, coaxing a melody (a slow, halting one, but a melody nonetheless) out of the guqin. It's almost spring, I notice, as the plum trees all around us have burst into bloom. Soon, the cherry trees will be in bloom. And as soon as the azaleas bloom on Biseulsan, I will be sent to the home of the Minister of War. I hate to be reminded of it, because all I can think of is that I have no time at all. None to enjoy the final few days of my girlhood. 

Still, Jihoon seems to be warming up to the idea of teaching me, and I can take a strange sense of pride in that, having the once-prickly Lee Jihoon teach me with a ghost of a smile on his face. 

—

“Miss,” Songhwa pokes her nose in my room  one evening as I change into a much more respectable outfit, “there are gifts.”

I roll my eyes, huff, and stand up, “Already? They only sent the official letter last month!”

“I know. They seem like they want to speed up the process,” Songhwa waves a dismissive hand. “The minister himself is here, giving the gifts to your father.”

“The minister of War himself?” I tie the knot to my jacket, lifting my skirt, “now I need to see this.”

My father’s rooms are in another part of the yard, differentiated from the women’s quarters by a gate. Songhwa and I slip easily past the gates, and servants largely ignore us as we make our way to the other, more secluded side of my father’s rooms, where the large boiler sits, making the air too hot for anyone to remain in for more than three minutes. I sit as close to the doors as possible, and for good measure, poke a hole into the paper, for ease of listening. One can never be too careful. 

“Miss,” Songhwa opens her mouth to say something, and I silence her because there are voices coming from inside the room, “fine.”

“—Of course, the lady will be an important part of the household, as she is expected to take on the duties of the madam of her own house in the future,” a voice that I know belongs to the Minister of War, says, “I have heard that the lady is playing the guqin diligently? My wife does indeed adore the guqin. It is one of her only comforts.”

Yes, I would bet anyone ten gold nyangs she holds it and goes to sleep at night when you are whoring around in gisaeng houses, you pox-ridden idiot, I think to myself, but it is the next voice that takes me by surprise. It is my father speaking, low and clear, the voice I had once adored as a small child, “Of course, minister. This is no longer her home now. She is to be a part of your family, and we will ensure that she is aware of her duties and responsibilities.”

Oh. 

Oh. 

They go on to say more things—about the state of the economy, how they are going to manage their farmlands in the coming year, how they think the harvest will be, how the virtues of the King have always been steady in steering the nation, but I understand nothing. I am nothing. And to hear that from my father—my father whom I had looked up to all my life, my father who had adored me, once upon a time, in a parallel history, puts it all into perspective. 

I stand up, feet shaking, whether due to the heat coming from the boiler or from the words I have just been privy to, I do not know. I do not remember walking to my room, I do not remember lying down on the bed. All I can think of are my father’s words. This is no longer her home now. I am no one. 

—

“You did not come for lessons these past three days,” Jihoon says, as soon as I climb up the stairs to the pavilion, guqin strapped to my back, “I was beginning to think you had stopped wanting to play altogether.”

I sigh, “I was sick, sorry. I should have sent word, except Songhwa was busy making medicines for me. I’m here now, though, right as rain.”

Jihoon still has his back to me, an insufferable trait that he refuses to correct, and I shake my head, setting the qin on the ground. “Shall we begin?”

My tone is clipped, and angry, which makes him turn towards me, an eyebrow raised. He pauses for a moment, then grabs a hold of the edge of my sleeve, pulling me closer to him. I avoid his gaze dutifully, but Lee Jihoon is nothing if not relentless, a fact of life that I am becoming increasingly familiar with, as much as I hate it. 

“Something’s wrong,” he says, after staring at me for what feels like an eternity, “you’re not normally this way.”

I glare, “Do you want me to hit you? I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not fine,” he replies, standing up and walking out of the pavilion, “not if that look on your face has anything to say about it. You’re suffering.”

I roll my eyes, but he is not wrong. He is not wrong at all, which makes me nervous, because if Lee Jihoon of all people could read me this well, what does that mean for my parents? The people who are supposed to know me the best, the people who are supposed to take care of me without question, what does it mean, that they saw me like this, and said nothing at all?

It’s not their fault. I’ve been repeating this throughout the week, it’s not their fault. Even though I had refused to come out of my room and had been laid up with a fever, only my mother had come to see me, and that too from a distance. It’s not their fault. They gave birth to a girl, and now they have to take care of her, for as long as they can. 

And really, who am I to complain? I am the daughter of a minister, one of the highest positions in Joseon. I should know my place, I should know my duty. Even if it meant leaving my home and settling down in a house where I knew no one, and no one cared about me beyond my abilities to provide an heir. 

Songhwa had, of course, refused to let me out of her sight, nursing me through the days I was bedridden with a fever, even insisting on coming along for the lesson, something I had taken pains to dissuade her from. 

“Maybe this will help,” Jihoon says, walking back into my line of sight, “you told me you played the gayageum.”

In his hands, is a gayageum, made out of the finest paulownia wood, and he pushes away the guqin currently in my lap, placing it in my hands instead. “You look like you have some feelings to work through, and I have always found solace in playing my music.”

I stare at him, “Are you quite mad? You want me to play for you right now?”

He shrugs, “I think it would be a good exercise for you since you always seem uncomfortable with the qin. Hence, the instrument that you are most comfortable with.” As if to prove his point further, he makes a ‘here you go’ motion with his hands, opening them wide for me to take in the look of the gayageum in front of me. 

I should not. This is madness, someone whispers inside my head, why are you playing for him when the only people who have heard you play before are your parents? Is this not inappropriate? What will your husband’s family say, when they hear about you showing off your skills at the gayageum to an unfamiliar man, who has no ties to you? Will they approve?

I grow more irritated at that. Perhaps I am tired of thinking about my husband’s family, before myself. 

“I don’t think I should be doing this,” I mutter, picking it up and running my hands over the silk strings, “it is tuned already.”

“Thought you’d prefer if I took that out of the way for you,” he smiles, “in truth, I would be lying to you if I said that I had not been interested and curious about your playing, even before you stepped foot in the Plum Flower House. Everyone knows that the youngest daughter of the Minister of Rites is proficient at the gayageum. I had kept this around—”

I cut him off with a sharp twang, and he goes back to his seat, eagerly waiting. It has been a long time since I played for another person who was not Songhwa, but the gayageum opens up eagerly underneath my fingers, much easier than the qin, but this is an instrument I have been playing since I knew how to walk. Still, the instrument itself is unfamiliar, but I can soon find it humming delightfully underneath my hands. This is what I want to do. I want to play this instrument for as long as I can live. 

This is no longer her home now. 

My hands grow erratic, and the gayageum follows suit, the music thundering as I chase it around, the strings keening underneath the sheer force of my hands, no longer the calm, composed tunes I have been accustomed to playing. This is no longer tranquil, this is something else entirely, the force of my rage, condensed and consolidated into a single moment in time, larger than life, hotter than the sun. 

After a long time, I stop, and Jihoon’s eyes are sparkling, something I never thought I would see, not on another person, not as a reaction to my playing. He’s smiling, broad, and genuine, grabbing me by the shoulder and shaking me, so hard and fast that I can barely distinguish my surroundings. Whatever remains, is the feeling of his eyes on me, as though he was seeing me for the first time. 

“You’re a revelation,” he smiles, “I’ve always been curious about your playing but this—this is brilliant. A genius.”

“Hah,” I scoff mildly, even though it does not hold any real venom or malice, “a genius, that’s a new sort of lie.”

However, as I lay in my bed that night, all I could think of were his eyes, steadfast on me, sparkling, as though he had seen a miracle, and his voice, the same sharp tone that I hated so much, saying, over and over again, you are a revelation. A revelation. A revelation, he had said. 

I slept comfortably that night. 

—

Apart from the gayageum, the only other thing I'm confident in, at least marginally, is my sewing. Like every other girl in Joseon, I've been taught needlework and embroidery ever since I could pick up a needle without hurting myself.  Embroidery was a non-negotiable skill, especially when compared to playing instruments, because of course who did not know that the honor and prestige of a noble family relied solely on the sewing skills of their youngest daughter? 

I’m exaggerating. I’ve been taught to take pride in my creations, and I do actually like it when people find happiness in it, whether it be through music or something else. 

“Miss,” Songhwa lets out another of her long-suffering sighs, holding up an unfinished gwanbok, “you’re supposed to finish this by yourself, not have it done by seamstresses.”

“Don’t want to, not particularly,” I pout, trying to balance a brush on my forehead, “besides, were you not the one who was the most against this match? Why are you so adamant on me making his ceremonial dress, that probably would not be up to his standards?”

“It’s because I hate him and I am firmly against this match that I am in support of this,” she says, folding the unfinished clothing into a box, “are you going to make your fiance a handkerchief too?”

“What?” I sit up, brush clattering onto the floor, “what do you mean?”

Songhwa holds up a piece of silk, and I stare at it. Just a piece of deep blue silk, plain and unassuming, evidently cut out from one of the pre-wedding gifts sent over by my husband’s family previously. It’s obvious, with the smooth edges from where I cut out the fabric, that it was meant for something else. “Oh, that,” I try my best to remain nonchalant, “I’m thinking of making something for myself.”

Songhwa narrows her eyes, “You refuse to pick up the needle for anything other than what is strictly necessary.”

“I’m just trying to be a better wife, and since sewing is a required skill, I thought I should brush up on my embroidery,” I say, trying my best to maintain Songhwa’s gaze, “nothing special, really.”

“Miss, you know that you cannot fool me, right?” she says, hands on her hips, “I know exactly what you plan on doing with this silk.”

I turn to her, shocked, “You do?”

Songhwa sighs, “How many times do I have to tell you, miss, that you have enough hair ribbons to last a lifetime? Even the princesses of this country do not have as many hair ribbons as you do, and you’re going to make another one? That too from the expensive silk the Minister of War sent over for pre-wedding gifts?” She sighs again, running her hands over her face, “I do not know what to do here. I hate him, but also, making a ribbon out of the cloth sent over for you to make your husband a hanbok will not be accepted. Well, it’s not as though we are going to tell people, but at least, don’t let your mother know about this.”

“You think I tell my mother anything?” I ask, my eyebrows raised high, “she is the one who finds out everything about me. I don’t tell her anything!”

“No, you don’t, you just act too secretive, and she finds out anyway,” Songhwa throws me a dirty look, opening the door with a foot, hands full of clothes, “Do try and come back home early tonight, because the owner of this house is coming home early too.”

“He is?” I groan, “I’ll keep it in mind.” 

—

I lied to Songhwa. It is not something I feel particularly bad about, since she keeps her own secrets from me too, regarding all the numerous admirers she has (If I knew, I would be forced to tell my mother about it, and she would be out of a job). The silk was not for a hair ribbon, not by any stretch of anyone’s imagination. It is, however, for something far worse. 

“Lee Jihoon,” I say, half out of breath, setting down my qin, “you like the color a lot, I see.”

“Aren’t you a little too interested in fashion for someone who has to exercise the virtues of frugality from the moment you understood the Five Classics? Or am I to understand that the Minister of Rites did not teach his daughter the basics of a Confucian education?”

I roll my eyes, and Jihoon laughs, a sound I have become frequently acquainted with, ever since that afternoon. He’s wearing a dark blue jacket over his white hanbok, a color he has worn the most since I met him for the first time. “Just answer the question, please.”

“You should pay me more respect, you know, since I am your teacher,” Jihoon sighs, “yes, I do like blue, in fact, I wear it all the time—what are you doing?”

I had been listening intently, but I was not going to tell him that, “I was just listening.”

He scowls, “You’re very annoying, has anyone ever told you that?”

“All the time, actually, they can’t seem to get enough of telling me off,” I say, my voice a tad bit too sharp for normal conversation, and he retreats, “Never mind, I have come to the realization that I do not know you at all. If I am to respect you as my teacher, should I not know at least some details about you?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Need I remind you that you threatened me to teach you, using my father’s name?”

“Not that,” I wave, “you know, the little things. The details.”

“I’m not going to tell you details about my life.”

“Nothing? Not even about any ladies that you might be courting?”

He stares at me, and it is very strange, how his eyes resemble a cat I used to feed when I was a child, wary, as though I am going to find out all his weaknesses, “Why do you want to know so much about my love life?”

And really, why did I want to know? 

“Just wondering if I should be on the lookout for any angry woman accosting me in the marketplace, demanding that I stay away from her beloved,” I reply, and he scowls again, “I’m being serious!”

“No, there aren’t. And even if there were, why would I tell you?”

“You’re no fun at all,” I grumble, “at least tell me something silly.”

“Like?” It’s funny, how he is on edge, even at a normal question like this, “I don’t have a birth flower.”

“At least tell me your favorite one, then,” I grin, “if you want to know, my birth flower is the daisy. It is said to be a symbol of a pure heart.”

He snorts, “Pure heart? I would take it up with the fortune-teller. You are one of the most aggravating people I know. Pure heart?”

“You’re avoiding the question,” I roll my eyes. 

Jihoon sighs “If you have to know, my favorite flower is the barberry. They bloom even in the worst of winters, and I’d like to think I am that sort of person.”

“It symbolizes skill if you want to know.”

“I did not.”

I groan, before picking up my qin, “I’ve been improving at this, haven’t I?”

“You sound less horrible than you did before,” Jihoon acquiesces that much. “You are a genius at the gayageum; I don’t know why you must insist on playing the qin is beyond me. Instead of breaking your back to learn the one thing that you hate so much, just focus your energies on honing the skills that you already have. It is rare to see someone so talented at the gayageum outside a gisaeng house. You have all the talent in the world to be proficient at this one instrument, and yet, you are here, taking classes from me, in order to appease your fiance’s family. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I will answer that question another day,” I reply, trying my very best to remain nonchalant, “not today, I am afraid.”

—

I have been avoiding my father ever since that night when I eavesdropped on his conversation with the War Minister. Try as I might, I cannot look him in the eye anymore, not when I know the exact dimensions of my identity as his daughter. This is no longer her home. I have been raised for this since I was a child, but knowing that your father no longer considers you as a part of his household, or that the family you have known for all your life is no longer yours, is a bitter pill to swallow for anyone. 

This is why it is a surprise to see my father, the Minister of Rites, walk into my room right as I put the final touches of a small embroidered daisy on a piece of blue silk. The door slides open, and my father steps into the room, dressed casually, with his wire hat high on his forehead. I scramble, setting aside my 

sewing and offering him my seat in front of the silk screen. It is not even a conscious decision, my feet move of their own accord, forcing me to sit across my father as he takes his seat. There is a book open on the varnished table, a study on how to play the guqin. I have not managed to read more than three pages. 

“It is wonderful to see you so applied to your studies,” Father says, looking approvingly at the book, “I have heard you play these past few weeks. You have managed to improve a great deal indeed.”

“Thank you, Father.” I bow my head, “I have been practicing my best not to let our family down.”

“Of course, of course,” he shakes his head, “the War Minister, along with his son, will visit next month, to finalize the preparations for the wedding. I hope you will be able to maintain the honor of this family.”

“I shall try my very best, Sir.” I reply, “I shall play for the Minister of War, as requested.”

“It is not a request,” he says, “the honor of this family depends on you being able to make a prosperous match, one that will ensure the social standing of your family and your fiance’s, as you were raised to do. It is your filial duty.”

“Yes, Father.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, steadying himself, “While you might think this marriage is disadvantageous to you, this ensures the survival of this family. Your brother and sisters are depending on you to make this marriage work.”

“My oldest sister is one of the concubines of the King,” I reply, “I rather doubt that we are in any danger of survival, given that my oldest sister is the mother of a princess.”

“The birth of a princess to a concubine is nothing to be proud of!” my father slams a palm onto the desk, “if you had any sense of political knowledge, you would know that. All we have to show for our efforts is a weak slip of a girl who will not survive beyond her first five years!” 

“I’m afraid you are talking disrespectfully about a princess of Joseon, Father,” I say, calm enough for my voice to remain steady in a display of impressive brashness. “Even if you are the grandfather of the Princess, speaking ill of her could be tantamount to treason. She is the daughter of one of the primary consorts of the King, chosen directly from the gantaek.”

My father sighs, pushing the conversation away from my sister, “Do not forget about your duties as the daughter-in-law of the Minister of War.”

“And live as the meek wife of a man who will never be faithful to me?” I cannot help myself now, and the words come tumbling out of me, sharper than anything I have ever said to my father, the man who raised me, “Is that the life you want me to live? You, of all people, should know about the character of the Minister of War, and how his third son behaves in society.”

“How do you know about the Minister of War or his third son?”

“Everyone knows!” I throw up my hands, “everyone knows. Everyone who comes to my house and knows about my marriage, tells me about their behavior. The Minister of War sent away his son because he could not stand the sight of him, and his third son is no better! Even I, a person with no contact with outside society, even I am aware of who my fiance is. And yet, you choose to ignore everything and push me into this marriage, when you know I shall be unhappy at the very best, and mistreated at the worst. Is that what you want? To force me into—”

I hear the sound of it before I can feel the pain, but it spreads soon enough, stinging across my left cheek, and I turn my attention to my father, whose hand is still raised, “—you want to force your daughter into servitude?”

“You will cease those thoughts at once!” his hand is still raised, “You will be married to the third son of the Minister of War because we need his political power to stay alive. You will play the part of the dutiful daughter, and you will provide his son with an heir because that is what you have been born to do. No more talk of who the Minister is or who his son is. Prepare for your wedding.”

“You cannot do this to me.” I whisper, swaying at the spot where I stand, “I am your child, you cannot do this to me.”

“I’ve raised you with all the freedoms you should have been given, because of your station, but do not forget your purpose.” He runs a hand over his face, “I should have married you off as soon as I could have, instead of waiting around for the Minister of War to make a proper decision.”

And with that, he walks out of the room, leaving me standing in the middle of an empty space, wondering how long I have before everything goes to hell. 

“Miss,” Songhwa runs into the room, “I heard shouting.”

“Never mind that, Songhwa,” I wave away my thoughts, “there is much left to do. Will the seamstresses finish the ceremonial dress by the wedding? Who’s making my wedding dress? The preparations have to be perfect, Songhwa, you know this is the only time I will get to have a wedding.” I laugh at that last sentence, “never mind that.”

“Miss,” Songhwa is insistent, “are you all right?”

“Perfect.” I mutter, picking up my needle and thread, “Just need to finish making my fiance an assorted number of trinkets for our good marital fortune, and I will be done.”

“Miss,” Songhwa sits down in front of me, “I know people, you know.”

I narrow my eyes, “Of course, you do. We all know people, Songhwa.”

“No,” she huffs, “I don’t mean that. I know people, my lady.”

“And who might these ‘people’ be?” I ask, smiling, “Don’t tell me you’re keeping in touch with bandits or something like that.”

“Well, you’re not entirely wrong.” She shrugs, “Do you want me to have him killed?”

“Killed—Songhwa, Might I remind you that violence is not always the answer?” I sputter, almost poking myself in the hand with my needle, “I do not want you to kill my fiance.”

“Fiance, fiance, I hate the way you speak about him!” Songhwa exclaims, “Every time you speak about him, it is as though it physically pains you to do so.”

“That's not important, Songhwa.” I protest. 

“This has gone on for long enough,” She ignores me, “Ever since they pushed the wedding, you have been like this. The only time in the past year that you have truly felt alive, has been these past few weeks when you have been going to the gisaeng house to learn how to play. Do you really think that is normal,  Miss?”

I sigh, abandoning my sewing, because she is not wrong. What do I even tell her? In a way, Songhwa is far more free than I could ever hope to become, simply because she has no family whose reputations and honor she has to protect. Over these past few weeks, I have been looking forward to learning the qin, merely because it has given me a sense of purpose beyond getting married and beyond having heirs. 

That's wrong, someone whispers in my ears, that is not the only reason why you have been looking forward to those lessons. 

“Miss,” Songhwa takes my silence as acceptance, “I don't like that man.”

“You don't like any man, Songhwa,” I laugh, “but who are you talking about?”

“Lee Jihoon. The man who teaches you the qin,” she mutters, looking more like her fourteen years, “I don't like him. He's not someone you should be associating with, given your status.”

“I did not think you were someone who cared much about status.”

“I do, it's just who we are, but even I can't ignore the fact that he is the one who makes you feel alive. You're wasting away here, and it pains me to see it.”

I don't say anything because what do I even say to her? She is right, as she always is because the subject of my marriage weighs heavily on my mind despite how much I prepare my mind for it. I no longer want anything to do with my marriage, and not just because of my fiance. My fiance could have been the Crown Prince, and I would still hate it as much as I do now. I hate that I no longer have any agency over my choices in life. I hate that I have to listen to my father arrange my marriage with a beast of a man simply because it will give him the boost he has so desperately wanted in his political career. I hate that I will have to spend the rest of my living days in a family whose head of household sent away one of his sons after the death of his mother, simply because he could not bear the sight of an illegitimate offspring. I hate it all. Most of all, I hate the fact that I cannot do anything to change my situation. I might want what Jihoon symbolizes with all my heart, but at the end of the day, I will have to shut my mouth and do what my parents want of me. 

“Miss, should we talk to Madam?” Songhwa asks, “Maybe she could talk to the Master.”

“My mother has no interest in me beyond what purpose I can serve. She would tell me to suck it up and endure it, as other women have before me, and as women will, as long as there are men on this earth,” I laugh, “I’m not delusional, Songhwa. I know I am living a privileged life, something that is not afforded to a majority of women in this country. I just wish—that we had some freedom.”

“We have whatever they give us,” She replies, picking up my abandoned handkerchief, “were you embroidering the daisy on here?”

“And the barberry flower.” I groan, before realizing what I had just said. 

“The barberry flower?” Songhwa narrows her eyes, “did not know you were so fond of perennial herbs this way.”

“Just saw a particularly beautiful sketch of it the other day, and wanted to put it in my handkerchief,” I lie, “nothing else.”

Songhwa sighs, “I just wish you were a bit more careful, Miss, I do not want to see you in trouble.”

—

Jihoon had not even taken his seat at the pavilion the next day, when I brandished my closed fist in front of him. “Close your eyes,” I say, “I have a present for you.”

He looks at me warily, and then at my closed fists, “I feel like this is a trap made specifically for you to punch my face.”

I scowl, “And here I am, trying to give you a token of my appreciation.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, but complies with my request anyway, and I retrieve the finished handkerchief from inside my jacket, “Here you go!”

He opens his eyes, looking at the piece of cloth held in my hands, “What is this?”

“It's a handkerchief, obviously,” I roll my eyes, “look, I even embroidered your favorite flower on there, just because you told me.”

“I do not remember asking you to make me a handkerchief,” Jihoon says, dry as always, but he takes the handkerchief out of my hands, inspecting it, “there is a daisy on there. I never asked for a daisy.”

“I put it on every one of my embroidered pieces,” I say, offering an explanation, “it feels like a signature of mine.”

“Is this what you spend your time doing, instead of making your marriage dress?” He stares at me, “My god, you are going to look very ugly in your wedding dress.”

“Why would you say that?” I ask, irritated, “I am going to look very nice in my wedding dress. And as you can see, my embroidery skills are top-notch. If you must know, I have had one of the best educations that could be given to Joseon ladies.”

“The work is shabby, and I would not be using it at all,” Jihoon makes a show of inspecting the handkerchief again, “why did you even put the daisy in there? It looks so—plain.”

And really, I should not have done this. Because all I can feel right now is shame, white-hot shame spreading to the roots of my hair. Why did I even make a handkerchief for a man who does not want anything to do with me? Really, I feel so ashamed. I should not have even wanted anything. 

“Give that back,” I hold out my hand, “if it is so offensive to you, then give it back. I’ll destroy it.”

Jihoon whips it out of my reach, “Who said I am going to give it back? You gave it to me, now it is mine.”

“I made it, so it is mine,” I grind out, “give it back to me.”

He stands up, leaning on the wooden railing of the pavilion, “Don’t think so, Princess. This was given to me, so now it is mine. You’ll get it back if you can take it from me.”

The nerve of this man. I stand up, walk over to where he stands, and hold out my hand, “Give it back, Lee Jihoon.”

Instead of giving my work back to me, he holds it high above both our heads, a taunting smile on his face, “Too bad you won’t be getting your way this time, Princess.”

I try and swipe it out of his hands, but he reacts faster, swinging it out of my reach, over and over again, until I am heaving from the exertion, the skirt of my hanbok twisted and crumpled, as I hold myself up against the railing, “are you quite done playing with my hard work?”

Jihoon says nothing, just twirls the cloth in his hand, “You made this in blue, too. How did you know I preferred this color? Tell me, Princess, are you in the habit of making elaborate presents for all your teachers?”

I grab hold of his wrist with one hand, my other gripping my handkerchief, “I do not like being made fun of, Lee Jihoon. Give back my work.”

“Did not realize your work was so important to you that you grabbed hold of my hand, Princess,” He smiles, and it is less than a smile, it is a smirk, almost, as if he enjoys the feeling of my hands on his skin. I drop my hand, but he catches it, holding my hand in his. 

And—god. My skin is a furnace, and Jihoon is hellfire, his thumb moving slowly across the inside of my wrist, fingers leaving a trail of what can only be described as fire. I’ve never held a man’s hand before, never even thought of initiating touch with someone who is not my husband, but I want this. 

“The Princess of the Minister of Rites, holding a man’s hand, who is not a relation, nor is her intended,” Jihoon smiles, “are you being influenced by this place, Princess?”

I move  to extricate my hand from his grip, but he holds fast, still smiling, “It appears that the Plum Flower House has been having an effect on you, Princess.” 

I should try to pull my hand out of his grip. If anyone sees me standing here, my hands in his, there will be hell to pay. My father cannot find out about the lessons. I am, for all intents and purposes, playing with fire. 

But Jihoon’s fingertips are callused, and even if I try, I cannot move my hand out of his grip. “Unhand me right now,” I say, “How dare you be so familiar with me.”

“It feels as though you are the one being familiar with me, Princess,” He’s just smiling at me, “I am not holding on to your hand, you are the one who’s keeping it in my grasp.”

I pull my hand out of his, and he moves to grab it again, but stops halfway, “Why are you doing this, Princess?”

“What?” I stare at him. 

“The handkerchief. The embroidered flowers. Holding my hand. You’re the princess of the Minister of Rites. Of all people, you should know better, then why are you acting like a flighty girl—”

“Because I’m tired!” It’s the same thing as with the gayageum the previous day, and Jihoon is the same, watching as my self-control snaps, “I’m tired of this lie, waiting for someone else to make my decisions, and live according to other’s wishes. I refuse to do it.”

Jihoon stares at me for a heartbeat, “And I am what, your idea of a petty rebellion? The illegitimate son of a minister, perfect for a plaything? Oh, you must have loved getting lessons from me and then going back to your perfect little home, waiting for your wedding, like the perfect little princess that you are.”

“Do not presume to know me,” I spit out, “I have never once thought of you as a plaything. Nor is this my petty rebellion.”

“Oh, but it is,” Jihoon seethes, “that is why you sought me out in the first place, didn’t you, princess? The illegitimate son of the Minister of War, your fiance’s half-brother. Do you even know how it feels, to see him walk in here and spend entire fortunes as though it means nothing? You will never know how it feels—”

I slap him across the face. The crack of it sends a bird skittering from a nearby tree, and Jihoon steps back, holding his cheek. 

“It is my fiance who steps inside this brothel every night,” I say, “he is the man I am engaged to be married to, he is the man whose bed I will share until I die. And he is out here, dragging my name through the mud at every opportunity.” Jihoon says nothing, so I continue, “Everyone knows about our engagement, and everyone knows about his proclivities.”

“Did you grow up in the same household as him?” Jihoon sneers, “he was obnoxious to the point of being impossible to be around. He made every day of my childhood a living hell!”

“And he will do the same to me, for the rest of my life, too!” I snap,  “At least the Minister of War sent you to Ming. At least you get to make your own identity apart from that of your birth. I will be someone’s daughter or someone’s wife, until the day I die. So, forgive me, if I tried to dream of something else.”

“Something else?” 

It’s strange watching him look at me. The same way that he did when I played for him, and somehow different. The same look, as though he was seeing me for the first time. It is no longer uncomfortable, and I hold his gaze as he puts the puzzle together.

“You don’t mean that.” He whispers, stepping closer to me, so close that I can feel his breath on my skin, so close that if I reach out, I can kiss him, “Tell me you don’t mean that, Princess.”

“You have no idea what I mean,” my voice comes out in a strangled whisper, “You have no idea what I want.”

“Tell me.” His voice is a ghost; chasing me, “Tell me what you want, Princess.”

If I want, I can kiss him right now. I can take a nebulous hold of my father’s honor, values, and morals and crush it in the palm of my hand. If I want to. The man standing next to me, with his skin flushed and with his eyes that contained a whole universe within them, this man can be my salvation. If I took a step forward. One step would do. Even if it means nothing, I will be free. 

Unfortunately, I am a coward of the highest measure, and so I step away, shaking my head, “Think about it, Lee Jihoon. Think about what I might want from you.”

—

That night, when the lights were snuffed out, I think of the way Jihoon had looked at me as if he could not believe his eyes or his luck, as if I was the only person who mattered in this world. His skin flushed, his eyes glistening. If I had stepped forward, he would have reciprocated; even I could understand that. He knew I wanted him, and on some level, he wanted me too. And whatever form my desire would take, he would have followed my lead. 

But why do you want him,  a voice asks in my mind, why is it that you are going to such reckless lengths, for the mere illegitimate son of your fiance’s father? Someone who would not have even been on your radar, and yet, here he is, seducing you to dream of a life away from this place. 

Bigger than all these questions is one that I ask myself every day: where will this end?

—

“There is someone here to see you, Miss,” Songhwa says, while I am in the middle of sewing my wedding dress, “he says it is important.”

“I will be taking no visitors, Songhwa,” I say, not taking my eyes off of my work, “I cannot meet any man while still unmarried.”

“Miss,” Songhwa pleads, and I look up at her, standing awkwardly in the middle of my room, hands twisting in the fabric of her skirt, “it’s—”

“Who is it, Songhwa?” I ask, already on edge, “There are very few people who would reduce you to that state.”

“It’s the youngest son of the Minister of War, Miss,” Songhwa says, eyes shifting, “he says he wants to meet you.”

I sigh, “My father?”

“He has gone to the palace, Miss.”

“Mother?”

“Tea, with the Left State Councillor’s wife.”

“Very well,” I stood up, abandoning my sewing, “take him to my father’s room.”

My father’s room stands in the Eastern corner of the outside yard, its roofs higher than the rooms in the inner courtyard where we live. I cross the yard quickly before the man who is supposed to be married to me even steps a foot into the yard. Inside the room, Songhwa has hung a sheer curtain from the rafters to allow us to have a conversation and still obscure my face. I suppress a laugh. All these measures against a man who is supposed to be my husband. What is the point of it anyway? If he is going to see my face after a few months, it does not make sense for him to be separated from me before the wedding. 

He enters through the door, his hat obscuring his face, and I have the distinct feeling that I am not the only one who is maintaining a disguise against the other person. Songhwa sets down a platter of tea in front of us, and I gesture for him to help himself. 

“Is it not custom for a woman to serve her fiance?” He asks, his voice almost the same as his half-brother’s, except it’s sharper, like an open sword, brandished right at my throat, “I thought that the daughter of the Minister of Rites would be learned in all the arts of how to serve one’s husband.”

“You are not yet my husband, my lord,” I reply, “and I am not obliged to serve you tea in my own household.”

“Very well,” He leans back, observing me through the curtain, “when they told me I had to go meet my fiancee, I did not expect to meet such a spirited woman, of all people.”

“How long have you been in Hanyang, my lord?” I ask mildly, “Was it your mother who told you to pay me a visit, or your father?”

“Neither of them, actually,” He smirks, and I can see his face vaguely through the curtain, and it is a cruel one, hard and rugged all the same, but cruel, in a way that makes a cold sweat break out across my skin, “if you knew who told me to pay you a visit, I do not think you would like it a lot.”

“Was it one of the ladies at the Plum Flower House, my lord?” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop myself, and his face darkens, the undercurrent of which is a dark thing I do not know about. But he does nothing, merely sits more comfortably in his seat, observing me. 

“I was not aware that you had such extensive contacts, Princess.” He says smoothly, “do the whispers at Plum Flower House reach the hallowed halls of the Minister of Rites’ home? I did not think so.”

I sit, transfixed. Anyone else in my position would have their gazes trained on him, of all the transgressions he has committed against me, but all I can think about is that word. 

Princess. 

Only one person called me that, had called me that, until a minute ago. And now, there is a strange man, in my home, in my father’s room, using the same term of mock endearment, except his eyes do not have any warmth behind them. 

“It is common knowledge, if one puts in a little effort, my lord,” I manage to reply, “Hanyang does not afford great people to have secrets.”

“They afford people like you to keep their secrets, you mean,” he replies, “because try as I might, I could not find anything about you apart from what I already knew.” 

“That is because I do not have anything to hide, my lord,” I say, as smoothly as I can. 

He says nothing, simply observing me from his seat. 

There are a lot of similarities, if I look closely. There should be, since they’re born of the same father, but this man is miles apart from the Lee Jihoon that I know. Jihoon doesn’t have the same cruel turn of mouth, doesn’t have that same way of sitting that can only come from a lifetime of an aristocratic upbringing. His smiles might be wary, but they are freer, with no hidden intent underneath them. He sits upright, almost afraid of his seat being taken away. In comparison, this man, his half-brother, sits in the main room of a stranger's house of a stranger, as if he owns it. It makes me uncomfortable having him here. I do not want to sit with him any longer. Not here, not now, not in the future. 

And yet I cannot run to Jihoon anymore, because what do I actually want? 

Tell me you don’t mean that, Princess. He had looked so small at that moment, begging me to say something else, to say that I did not want anything to do with him, to push him away. For a moment, it had seemed to me as though he was begging me to walk away. I should not have stepped away. 

Stop this wishful thinking, I scold myself,  focus on how to get this man out of here. 

“No secrets, you say?” He finally breaks the silence, “I have found that everyone, no matter how pure they might look on the outside, harbors at least one secret.”

I roll my eyes behind the curtain, something which goes unnoticed, “My lord, I am sorry, but we shall have to end this conversation here,” I stand up, waving to the door, “you will be shown out of the house by someone.”

I had expected him to fight me on this, to stand his ground and refuse to leave until he met my father, but he didn't say anything, just stood up, looking at me with those unsettling eyes, and turned around. Before sweeping out of the room in his expensive pale pink silk hanbok, he looks at me, through the screen, “I look forward to having you in my home, Princess.”

And he’s gone. Leaving me standing in the middle of the room behind a silk screen, uncomfortable and wishing I had never really agreed to this marriage in the first place. No, even beyond marriage, it makes me wish I had never been born in this world in the first place. Not the daughter of a minister, not someone who had to deal with the endless noise of honor and dignity and respect since the moment she could walk. 

I lay my head on the pillow, and I allow myself to dream of a better world. 

It’s a habit of mine, dreaming. Useless things—a better dinner, a free day, moments of stolen happiness in between buying trinkets at the market, I dream of them. On the day my grandmother died, the old dragon of a woman, I dreamt of a white canvas, white as far as I my eyes could see. There was nothing else in that landscape, save myself. This time, the dream is different. 

This is a different Joseon—one without all the differences between social classes, one without the restrictions imposed on women, a space where I can think without being condemned for it. Somewhere where I don’t have to imagine a hundred threats before taking a single step. A place where, if I met Jihoon, I would be able to stand in front of him, without the chasm of societal rules separating us. A place where I can look into his eyes and tell him that I love him, without fearing for both our lives. 

Maybe this is not our time. 

Maybe. 

“I’m leaving,” I call out to no one in particular, slipping out from the back door of the house, still in my expensive hanbok that makes people look at me as I half-run, half-walk towards the thrice-damned brothel that landed me in this position in the first place. Brightly-dressed women throw strange looks at me, walking past them, so obviously noble that it would take a miracle for this to not be reported to my father by tomorrow morning. 

I grabbed hold of a young servant girl, clearly new to the place, “show me where Lee Jihoon is.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but I’ve moved on, to the same pavilion where I had met him for the first time, because he’s playing the same song he played on that day. I ran up a few steps, “You.”

Jihoon stops, abrupt, but not discordant, a picture of wide-eyed innocence, “Princess.”

I pause. Now that I am here, standing in front of him, words have apparently decided to fail me, keeping me rooted to the spot, looking back at Jihoon’s eyes, expectant and warm, as if he’s steeling himself against a harsh scolding. 

“I was not joking.” I manage to say after a while, and immediately want to kick myself. 

“What?” 

I sigh, pushing through the shame, “I did not joke, the previous day. I’m still not joking. I love—”

It would be lying, if I said that I never imagined anything. I’ve read enough romance novels and bribed enough maids to know some things. But this—I had never imagined this. Jihoon’s mouth is gentle, hesitant against mine, as if he’s scared I’m not real. 

He pauses, coming up for breath, “I’m sorry, Princess. I didn’t want to hear you saying you love someone else. Not when I’m here in front of you.”

“You didn’t have to be scared,” I mutter, holding onto him, “you are the only one I would cross a line for.”

His eyes widen, and finally, after what seems like a lifetime of waiting, Jihoon smiles at me, radiant, blinding, something that makes me hold desperately on to the belief that we will survive this. That my wedding does not loom on the horizon, that we can spend an eternity here, amidst the falling cherry blossoms, enveloped in each other. I love him in a human way, desperately, because I have never known love, not like this. If I had time, I would learn to love him in a softer way, perhaps, where my hands are bloodied and bruised from trying to hold on too hard, and I can map the exact way the errant hair falls over his face, framing his forehead, the smile of his, one that I have grown to crave. 

But we don’t have time, and my hands are bloody. 

“My wedding is in two weeks,” I say, and his face pales, “I cannot evade the man who is going to be my husband.”

“I know him well.”

“Then you should know how cruel he is.”

“Yes, I know, but—” Jihoon sighs, and grasps my hand, “Run away with me.”

I stare at him, “And when the Minister of War comes knocking on my father’s door and demanding his dues, then what? Who will pay up?”

“Your father!” his anger is palpable, “The man who has sold you off to the cruelest man and his equally horrible son, that man will pay for his sins! Let him!”

“He’s still my father, Jihoon.” I step away from his embrace, “even if he did all those things, he is still my father, the person who raised me all my life. I cannot simply give up on the memories because of his decision regarding my marriage.”

“Then will you marry him? The man who used to be my worst nightmare as a child, who is still the worst nightmare of the courtesans here? Do you know how many of the women here spend a night with him, only to be found bruised and beaten the next morning? And you will willingly go to his bed, have his heir?”

“I don’t know all that!” I yell at him, and he stops, dumbstruck, “I just know that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life knowing that I let love slip out of my fingers because I was a fool for honor. If I could, I would have spent the rest of my life with you, but I cannot, and therefore I have to make the most of my life while it is still mine.”

Jihoon stares at me, “Two weeks, then? Is that all the time you will be mine for?”

I sigh, “Yes. Two weeks. Then I will be married, and I will be no one’s anymore.”

“But never mine.” His regretful tone spills over into my hands, and I can feel the tears spilling onto my hands, “Princess, I think I’ll die if you’re only mine once and not forever.”

“You’re not allowed to die, Lee Jihoon.” I smile, “Write a song for me.”

“For the gayageum?”

“A song we can play together. For the gayageum and the guqin.” I reply, “Even if I cannot be there with you for this life, there will be a song for us.”

He nods, wrapping me up in his arms, “There will be a song for us, Princess.”

—

Happiness is fleeting. It is incandescent, and it is fleeting, and I will hold on to it for as long as I can. 

“Show me the song,” I say, curled up against Jihoon’s chest, the soft rays of the dawn sunlight illuminating the room, “you’ve been working on that song for a week now, I want to see how it has shaped up.”

“I’ll give it to you on your wedding day,” Jihoon replies, yawning, “Oh, look, it’s almost dawn. I should be going.”

“So soon?” I sit up, “The sun is barely out, and you’re leaving me.”

“Princess,” Jihoon pulls me close, “I don’t want anyone to see me here. And that means I have to be out of here before anyone sees.”

“And leave me here to do embroidery on my wedding dress,” I grumble, “I’m better off making a shroud for myself.”

He says nothing, and leaves. Although it’s required for Jihoon to leave me alone, I hate it. I hate the fact that I have to pretend to be excited for this farce of a wedding, when my heart belongs to another person. I hate the fact that my father has never once bothered to see me for who I am, instead seeing me for the political advantage I could bring. Amidst all this, I am simply a pawn in my family’s schemes. To be bought and sold off to whoever pays the highest price. In this case, the Minister of War. 

“Miss,” Songhwa steps inside the room with a bowl of water, “I’ve brought water for you to wash your face.”

“I don’t want it,” I grumble, “what will happen if I don’t wash my face?”

“You’ll hate it.” Songhwa says, far too gently for my liking, “here, it’s warm enough that you like it.”

The water is indeed warm, far too warm for anyone else, but I like it this way, and Songhwa wipes my face with a soft linen towel, before saying, “I saw that man, this morning.”

I pause, “Which man?”

“Lee Jihoon,” she replies, still calm, “he was leaving from the back gate.”

I say nothing. 

“Miss,” Songhwa says, softly, “I know you don’t like this marriage, but there is no time for you to—”

“Don’t, Songhwa.”

She stops. It's the first time I’ve used this tone with her. 

I take a breath, before opening my mouth again, “I know what I have to do, but for the one week that I have left—let me—let me have this one thing, Songhwa. I’ll have to give it up anyway, once I get married. Until I step into that home, let me have this one thing, please.”

“Miss,” I turn to look at her, “I will not tell anyone. You can be assured of that, at least.”

I don’t know what to say. And what do I have to say to her, the girl who has served me for so long? The tears come hard and fast, and I cling to her sleeves as I cry enough to drench her jacket. I hate this place, and yet I cannot manage to break myself out of it. This is a prison of my own making, a prison I have unfortunately fallen in love with. 

“Miss,” Songhwa shakes me lightly, “you know you’re getting married soon, right?”

I nod.  I hate everything about time, I wish I could stop it. 

“Have you been laying with him?” 

“Songhwa!” Even through my tears, I burst out an indignant squawk, “how—how dare you suggest that!”

She shrugs, “I asked a question.”

“Do you want my first time being with a man to be with that—that brute of a man?”

“All men are brutes, my lady,” Songhwa tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear, “just in different ways. I’m merely asking, do you know why you’re going there?”

“To make him an heir,” I say, so quietly that Songhwa leans forward to catch my words, “the Minister of War wants an heir from me.”

“And that man is someone’s son, I presume.”

I squint my eyes, the sunlight too glaring for my eyes, “How did you know?”

Songhwa rolls her eyes, “I’m not blind, you know. Even an old man could see the resemblance between him and your fiance. The question I want to ask is, did you approach him knowing this fact?”

“Yes.”

Songhwa sighs, “Miss, are you determined to kill me?”

“Songhwa, it’s not as bad as you think.”

“Of course it is as bad as I think!” Songhwa paces around the room, clutching at her hair, “now if they find out you have been having—”

“Songhwa!” I yell, “there could be people listening!”

“There are always people listening, Miss, you told me this,” she sits down on the blanket, “what if you end up with child?”

“Child?” I squawk, unladylike, “what do you mean by that?”

“This is not the first time I’ve seen him come out of your room at an ungodly hour,”” Songhwa gives me an unimpressed look, “you think I’m the only person who has seen him walk out of this house?”

I groan, and Songhwa presses on, “So, I’m asking, what would you do if you found out tomorrow, that you were with his child?”

“Better his than that man’s,” I reply instantly, “if I was having that man’s child, I would kill it and then kill myself.”

Songhwa nods, grim lines set into the corners of her mouth, “You know what you have to do, right?”

“Just pretend,” I sigh, “yeah, a week from now, I have to pretend that the thought of being that man’s wife does not turn my stomach.”

“I’ll help you, Miss,” Songhwa says, “whatever they say, I do not like that man, and I will not let you have his child.”

—

Two days until the wedding. 

I put the finishing touches on my wedding dress, holding it up to the light. It’s a repurposed hwarot, previously owned by my grandmother, and I’ve adorned it with embroidery all throughout the fabric. Hidden amidst cranes and duck medallions, are flowers, flowers that I have embroidered overnight, small, hardy bunches of barberry flowers, entwined with daisies. Over and over again. The thread shimmers in the lamplight, almost invisible unless one pays particular attention.

“Is that the dress?” Jihoon’s voice breaks my concentration, “you did look royally pissed off when observing it. Did they make you do the embroidery yourself?”

“I’ve spent hours doing this godforsaken embroidery,” I groan, “it’s a pretty old dress. Belonged to my grandmother.”

“Explains why it is so gaudy.” He smiles, and I scowl, “well, it looks very beautiful.”

“It was already beautiful to begin with,” I replied, “do you want to see me wear it?”

Jihoon walks over to me, lightly kissing the tip of my nose, “I doubt it would be appropriate to let anyone else but your husband see you in your wedding dress.”

“The entire neighborhood is going to see me in my dress,” I grumble, “besides, I want to marry you. If it were up to me, you would be the one I’d be taking as my husband, not him.”

Jihoon smiles, something permanently broken in that gesture, and wordlessly slides off my jacket to pull on the wedding dress in its place. It’s heavy, weighed down with endless silk, the sleeves are too long, and I don’t know how to walk about wearing it, but he looks at me as though I hung the moon in the sky for him. How do I leave this man behind? In two days, I will marry his half-brother, a man known less for his name, and more for his cruelty. And in his place, I will have to leave behind this man with stars in his eyes, this man who would do anything for me, this man who holds my heart in his hand, a bloody, mangled mess that I willingly handed over to him. 

“Beautiful,” He whispers, “I love you, Princess.”

“Oh, Jihoon,” My tears are salty on both our lips, “I love you too.”

This is not our time, I think to myself, as Jihoon pulls me closer and silences any other complaints I might have, this is not our time. 

—

Night before the wedding. 

I stare at myself, my blurry reflection blinking at myself from the polished metal. What am I even doing here? The door is open, I should run away, I can run away, far from this place, to a mountain town, where Jihoon and I would live, tending to our crops, playing our instruments in the night. I do not want to stay here, I do not want to have a wedding night with a man who is to be my torturer, I do not want to spend the rest of my life with him. 

I stand up, stuffing my clothes and my jewelry into a cloth bag, pulling on my traveling clothes. Expensive hairpins, rings made of jade from the empire, everything bundled up with silk hanboks, tied together in a haphazard pile. I need to leave. Right now. 

“Are you going somewhere?” Songhwa asks, closing the door behind her, “I’ve brought a guest.”

I look up, frantic, “Songhwa, I cannot—I cannot go through with this wedding. I need to go, I need to go to Jihoon. Right now—” and it is Jihoon who steps out from behind Songhwa, wearing a pained expression on his face, tears threatening to fall, “—Songhwa, let me go to him, please.”

Jihoon rushes to my side, wrapping me up in his arms, as I sob, all over the front of his robe, “Please, Princess.”

“I cannot do this, Jihoon,” I whisper, “How will I stand there and take someone else as my husband when my heart belongs to you?”

“Miss,” Songhwa breaks the tense thread of silence, “I don’t know how to give you a present for your wedding. But I can give you one thing.”

She sets down a flask in front of us, ceremonial wine, and a simple gourd, and says, “you don’t have to be married in front of a whole house of people to be married, Miss. I haven't done anything for you, let me at least do this.”

I stare at her, blinking once, twice, before it dawns on me what she wants us to do. If the courtyard of this house is to be the execution ground of your dreams, let this room be its final refuge, her eyes seem to say, I’ll help you have this one night for you, my lady.

The wine is sweet, as it goes down my throat, and Jihoon drinks after me, never once letting his eyes drift. He knows, as well as I, what we are doing. The world will be angry with us, I know, but even as I bow down to Jihoon, my forehead touching the warm wood of my floor, I cannot bring myself to care about the world. The world will hate me, but I cannot look at the world when he is in front of me. 

“If there is a next life, Lee Jihoon,” I say, as he wipes the corner of my mouth with the handkerchief I had given him, “I hope we can meet there.”

“Promise me you won't forget me, Princess?” 

“I’d remember you across lifetimes, Jihoon,” I smile, kissing his knuckles, “even if all you do is hurt me, I would like to meet you again.”

This is my wedding night, I tell myself, as Jihoon extinguishes the lamp, no matter what happens tomorrow, this is the night I want to honor. All my lessons of honor and dignity have led me to this moment; in this moment, Jihoon is mine, and he is the highest honor I can dream of possessing. 

“You’ve rendered me entirely useless, Princess,” Jihoon says, in the end, when I am desperately clinging on to him to commit this warmth to memory, “I used to be useful before, you know. Now all I can think about is you.”

I say nothing, merely cling to him harder. If he notices, he does not say anything. 

Before I drift off to fitful, dreamless sleep, and Jihoon leaves my side for the last time, I wonder to myself, if the gods approve of this union, they will give me a child. A child that does not belong to the man I am supposed to marry, a child of my own, who will grow up to be just like their father. 

This is not our time. Maybe in another life. 

—

Epilogue

Jihoon steps down from the carriage in front of the house that he had left as a child, vowing to never return. And yet, here he was, raising a hand to knock on the door. 

He can barely knock once before the door heaves open, and it is the young girl who used to be her maid, Songhwa, looking at him with tears in her eyes, and for a second, he fears he is too late, too late to see her face for one final time, too see the spark in her eyes that had entranced him since the moment she stepped foot into his space. 

“How is—” He manages to stammer out half his sentence, when she grabs him by the cuff, and drags him to a small chamber across the yard, standing separate from the rest of the house. Jihon resists the urge to laugh. So much seclusion, even though they have sent her off to the hills to give birth by herself. 

“The man thinks it’s his child,” Songhwa says, gathering warm water and strips of boiled cotton in her arms, “both the lady and I know better, of course.”

Jihoon gapes at her, “You mean to say—”, but before he can finish his words, a low, pained groan reaches his ears, and then they are both running, into the humid room, where—

It's her. 

After so many years, Jihoon cannot help but stop in his tracks, because she has always managed to render him speechless. Even now—emaciated, in pain, and clearly dying, she still manages to look more beautiful than even the famed beauties of Ming. 

“Princess,” He whispers, stepping into the room, “you’re still as beautiful as I first saw you.”

“Flirt.” She laughs, and immediately curls up into herself, groaning in pain. 

“Sir,” Songhwa hands him a bowl of cotton cloth, boiled and cleaned, “she has a fever, you’ll need to cool her down.”

“No doctor?” He asks, placing a cold compress on her forehead, her pale forehead that now had a sheen of death on it, “did they leave her here to die?”

“The doctor is coming,” Songhwa clarifies, working quickly, “my lady, it’s almost over.”

“Ugh,” she groans in his arms, and he can see how her collarbones rise, stark against her skin, and he knows why Songhwa has called him here. She’s dying. She has no hope of surviving this childbirth, and she’s going to die. In his arms, as he looks on, hopeless. 

“Miss,” Songhwa urges, tearing up strips of cloth with her bloody hands, “miss, just one push, please, miss.”

“I can’t,” she breathes, her head falling back onto his arms, “I really can’t, Songhwa. I’ll die.”

“You won’t die,” He says firmly, “you can do it, Princess. I know you can.”

She shakes her head, convulsing violently, screaming bloody murder, but Jihoon has the ocean rushing in his ears, and all he can envision is a different reality; the two of them, with their own little family, in a place far, far away from here. He would never let go of her ever again. Please let me hold on to her, he had begged on their wedding night, I don’t want to ever let anything go again. 

All of a sudden, she breathes heavily, and the room lights up, with a newborn’s first cry. Songhwa holds the baby in her arms, deftly swaddling it, and places it in her arms. The cries of a newborn echoes throughout the room, and Jihoon—

Jihoon cannot look at anyone but her. 

Emaciated, she looks so small in his arms, a far cry from the woman who had captivated him, but he finds himself arrested by her gaze anyway, looking at her—at their child, with so much love he does not think there is a vessel big enough to contain it. 

“It’s a boy, my lady,” Songhwa says, and she nods, “congratulations.”

Her breaths are coming fast and hard now, a sign of her diminishing life, and Jihoon hates himself, hates the world that has made her this way, but most of all, he hates this child, who took her so cruelly from him. He has so much to tell her, so many things to do for her. He wants her to live a long life, to live a full life. Except life is fleeting, and she is dying, right in front of him. 

She looks up at him, the same bright gaze, glazed over with the pain of childbirth, “Name him.”

Jihoon stares. Even now, even now, when she is dying, all she can think about is her child. Their child, if the gods were so merciful. At this moment, he hates the gods. 

“He’s your son, Princess,” he replies softly, undoing the heavy braid that must have been so painful for her, “name him for the both of us.”

She nods, cradling the crying infant, “Woo-ju. The universe.”

The universe. A fitting name, for a child who has had everything taken away from him the moment he was born. “Woo-ju,” Jihoon nods, “our universe, Princess.”

She nods, and before he can say anything in reply, make a joke to lighten the mood, her body begins convulsing, her breaths coming rapid and shallow. The beginning of the end, Jihoon thinks, an end he cannot do anything save endure. 

Songhwa moves faster than him, picking up the crying infant from her arms and walking out of the room. She says nothing, but Jihoon knows, can hear her sob outside of the door. It’s a small mercy that Songhwa has gifted him, of being close to her in the final moments of her life. 

“Princess,” He lightly taps her cheek, and her eyes open, “Princess, I made a song for you.”

“A song,” she says, voice faint, “play it for me sometime, Lee Jihoon.”

“I’ll play it for you tomorrow, Princess,” He sobs, holding her close, “you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine.”

“Jihoon.”

He looks up at her face, the same one that had held so much pain and love in it, “Lee Jihoon. In my next life, if you meet me—”

“Yes, Princess?”

“Come say hello to me once.” She smiles, “so I can tell you how much I love you, one more time.”

He sobs, “You’re delusional if you think I am ever letting go of you, Princess.”

She laughs, and oh how much he has craved to hear it, the same carefree, careless laughter of her youth, “I love you, Lee Jihoon.”

The sheets of music remain in his pocket until the sunrise. 

—

Songhwa comes in minutes later, to find them both curled up within each other, Jihoon’s sobs tapering into quiet whimpers as he holds her close. She says nothing, cries silently as she braids her lady’s hair for one last time. 

Jihoon tucks in a handkerchief inside her jacket, before he leaves the house. 

taglist: @hisnowbie2 @cherry-zip @facethesunflower

[blauerhund]

Pauls contribution to the Spy Museum Berlin

See: https://rammwiki.net/wiki/Spy_Museum_Berlin_(soundtrack)

I recently visited Berlin and wanted to check out the spy museum Paul did the music for, ze Deutsches Spionagemuseum, which is located at Potsdamer Platz. It's probably the last Rammstein related spot left that I've been wanting to check out in the city and I finally came about doing so in the one day I was there. The last time they unfortunately had a fire alarm going on, so I couldn't go in, but this time I succeeded!

I really ... I can't get myself to be interested in History Museums and the like, I don't know why. Maybe it's because my dad dragged us kids through every single castle, open air farm museum and medieval market South Germany had to offer at the time, resulting in the adverse effect of me, as an adult, feeling like I need to go sit down after having taken five steps into a Natural History Museum. I guess that means I'm satiated. Sometimes I visit art exhibitions though, but even those drain me so much, I just about run through them and am in a bad mood afterward. Have you heard of Museum Fatigue, because that's a real thing! Anyhow, that's why I made it my mission to walk through the spy museum looking only for the music bits playing. I spent about 10€ at the entrance and then walked in through something resembling a personnel sluice.

At first, I thought they had removed the music as I didn't hear any sounds at all for quite some time after going in, apart from some shooting noise coming from the one corner. However, on the second floor I made out a brawarahh and pushed past info screens, a real-life Trabi and spy standees trying to find out where the sound was coming from. I wanted to try recording some of it as well.

The speakers were put up high above, and I stood there looking like a complete nut holding one arm outstretched above my head pointing my phone at the ceiling. Luckily there weren't too many people there, but what does it matter to me, I was on my mission.

Ever since I had first heard about it, I've been wondering how Paul came about doing this. I guess the most likely explanation is him having a friend involved with the spy museum, asking him if he wanted to put a small part in or something similar. I think Paul is someone who would be happy contributing to a culturally significant occasion or institution, if he sees fit. As can be seen on his Instagram, he does like to look at attractions and things alike, and I imagine him being quite enthusiastic about doing so:

https://www.instagram.com/paullanders_official/p/B1gYv3hoByc/?hl=de&img_index=1

Look at the last picture – he has a good time. I think it's often the bunch consisting of him, Olli and Schneider out and about looking at local attractions and exploring the cities they play in. Jens tagging along from time to time :^)

The Spionagemuseum has quite a few things you can get hands on with, like solving small riddles or trying out a lie detector test. Or even making your way through a laser field! I, well, I just looked at it, but I can see Paul getting in there, rolling around on the floor. It's definitely a well produced exhibition!

They also showed footage of spy movies like Jason Bourne, Mission Impossible, James Bond and so on, with music playing next to it and, you know, I'm quite confident that one wasn't done by Herr Paul Landers, but just the original score. Although there is a song in the laser room where I was sure it was a movies soundtrack as well, but on the RammWiki page there is a song called "Laser Room" so it must be from Paul! Only goes to show his versatility :) Correct me in case I'm wrong and it's a film score after all.

At first, I wanted to include my recordings in this post, then I got a bit scared of violating copyright law, so I'm not gonna share them here (unless we have a German law expert on here telling me it would be fine?), but feel free to DM me. It's mostly eerie sounds, plus that one film score-like bit.

I think I feel rebellious enough for a little snippet though, so if you want to have a taste of Pauls soundtrack composer career, have a listen:

[fascinationstreetmp3]

What if...what if past dm didn't happen. How do you see it playing out? And actually give your two cents about danlou too plz. Cause sometimes I think he is the devil ( angel) to Daniel's minion. Idk if that makes sense?

admittedly it sometimes is difficult for me to shut off my "past dm definitely happened" thinking because im just so certain there are too many hints that it did LOL but...

for armand, there's this boy he wrote off in 1973, who he maybe genuinely couldn't find anything "fascinating" or extraordinary about, who he has perhaps been underestimating this whole time in 2022— i could see him realising that now daniel is truly sharp-minded and ruthless, with none of the attempts to knock him off balance really working, and he's figured out so much in such a short space of time and ultimately gotten the truth (and a little revenge) he was after in the end. there's something very intriguing in that, despite the anger he feels that daniel took everything from him.

maybe turning him could feel like a punishment to armand (even though i think daniel did want to be a vampire by that point, armand might not realise that. and it could also be a form of punishment for louis, taking away daniel's humanity in a perversion of letting him live for louis in 1973), but maybe it's also subconsciously a way of keeping around someone who has figured him out and seen him so quickly, even if that is something he runs from.

for daniel, i think everything that went down in dubai sort of "woke him up." when we first see him, he looks bored, tired, and lonely. he barely talks to his family, only enough for them to know he's sick, and he's teaching internet classes now. the pandemic has kept him away from the world but it also feels like the passion has seeped out of him long before that. at this point he's expecting to die someday soon and leave his daughters some cash. being invited for a second interview with louis doesn't immediately break him out of that mindset; it's invigorated him some by the end of the first season, but once there's an even bigger mystery to crack after armand reveals himself, that's when he really starts enjoying himself.

by the end of season 2, daniel is so far in it he doesn't want it to stop, chasing a high. and for that reason, even if the turning was "spiteful" on armand's part, i think daniel would've wanted to be turned either way. just like daniel in the books, he can't go back to an ordinary life and function normally or sit around waiting to die after being so involved in this world. armand gives it to him in some form— but daniel wants more, he wants answers and a story from armand, he wants to crack the truth about him and figure out "where the bullshit starts." so he chases after him when armand leaves, and it turns into an inverse of their original chase in the books:

the highlighted lines could actually actually work in reverse in this scenario too— daniel wants to know what makes armand so fascinating, wants to know what and who he really is. even down to daniel himself not being able to move about by day now when armand can. and as the chase goes on, they learn more about one another, becoming drawn to each other despite the animosity between them.

as for the second part of your question, do you mean danlou kind of acting as the show's version of devil's minion? or their relationship being more similar to what armand and daniel's is in the books? i see danlou as something unique, and especially if there was any kind of past dm, i don't know that louis would be directly involved— in the sense that i believe he wouldn't be happy to fuck with this kid's life even further than he already did, with the "think of me as god or an angel" speech he gave trying to set daniel free from everything he'd seen and heard from armand. even if louis doesn't really care as much about humanity in general as he sometimes claims, daniel is a symbol of something to louis, proof he can still do good.

whereas with armand, no matter what love was there, dm is ultimately about keeping daniel embroiled in that life. armand shares his blood and lets daniel get addicted to it, and it slowly breaks daniel apart until he's losing his mind.

like you said, louis is more the "angel" where armand's the "devil." in a past dm scenario i actually think it's possible the words louis speaks to daniel in 1973 could be something that helps daniel towards the end of his relationship with armand in the 80s ("if things ever get bad again," "these words will hold you up and carry you; they are your lifeline") and could be what led to him finally breaking free of armand and maybe asking to be "let go" if he really won't ever turn him.

but to me whether past dm happened or not, danlou is about daniel being the first person in a long time to listen to louis both in 1973 and 2022, louis changing and saving daniel's life in a way no one else ever did, and daniel coming back 50 years later and eventually returning the favour. they're both fathers to daughters, they've both repressed themselves in various ways, they've both had their memories messed with by armand.

they're the vampire and the interviewer who kick off the whole story being told, and i think the show portrays that very well, keeping them (and hopefully their relationship) relevant going forward and expanding on their relationship with each other in a way the books never did, and not really borrowing any dynamic from dm or anyone else. armand of course hangs over them both, the same way louis hangs over dm, the same way daniel factors into loumand in 1973 and 2022, and they're all important to each other for different reasons.

[sleeepydraws]

If I may butt in with my 15 years of playing and gaming experience...

Don't! worry about memorizing all of your spells and abilities.

Do! look over your sheet before the session and ask questions if you need to. :) Coming prepared (with your stuff) shows the DM that you care, and makes me (at least) hella motivated.

Don't! worry about being an amazing player or role player at the start.

Do! try!! We love to see it, and the comfort comes with time. It's awkward until it isn't, and we've all been there.

Don't! wait around silently after your DM explains a room, NPC, etc. (it makes me hella awkward at least )

Do! feel free to:

restate what they said (for clarification)

ask questions (for spelling, distance, details, etc)

and/or ask others what they'd like to do (helps make the game more group oriented)

For combat...

Don't! space out so much that you don't know when your turn is. (Some spacing out is understandable since it takes a bit.)

Do! keep an eye on when your turn is coming up and what your friends are doing. I learned how to play the game by watching others do their turns. This is also a great opportunity to ask other players to help clarify any of your spells, skills and/or abilities that you're thinking of using.

Personal recommendation! I like to have a "default turn" where if I can't think of ANYTHING ELSE to do that's more applicable, I do the default:

Walk to baddie

Smack baddie (until dead)

(if dead) Smack another baddie (if multiple attacks)

Apply whatever weapons etc you have. Having a default like this makes me so relaxed during a session because when in doubt... I already have my turn planned.

Don't stress! Do have fun :)

Do you have any tips for someone who’s about to start playing DND? It’s me, I’m someone who’s about to start playing DND

Ehh I'm not an expert per se, but I'd say don't worry too much about memorising every detail and every spell etc - if your DM is a nice one they'll be okay with you fumbling things until you get the hang of it 😅

Also maybe don't have your character too set in stone? I personally find it easier to RP a character with some room to wiggle for the first few sessions (leave aspects of their personality or background to fill later) so that I'm not too conditioned by the fear of being OOC while I'm warming up to them

[thegrimreaperisanerd]

In terms of a Sunday update (Rubber, Meet Ultraviolet) we have two options:

Option A: Since I missed the Sunday upload last week and couldn't post until Wednesday, the next *big* chapter isn't gonna be ready for tomorrow, instead I can post a shorter out of sequence chapter (like chapters 1 and 5 this is another - shorter - metaphor chapter) which was my original plan in the pacing draft I have

Option B: no update tomorrow and instead I post the next big chapter and smaller metaphor chapter.... When they are ready

Sidenote: I don't celebrate Xmas and have no family worth talking to bar my brother so I'm taking a week off as of today then working through the holidays, which SHOULD give me more time to write- and my plan remains to have this fic finished- AND the next two chapters of DUCKLINGS out by the 25th

P.S: people messaging the Palestaticexchange blog- I know, I am sorry, I'd *also* have liked the event up and running for the holidays again but I'm depressed and burnt out- there is A LOT of behind the scenes work and messaging with people that I just don't have the energy for right now- it's a bad time of year for my C-PTSD *shrugs* what can ya do? Maybe come Spring I'll open it again, OR I may give the blog to someone who can manage it better, I haven't decided yet

[protect-namine]

you know, I think neji would enjoy playing dnd. getting to write stories and play characters with no limitations, and having to improv with the other players because he would never have full control of where the story was headed? it would be a dream come true, and also therapeutic. neji would of course be the dm who would "yes and" anything his players want to do. the story would be something everyone has input on and would help shape. an adventure that neji himself couldn't predict or write on his own. also, just imagine him describing his setting and doing all his character voices, he'd love that so much

I think it would be a good exercise for quartz too, because they'd have to make their own characters and backstories and roleplay in character without a script to direct them. especially to kisa "transparent vessel" tachibana, who can act out any character but is afraid of letting herself be seen through them. similarly, kai as well, since he'd be in charge of his own character instead of propping someone else up

on the flip side, fumi would get to enjoy playing a character but not having the pressure to be the lead/spotlight of a story. he's there to play, not perform

sou would also LOVE dnd. I think he'd be really into the character creation and lore, and is probably the next person I can think of who can try being the dm when neji is sick/tired/wants to be a player. he's the player who takes down notes and remembers one small detail neji mentioned four sessions ago that becomes relevant to the current session. neji loves him because sou is the one who appreciates his world building the most

suzu and fumi would instigate so much in the adventure, which neji would love. suzu makes a character everyone loves (like hachipochi) and always brings snacks to the table

fumi has read all of the player handbook, and mitsuki has read maybe a quarter of it (only the relevant parts to his character and how some dice rolls and combat work). mitsuki is also the one who doesn't put much effort into his character's backstory but unexpectedly gets big character development during the adventure, surprising everyone in the table including both the dm and himself

otori is very good at both roleplaying and combat, has created a compelling character, and tries to go on solo adventures but eventually gets roped into the party because he can't adventure alone in neji's setting

[altschmerzes]

it's just that sometimes you're so... impossibly happy and full of so much incredible joy that you gotta post about it on the internet otherwise you may get on the roof with a bullhorn yknow.

[fishparasite]

genuinely sorry about all the dndposting recently it hasn't even been interesting but i'm so desperate to dm. i've got storytelling skills!!! i've got improv skills!!! i want to build a story around characters!!! i want to see what players do with what i give them!!!

[calamitydaze]

long tag ramble below u have been warned

[unproduciblesmackdown]

a decade later sure i'll put it into Text Post "tumblr user claims: plausibly may feasibly" form, starting with these classic screenshots i still have saved

this being dialogue from 2015's always watching: a marble hornets story, which is like hey this is a pretty well produced indie venture & you can sure like sit through it even if you then never watch it again b/c it's still kind of overly on the beaten path & "i'm not sure this choice is justified in much of anything" (see: bizarrely omnipresent thread of a love triangle just to be There; typical Mental Patient(tm) Harbinger; several real marked More Is Less instances arguably) that is still a better time than other random horror material i've seen & hated vs. only mostly been underwhelmed by but in an Overall Shrug way alone. yeah imdb's 4.7 out of 10 seems fair enough if you consider like 5 stars truly middle of the road solid if forgettable vs that anything < 7 stars is for [Bad!] or whatever

anyways the main character is named milo & indeed the creator(s) / actors / writers troy joseph & tim were involved in the production at all: tim at least by being the first step in doug jones's casting by reaching out directly (online), but troy & joseph also via Some writing, like in that slender game sequel also: not the Primary creators / writers, but still officially involved in the creative process at all. & i knew of them & they knew of me by this time & in a [source: dude just trust me] style of way, i, a tumblr user, am like "i think milo alwayswatching Could be named after me, milo unproduciblesmackdown. lol." b/c also like yeah i can take it on the chin if it's a coincidence, which is also likely. great name & it's just not being used enough in fictional & nonfictional people's names. you might also be aware that some role in tribetweIve is named milo (maybe the main guy. i never watched it) so you might also speculate it's named after that guy, which seems plausible also, But: afaik there are no other similar plausible shoutouts at all, to that series or to emh which was just as majorly like One Of Those 3 Biggest Online Series. may or may not add a grain of salt to take it with. like my own "of course, there's a grain of salt in 'milo just like me milo, and Uncoincidentally?' b/c how wouldn't there be. a name people have"

the dude just trust me argument: distilling it down to "i went to their first convention & then the same one the next year, & in these experiences i Know they knew of me from that + also online, where people knew my name was milo as well" and "it seems feasible enough it's an easter egg Not Coincidence that i first knew this character's name happened to also be milo b/c someone who experienced a clip sent me an ask about it, so they assumed it was a possible actual connection too lol." and, of course, it might be a fun coincidence after all. but i'm still like "yeah no it Could be a funny little shoutout to me specifically for real" and mean it and, again, i can endure it if i'm completely wrong. b/c who could care, and also b/c it's so funny that the character is a guy who basically just is like "i am going to have a bad attitude. b/c of the insistent tiresome love triangle thing. well now I'm insistently tiresome" and fucking everything up but like, sure. exasperating epic fail protagonists

the only relevance i think it has besides "to me, b/c i can go haha yeah. that might be like: just like me!!" is that it's Also plausible b/c yeah marble hornets Is the kind of series that might go "this could be an easter egg about some queer autistic tumblr user we know about" lmao, its Inherent Queerness both re: the material and in the creators' knowledge like yep that's how our Appreciators skew! like it's low stakes to be like [lol, Me. perhaps] b/c it's obviously of zero importance like it adds no info, i'm just some rando queer fan from back in the day, but it's this potential Fun Fact that's funny to know & it's about "yeah like they knew i was trans back then too & that it was like, amidst the MH Fans, like nobody's cishet man (shaggy rogers voice)" Gay Rights!

[puppmeo]

Have you ever been assumed to be romantically attracted to someone and even just the thought of that makes you want to throw up . Anybody

[tonycries]

Freak On The Cam! - C.K.

Synopsis. Choso always loved watching you - his pretty lil’ camgírl - from behind the screen. Who knew he’d love being on-screen with you even more?

Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, camgírl! reader, spítting, Choso has rings and piercings, first times + loss of vírginity (Choso’s), oral (fem receiving), exhíbitionism, DOWN BAD Choso, cúmplay, use of “ma’am”, Sukuna is a menace, víbrators, light jealousy (Choso’s), some HEINOUS things, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 6.5k

A/N. Meant to post this last week but hehe here we are. Also I’ve GOT to stop using Unc-kuna so much lmao.

“Wanna see a movie or do you wanna make one?”

Choso was screwed. Completely and utterly screwed. So badly, in fact, that he might as well just wipe off every trace of himself online and go into hiding - preferably forever.

All because he had been so stupidly careless as to leave his phone unattended for exactly 1 minute and 47 seconds around Sukuna. 

In the time it took Choso to raid the kitchen for his favorite brand of cereal, his uncle had managed to open his Twitter (because “that’s where all the juicy stuff is”), stalk your pretty page at the very top of his last searched, and send a god-awful pick-up line that would probably get him blocked. Or worse.

Damnit, he knew he shouldn’t have made his password Yuji’s birthday.

“Ya should be thankful I didn’t DM her myself, brat.” Sukuna chuckles, not even a shred of regret in his tone, way too amused with how Choso was frantically trying to tackle the phone out of his hands. “What’s the harm in asking? Such a pretty camgirl, n’ you look like you need some good pu-”

“She’s also my classmate.”

“Kinky. Even better.” 

No, not “even better”. God, this must be some kind of cosmic joke, and Choso just wished the Earth would swallow him up whole right now - and maybe his phone along with it too. 

It had taken him almost a whole semester to work up the courage to just sit next to you during your shared lecture. All gorgeous with your bright smiles, and your smart mouth. And Choso was very much content to admire you from afar - and from behind his phone screen, of course.

Never following, never liking. Never tipping you off as one of your hundreds of thousands of fans.

And now, not only had Sukuna revealed that he’d found your secret Twitter account - the one with those sinful little clips of yourself that had Choso opening the app way too much - he’d also propositioned you. Like some creep.  

“Ugh. This is why women hate you.” Still desperately grappling, he spits out more to himself than Sukuna at this point. “B-besides, she’s never even gonna respond any-”

Ping!

And the Itadori household had never been quieter. Never, on a random Saturday during spring break. Never, as the two men crowd the phone, jaws dropped and staring wordlessly at the singular message on screen. You. 

“Let’s make one ;)”

---

“So s’not a stream this time, jus’ a video. Is that okay?”  You hum from your desk, glancing at the man seated on your bed as he hastily nods along with whatever you said. Looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here. 

Weird. 

It had only been a few days of back and forth since you’d gotten that first text - the one that you’d honestly thought about blocking like the thousands of others. But there was just something about it that made you stop, something that had you clicking on the profile to delve a little deeper.

It hit you like a semi-truck back then - five of them, in fact - that this was someone in your class. Someone you knew. How the hell did he even find this account? 

You knew Choso as that sweet - albeit slightly gloomy - kid that sat next to you, always quick with his answers and even quicker to look away from your gaze, no matter how hard you tried to spark a conversation. You’d just guessed he was afraid of you or something.

So nothing could’ve prepared you for how ridiculously attractive he looked in that profile picture, all smug grins and dark locks falling effortlessly around his slightly smudged eyeliner. Shirtless, giving just a peak of- oh god, were those nipple piercings?  

Could you really be blamed? You just had to have him.

But, here - it was like he was just itching to run away at the first chance he got. 

“You’re not held at gunpoint, y’know.” you giggle at how he startles at the mere sound of your voice. The mattress dips as you stop fiddling with the camera to sit next to him, thighs flush against his muscled ones. “Are you sure you want-”

“Yes.” 

It seems that both of you were surprised by the abrupt response. Too quick. Choso clears his throat, cheeks flaring as he tries to dredge up some semblance of dignity, he drawls lightly. “I mean- Yes.”

You study him for a moment under the dim lighting, noting the way his hands clench and unclench in his lap, the way his chest rises and falls rapidly as he struggles to control his breathing. He was nervous. Nervous and horny - nothing quite like the suave impression his pick-up line gave off. 

But so irresistible just the same.

“Well…Cho.” you bat your lashes, voice dropping to a seductive whisper - not too heavy, for now at least. “Then why won’t you even look at me?”

Alas, Choso was not a strong man. 

Maybe at your words, maybe at that playful little nickname you gave him, he’s finally raising those dark eyes to look at you. Twinkling with- fear? anticipation? A flicker of something so dangerous as his gaze sweeps greedily over that tight dress you put on just for this occasion. 

Choso tries to ignore how sinfully it hugs all your curves. Or the way it would look a million times better on the floor. 

This was absolute torture. 

And God he thinks he could pass out right then and there as you lean in closer. Too close. The temperature in the room suddenly increasing by about 10 degrees as you purr, tone careful and balanced. “Much better. And now…” 

His breathing becomes heavier, eyes flickering downwards. Once. Twice. 

And you know you’ve got him in the palm of your hand. 

“...all you gotta do is touch me.”

Yeah, if Choso thought he was going to pass out before then he definitely wasn’t ready for those dangerous little words. Ones that have him shaken right to the core - fighting that urge to just take you how he’s imagined all those lonely nights.

“You- huh?” he lets out a shaky laugh, the sound strained as he crosses his legs with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, desperately trying to will away the blood rushing straight to his throbbing cock right now. 

But how could he? Not when you only shift closer, barely even a hair’s breadth between you two - relishing in his strangled gasp as your tits press so enticingly against his arm. Such an adorable pout playing on your lips as you mutter, “Do you not want to?”

And he did. Oh, how he did - has been imagining it for the past five months, in fact. And Choso lets you know, a little twenty times, actually, as the words spill panickedly from his lips. 

“-idiot trying to set me up and I’ve been dreaming of fucking you for so long but I’m just-” Heat rushes to Choso’s cheeks, as he abruptly shuts the fuck up. But it’s too late - the damage has been done.

You give him a wry smile, lips mere inches from his ear. “Just what?”

His breath hitches, muscles rippling so deliciously as he shudders beneath your touch. “I’m a-” Choking out - as if it physically hurts to  admit - “-virgin.”

Oh. 

Now, you might’ve expected many things - but certainly not this. Though, looking at the cute flush on the tips of his ears, all the way down to those big, needy eyes, you don’t mind. Not one bit.

With one, quick glance at the rolling camera - your mouth is moving before your mind. “Do you want me to…do something about it?”

And then it’s like something snapped. 

You don’t know who leans in first, just that Choso’s kissing you. And you’re kissing him - how could you not? 

Because goddammit it was always those pretty lips that you were staring at whenever he was spouting off answers in class. You just never expected he’d be kissing you back with such an infectious desperation. 

No sooner are you thinking about how sweet his lips are before he’s pulling away with a soft sigh, pressing hot open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. Your neck. Back to your lips like he wanted everything and anything.

You gasp licks a long, languid stripe up your neck - maybe at how utterly obscene it felt, maybe at that sharp cold feeling that makes you flinch. Fuck - a tongue piercing? The noise makes Choso’s mouth drop into a quick oh! surging forward to claim your lips again. Addicted. 

Only to be stopped by your hands cupping his face, letting out a pained grunt at how he was so close. Just a hair’s breadth away from your lips.

“Cho~ Open your mouth, baby.” you whisper, hotly. 

And he looked so pretty - dark hair askew, lower lip swollen and quivering with need, brows furrowing because he wanted more of your taste. But he obeys, of course he does, Choso thinks he’ll do anything you asked. And lo and behold, sitting right there in the middle of his tongue was a pretty silver piercing.

You just can’t help but thumb open his mouth further, looking him right in the eyes as you spit in his mouth. Once. Twice. 

“Bet no one else has done this before, huh?” Grinning at how sinfully Choso’s eyes roll to the back of his head at your taste, “Kiss me proper now.”

God, you were so good at throwing away whatever was left of his poor sanity. And it’s all that’s said before his kiss-bitten lips are crashing into yours again. 

“No. No one’s hah- done that before. Only you.” he’s panting into your open mouth, swirling his tongue with yours. “F-fuck only you. Only you only you-”

You barely even realize the way you’re on his lap now, sitting so prettily there that Choso half-deliriously wonders whether he should take a picture. Mind spinning too much with his throbbing erection under your drenched panties, a damp little patch at his fat tip. So hot and heavy already.

“Cho, do you want me to-”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You certainly don’t have to be told twice - especially with that little nickname. Fiddling with his belt, you’re so hazy with want - the need to taste Choso, to see if the rest of him was as sweet as his lips - that you almost miss the look of confusion that flashes across his face.

You bat your lashes at him almost-innocently, “You alright?” And Choso thinks he could cum right there and right now at the sight. If he wasn’t currently battling for his life, that is. 

“Yeah, s’jus’- what I wanted hah- was to…” His hands sneak down, cupping your heated pussy through your drenched panties. “-taste her. ”

“Oh?”

“Are y’gonna teach me how?”

Oh. Fuck.

You know you’re fucked. Completely and utterly fucked.

Only moments later, Choso’s wrestling you back onto the mattress, face-to-face with your sloppy pussy. So mean with the way he was pinning your hips down with one hand, all but ripping your panties off with the other. 

You feel his piercing before his tongue. Both the hot and cold so maddening on your cunt as Choso licks long, lazy stripes up your puffy folds - dragging his hot tongue all the way from your base. Just grazing your swollen clit. 

“Teach me- fuck fuck-” words muffled and slurring together, vibrations going straight to your pussy. “Use me. Use me how you want.”

You’re threading your fingers through his dark locks before you even realize it, grinding your sloppy cunt all over his waiting mouth. “Quirk your tongue like- ngh-” Angling him close enough so he bullies his soft tongue into your tight pussy. Piercing massaging all the right places. “Fuck-”

“Like this?”

“Sh-shit,” you gasp, nodding deliriously. “S’too ngh- good.”

And by God, did you mean it. 

“Yeah? Y’like this?” he’s groaning, wrapping his lips around your swollen clit. “Can feel you clenching around me. Shit shit shit, you love this, huh? So slutty on camera for it?” 

Getting wetter and wetter by the second as his tongue roams for that one-

“Oh! F-fuck, Cho. Right hngh- there. Deeper-”

Ah, found it.

Choso grins as you tug on his soft strands, you can feel it on your throbbing pussy. Pushing your legs all the way till they’re at your tits to hit that little spot each and every time. Again and again. Eyes glassy, torn between devouring that slutty expression on your face and how fucking drenched you were. 

“Shit, baby,” his words are so strained now, like his sanity was dancing away at each flick of his tongue. “You’re drooling everywhere. See? Show the camera now.”

You don’t have to look. Because you can feel it.

Can feel how wet his mouth is, just glistening with slick and saliva. Trailing all the way down his chin - to his wrist - only second to how sloppy your dripping cunt was. It was like he was getting messy on purpose, like a little reminder to himself that shit this was you and he was eating out your pretty cunt to insanity-

“Oh my god, think m’hooked.” Tongue dragging all over your swollen folds, catching on his piercing. “Think your pretty lil’ pussy’s hah- driving me crazy. Ruined me, Fuck-”

And it’s so embarrassing how he’s talking you through it, grinning at every lil’ whine and whimper that leaves your mouth. You were acting all shy right now in a way that makes Choso’s cock twitch so painfully. He barely even notices, though, with the way he was so drunk off your pussy. 

So messy - unable to decide between rolling his tongue over your ravaged clit and dipping into your sloppy hole. Too much. In and out in and-

“Faster.”

He goes faster. 

“H-harder.”

He goes harder.

Anything and everything for you - to keep those pretty moans falling from your lips, walls getting tighter and tighter around his tongue. And Choso might just consider himself a man addicted.

“Can you ngh- cum f’me, baby?” You flinch as he spits out the words into your cunt. Harsh. Fucked-out. Sounding just as delirious and breathless as you. “Cum f’me please. Wan’ to taste y’on my tongue. Please. Fuck- need it so bad. So bad.”

You’re so caught up in Choso’s pussydrunk little babbles that you barely even realize when you’re cumming. Just that you’re letting out a strangled scream of his name, dragging your sloppy pussy all over his mouth. 

And he has never seemed more blissed out. Long gone is that nervous little expression usually on his face around you, Choso looked like he could be suffocated in-between your legs right now and love it. Hope for it, even.

He tells you that, of course. As soon as you’re blinking back your vision, blood still roaring in your ears. Delicate strings of slick snapping where he parts from your quivering cunt, lips swollen and glossed so prettily with your sweet sweet juices. 

“Baby, y’think the video of lesson one came out good?”

Oh. Shit, what have you done?

---

That certainly wasn’t the last time you saw Choso - or the last time you had him in front of a camera, either.

A few weeks later, you found yourself with an entire album for the man - a hidden treasure trove under the simple name of “Cho <3”. Most of the videos favorited, all sorted so tediously in a way that showed you spent an obscene amount of time looking at all the ways he ruined you. 

So filthy on camera that you always wondered whether it was the same person in the sheets and in class, texting Choso for later. Just to confirm. 

But embarrassingly, only some of these videos made their way onto your Twitter account - with Choso’s pretty face largely out of the frame. The two of you hadn’t ventured into streams yet either, opting to hide him away. Because, okay, maybe you were slightly jealous of other people seeing him - but it was really hard not to be when he looked like that.

In spite of all that, you’d still gained a casual hundred thousand more followers since his appearance - ones who always commented on your solo streams asking where your “hot emo bf” was.

Comments you’d pointedly ignore, because, hell, you wished he was here on-stream helping you get off, too. Yet despite the endless flirting and videos, Choso actually hadn’t made it further than actually holding a full conversation with you. And you wanted more. 

For all you know, you might just be one of his many trysts - and it was just for the videos, right? You get the content, he gets the experience? A win-win situation, so why have you never felt more like such a loser?

Such a loser the way you’ve already lost count of the “lessons” but still haven’t gotten to feel him - to fuck him the way you wanted just yet. 

“S’alright if I take this, right, ma’am?” He smirks during one such session, knuckle-deep in your dripping cunt. Dangling your drenched panties like a badge of honor, flimsy and soaked with your sweet sweet juices. “S’alright if I-” And he can’t even finish the sentence. Your jaw drops as Choso raises the thin fabric to his face, breathing in your essence like a man possessed. 

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzzt-

“You’re so filthy, Cho-” you manage to choke out once you find your voice. Squirming on his bed like such a slut for him. “Was the innocent thing just an act?”

“Nope.” he pops the p, licking lewd little circles on your neck, thumbing open your puffy folds to watch in amazement at the way you glisten and clamp around his fingers. Eyes flickering briefly to the recording phone in his hand. “But we gotta give ‘em a good show, huh?”

Right, you’d forgotten about the camera. But none of that matters anyway because-

Intensity setting 2.

“You’re so mean, too.”

“Am I?” he grins, teeth grazing along your racing pulse. “I think you taught that to me, baby. Shit, lesson 8 it was?”

God, he was addictive.

Choso’s having way too much fun playing around with the intensity setting of the bullet vibrator shoved inside your ravaged cunt. Sending quick, methodical vibrations all along your pulsing clit. In time with the breathless moans leaving your kiss-bitten lips, and it’s all you can to call out for- more? Mercy? Both? 

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzzt-

“God, you’re so perfect. Shit, so messy f’me.” he groans, and you could tell that the video wasn’t going to be uploaded anyway. Too shaky, focusing in and out of Choso’s fingers. Knuckle-deep and pumping in and out of your filthy hole. Relentless. “Almost makes me wanna show off to an actual audience.”

“Maybe I want to, too.” you muse, shifting at his heated gaze. Dangerously pressing your thumb over those nipple piercings you’ve gotten to know so well lately - as if to support your point. God you wish he’d take off that snug shirt.

Intensity setting 3.

“That so?”

And no matter how many times Choso’s ruined you on camera - and watched the videos over and over afterwards - he always thought they weren’t enough to capture your perfection. 

“Such a slut f’me, baby.” To capture the exact moment in which your wet lips fall into a soft little oh! when he massages your walls in time with the pulsing vibrator. To capture that absolutely sinfully excited little glint in your eyes as he ruts his clothed erection against your pussy. “Y’always this dirty?” Quickly turning into a look of slight panic at the sudden jingle of keys from the front door. 

“Yo, brat. Where the fuck are ya?”

Ah, there he was, the reason that Choso usually locked his bedroom door whenever you were over, even if he was home alone. 

Intensity setting 4.

As the silence continues, so does Choso’s abuse on your cunt. In fact, he only gets more erratic - like he wanted you to cum. Needed you to cum right now, right here in front of Sukuna, footsteps only growing louder. Nearer.

“Cho-” you fight to get out the words. “He’s hah-.”

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzzt-

“Can’t speak? That’s cute.” he coos, voice way too relaxed for someone whose mind was reeling with the realization that he couldn’t remember if he locked the door this time, and how adorable you sounded. Enough so that it made some raw, primal part of him wanna pull down his pants and fuck you right here right now. Cockblocks and his own virginity be damned. “C’mon now, use your words like a good girl. Tell the camera.”

Cocky bastard.

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzzt-

“Close!” you yelp, unsure of whether you were talking about yourself or the looming Sukuna. Jaw slack, tears springing into your ears as you look up at Choso. “So close.”

God, you were addictive. And this video was definitely going in both your favorites.

“Mhm,” he hums, movements getting hastier. More desperate. “I know, ma’am.”

Intensity setting 5.

That’s all that it takes for you to cum, letting out a loud strangled moan of Choso’s name. Or, you would’ve - if it hadn’t been for the way he’s shoving two, thick fingers into your mouth.

Silencing you - and in your hazy brain you think that if this was his way of shutting you up, then you really didn’t mind. Because all you could taste was you and the cold, cold metal of his rings. Somewhat intoxicating.

“Shhhhhh.” he’s breathing out, still mindlessly grinding his hips into yours. Though, you realize with a pang that today won’t be the day you get to feel that achingly hard erection straining his pants. “These pretty moans aren’t for him, hm?”

Pressing on the back of your tongue, smirking at the way you nod tearily up at him, moans still muffled. Hell, do you even know how sexy you’re being right now.

“Mhm, all f’me. All for fuckin’ me.”

Knock! Knock! Knock! 

“Why the fuck are you locked up in here on a Saturday night?” Sukuna sounds impatient, but not surprised. Probably imagining all sorts of dorky things his nephew was doing to hole himself up in his room. “Come out n’ get this takeout- what’s left of it anyways.”

And with that, it’s like the magic is over.

Your high only just bating before Choso’s hurriedly ending the recording on a hazy still of your disappointed pout, cursing Sukuna for his impeccable timing. 

Slightly concerned about the door being broken down and someone else seeing you in all your fucked-out glory, he hastily moves to grab the spare cloth by his bedside. Cleaning you up with hushed promises of “sending the recording later”, and “s’alright, he’ll be gone soon.”

Close. You were so close.

A win-win situation - but you’ve never felt like more of a loser.

---

“By God, I never thought he’d get the balls to do it.”

You yelp in surprise at the deep voice from behind you, whirling with a defiant brandish of Choso’s (your?) keys. He’d given them to you a few lessons ago, saying it would make it easier for you to come and go from his apartment as you pleased. Which - to you - felt dangerously like something a boyfriend would say-

But that wasn’t important right now.

What was important was the older man suddenly towering over you right outside Choso’s front door. Big arms crossed over his chest, that leering smirk clashing with his pink hair. “I knew it was odd that brat had a pair of heels by the door.”

Shit. Sukuna.

Ryomen awfully-wingman-his-nephew Sukuna.

“Spill.” At your confused head tilt, he plows on. “Spill the tea. I need new blackmail on my lil’ nephew. How badly did he have to beg you to go out with him?”

You don’t know what was more bizarre - what he was saying or the way he actually pulls out his Notes app as if hanging on to your every word. 

“I-It’s because of you.” you manage to choke out, unsure of what Choso has told his family about you.  Eyes flitting between him and the door right behind you, sounding your very best not to sound just as guilty as you felt. “You’re the reason we have this weird…thing.”

A beat of silence passes. One. Two. 

And just as you’re beginning to wonder whether you’ve broken Choso’s infamous uncle, he throws his head back and laughs. Laughs, right in your face, sounding like he’d just heard the funniest punchline in the world. 

“Oh that’s hilarious.” he exclaims, wiping a mock tear. Cackles dying down as if he was suddenly aware that maybe Choso would hear and walk in on this impromptu interrogation. “Damn, that awful pick-up line is why you started fuckin’? I thought it’d get that sap blocked so he’d stop stalking your account so much.”

“No, we…” you hesitate, mind reeling with what Sukuna just admitted, and how bad it would really be that you’re divulging your sex life to a relative of the guy you’re fucking. Before thinking fuck it, might as well confide in someone. “...we’re just doing stuff for-” putting up air quotes. “-content.”

“Just content?”

“Just content.”

“And you like that fool?”

Your face burns at how glaringly obvious it apparently was, “...Yes.”

This seemingly sets Sukuna off on another wave of uncontrollable laughter. “Ohh, thanks for the blackmail on that emotionally-constipated brat.” Typing away on what you assume to be his Notes, he promptly turns to walk away, “See ya around, doll.”

“Wait!” you call after in confusion, making him stop and raise a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to like- I don’t know, give me advice for your nephew or something - like a good uncle?”

Scoffing, “Who said I was a good uncle?” He leans in ever-so-slightly, “Jus’ rock his world on camera or somethin’ n’ ask him out right in the middle.” Satisfied with being enough of a decent samaritan for today, he walks back with a half-wave, “He’d listen to whatever you say anyway.”

Oh. Is that so?

And Sukuna probably meant it as some joke. Something to tease the both of you with - but it’s something that sets the gears going off inside your head. Something that had you ignoring Sukuna’s slightly panicked, “Jus’ not too soon, I needa bully him with this first.”

---

You didn’t listen to Sukuna’s little plea, of course. Because only a few days later you’d steeled yourself to finally send that one text you knew would change your relationship with Choso. For the good, hopefully. 

You: 9pm my place. Get ready, cuz this time we’re gonna be live ;)

Cho <3: :0 

And with that, you’d thrown your phone on the bed, jittery about later tonight. Browsing through your wardrobe for that one set of barely-there lingerie in his favorite shade of pink. Hey, you could never be too prepared, right?

Nothing could’ve prepared Choso for this moment - absolutely nothing at all. 

He might’ve just died and gone to heaven the very moment he read that dangerous text - finally inviting him to join one of your streams. The ones that he’d always watch in the safety of his bedroom, lights dimmed, pants bunched around his ankles. 

Cock just achingly hard in his fist while he wished he was with you behind the camera. Getting you off so much better than any sextoy would. Just forcing those pretty moans from your lips - and everyone else could see that. Wish it was them ruining you instead. 

Alas, it was only a dirty little fantasy. 

Until now, that is.

slvt4u: Holy shit boyfriend reveal, about time.

uniwhore: THIS is the hottie from Twitter????? 

itsgenslut: idfc just fuck

“Nervous?” you smirk, looking down at the man sprawled so prettily on your bed. “You look just as close to an aneurysm as you were the first time. Though-” snaking your hand down, “-this is still the same as ever.”

You chuckle at the way Choso catches your lips with his, more to shut up those pathetic little moans threatening to escape him than anything. Because every glance at you in that sinful little pink bra gave Choso a mini heart attack. 

“B-baby-” he gasps, grinding his clothed erection against your palms. “I wan- hah-”

“Mhm?”

And God how you’ve ruined Choso - run him so utterly dry of his sanity.

Because he’s angling your head down, piercing cold against your tongue. “Spit.”

It was like that first time had gotten him addicted. So you do - right into his waiting mouth. Jaw dropping at the way he tips his head back, back, back to let it slide so obscenely down his throat. Moaning at just a taste of you, “God, I need to f-fucking ruin you.”

And if there’s anything you’ve learned after all these months with Choso, it’s that anything he says - he does.

The words have barely left his mouth before he’s pulling your bra off, ripping your panties easily off your hips. Each and every little regret about what a shame it was thrown out the window at the first sight of your pretty pussy. 

It never gets old - and Choso could never get enough of the sinful sight - your cunt so sloppy and ready for him already. 

“Cho-” you whine as ringed fingertips coming up to circle your sloppy entrance. Cold. Stretching you to insanity. “S-stop teasing.”

“Yes, ma’am. But first-” shifting you around ever-so-slightly on top of him. “Gotta show off how wet y’are f’me.”

uniwhore: did he just call her “ma’am”?? Me when??

roses101: idk who i wanna be they’re both so fucking hot ugh

“Fuck, y’look so sexy from this angle. Wonder if the camera thinks so too?”

Your face slightly burns at how he was seemingly taking over your own stream. Smug bastard, you think, glancing down at Choso, red-faced, hair untied, wearing a sly grin as his eyes slide over the flurry of comments. But two can play that game. 

“Cho~” fumbling with the hem of his underwear, “You’ve been holding out on me.”

A gasp leaves you involuntarily as you tug down Choso’s boxers just enough for his throbbing cock to spring free, hitting his sculpted abdomen. Blushed your favorite shade of pink - to match your bra - so so angry and soaked in precum. 

He was so intimidatingly long - longer than any of those toys you usually brought on camera. Thick enough that it had you wondering, shit, would you even be able to take it?

“S’this a-alright?” and for all his previous confidence, Choso sounded self-conscious. Peeking at you through his long lashes.

You grin, pumping a hand up and down his swollen cock, letting his precum drip down your wrist. “S’perfect.”

“God- fuck, baby. Oh-” Choso lets out breathless little profanities as you straddle his waist, dragging his weeping tip down your swollen folds. So fucking filthy as you sink down in by fucking in. Slowly. “Too- much-”

Apparently too slow because no sooner have you just taken in his fat tip, squeezing and clenching around him, that Choso’s flipping the both of you over. 

“M’sorry.” he breathes into your mouth as your back hits the mattress. “M’sorry m’sorry, fuck- just can’t-” fingers immediately drawing frenzied little circles on your pulsing clit to take your mind off the dizzying stretch as he bullies his massive cock into your snug cunt. “Can’t wait can’t wait- waited too fucking long. Want this so badly-”

You felt too good. Too perfect around him. 

“Ah! Hngh- Cho, oh my god. Too- ngh-” you moan, as he starts grinding in shallow, mindless little movements just to fit himself inside. Pushing and pushing, you wondered if he even realized what he was doing.

Sounding like his sanity was dwindling away with each little thrust, “S’too big? You can take it. Fuck fuck fuck please. Need this.” Pressing all the way into your lungs. “How do you wan’ it- how do you wan’ me?”

Honestly, Choso didn’t even need to ask, because he just bottoms out - heavy balls smacking against your ass, cock swollen and throbbing inside you - that you think that you just wanted him to ruin you. 

“R-ruin?” his voice breaks as he repeats - more to himself than you. Oh, shit had you said that out loud? You’re speechless as Choso throws your legs over his shoulder, dragging his swollen lips lazily across your ankle. “Yes ma’am.”

Oh. You might as well have just signed off your will. 

Because then he’s fucking into your sloppy cunt. Unforgiving. A man starved because he was. Jagged, quick thrusts, splitting you apart deeper and deeper on his rock-hard cock. 

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck-” he pants into your open mouth, finding it so fucking difficult to find any rhythm when your tight cunt was milking him so good. “You feel so good. So messy. Ya love it like this, huh? Being hngh- watched?”

“Hngh-” you buck wildly into his body, reaching up to play coyly with his nipple piercings. Tugging and pulling lightly. “Feels too good- are- ah- are ya sure this is your first time?”

Honestly, it was a wonder Choso didn’t cum right then and there. 

Tojisslvt: need someone to fuck me like this the first time

22sabi: Typing with one hand is so hard.

DaStrongest: i could fuck her so much better than than inexperienced loser

Choso throws his head back in a cruel little laugh at that last comment, something that makes you tingle all the way from your burning cheeks to your stuffed cunt. Clamping down deliciously on Choso’s unforgiving cock in a way that makes his hips and fingers stutter. 

“Ya think you could fuck her better?” it takes you a second to realize he was talking to the camera and not you. Thrusts getting sloppier, getting familiar. “I’m the one that got her so messy like this.” Purposeful. Calculated. Like he was aiming for that one-

“Fuck!” you scream as he hits that magic spot. Once. And then over and over like a man possessed. Just so utterly ruining you the way you knew he could. “Cho oh my god- I can’t hah- ngh-”

The cold metal of Choso’s rings dig into your cheek softly as he turns you head to face him. God, this was the stuff of his wildest dreams.

You - teary eyed and looking up at him like such a slut. Pussy getting wetter - tighter - as he teases you in front of the camera. Torn between running away from his relentless cock and bucking up for more more more-

 “Fuck no no no- Keep your legs open, baby. Don’t hah- run away from me.” his fingers dig into your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. “Don’t- need this. Need this so ba- shit.” 

And he sounded so genuinely worried he’d lose the feeling of your heady cunt. Fingers bruising on your hips as he pulls you closer. Like he was trying to fuck out any and every shred of shyness out of your body. 

slvt4u: Always the quiet ones.

DaStrongest: heh, fuck off. i’d make her cum so much harder.

Now, Choso was fucking you like he had a point to prove, and it was probably the only reason he hadn’t passed out from how good your pussy felt wrapped around him. 

Both of you were barely-lucid at this point - and he was out of control now.

Pussy drunk thoughts unfiltered, “No one’s ever d-done this- got me hah- feeling like this.” And you had the distinct feeling he just beat you to your original goal, letting out sweet little babbles into your open mouth - though his hips were anything but. 

So hard that you were sure the creases of your sheets would leave marks for tomorrow - along with his balls on your ass, your ankles on his shoulders, lips searing against yours. It was like he wanted to prove something - to prove he was good enough to- the viewers? To you? 

Knowing your body well enough to hit that one spot over and over until you were sobbing. Fingers erratic on your clit. 

“Cho-” you squeal, tears springing to your eyes as he only gets sloppier. “I-I’m gonna-”

“Cum?” he breathes, as if he couldn’t believe it. And fuck if you weren’t the gates of heaven spread wide open for him then he didn’t know what was. “Fucking cum. Please please- hah- f’me. Cum on m’cock n’ make them jealous. F’me- Like you’re mine.”

You barely even realize when you are. Jaw slack, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you see stars behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears. God, he was gonna have to go home and rewatch this stream all over again. 

“Ngh- m’cumming m’cumming oh-”

Not even realizing the way you’re dragging your nails down Choso’s sculpted back. Marking up his milky skin - and he lets you. 

Loved it in fact- the way he loved you. 

Your eyes go wide, and Choso knows he’s fucked up. Realizing with a jolt that words were tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. But it’s the way you squeeze him tighter- giving him such a gorgeous little fucked-out smile that sends him over the edge.

Sharp canines digging into the crook of your neck like he wanted to break skin, holding himself back from breaking you while he cums and cums so hard it hurt. Over and over-

“Love you- love you love you love you-” he’s muttering into the skin, unbarred. “Since I first saw hah- you. Wanted this more than fuck fuck- air that I breathe.”

His seed was oozing out of you now, painting your ravaged pussy white, dribbling down your legs.  So fucking full and debauched. Thick, hot globs that were sure to stain those overpriced new sheets. But did Choso care for the mess? Not at all. 

Because you were holding him so impossibly tight, pushing away the strands of hair sticking to his forehead. Whispering little praises as he fucks you through his first time. Close. Warm. Everything he ever dreamed of.

“S’everything I ever dreamed of, too, Cho.”

And he knows he’s won. 

urfavslvt: Proudest nut. Want more.

uniwhore: does this mean couples content??? Pls say yes plsplspls

DaStrongest: invite me next time <3

“Thought you were embarrassed.” he licks soothingly over the bite. Voice shot, piercing smooth against his tongue. Embarrassing little confessions leaving him with each spark of electricity running through his veins. “Thought you didn’t stream w’me cuz of that- but shit. Dreamed of this f’so long. So long-”

Oh?

“Hey, Cho.” your voice rings through his hazy mind. Just enough for Choso to raise his head and meet your intoxicating, sultry gaze. Giving a sly, sidelong glance at the still-blinking camera. 

“Mhm?”

“Wanna film a week’s worth of ‘movies’ in advance?”

---

Sukuna (do not answer): Oi shitty nephew, where r u Jin made me come over with (half) leftovers.

You: Sorry, not home. At the movies rn.

Sukuna (do not answer): When tf do u go to movies?? 

You: Since now, on a date. You probably can’t relate.

Sukuna (do not answer): Stfu n’ stop lying, a date with who? Ur body pillow?? Not like u had the balls to ask out that pretty lil’ camgirl anyway.

Haha

Right? 

You: *girlfriend

Sukuna (do not answer): Huh?

You: Girlfriend.

Sukuna (do not answer): THE FUCKIN’ PICK-UP LINE WORKED??

A/N. This came out a LOT longer than expected. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[sumbarbietingz]

Part 2 of Onlyfans!Toji, here’s part one

Now it’s either a one shot or a long ass drabble you decide, I had too much inspiration for that one

Warnings: degradation and praise kink, mutual masturbation, masturbation, breeding kink, rough sex, mention of oral; reader receiving and giving

Onlyfans!Toji finally dm you, with a simple message that goes straight to the point. “Hey ma, just discovered you and ngl, I need a collab with you asap.” Toji being the cocky bastard that he is, knows that you’ll reply and accept the offer. You see his message, and at first, you think it might be a catfish or someone using an ai generated pic for the pfp, cause you’ve never seen anyone so hot in your life. You check his profile and ho-ly fuck. 2 million followers on Twitter, a handsome face, a buff body, and the biggest dick you’ve seen in your life? Goddamn now your pussy’s wet, how can someone be- hold on.

While you’re scrolling you see a video of Onlyfans!Toji fucking some other content creator and unconsciously, you start playing with your breast. The way he’s pushing her head down the pillow while his hips are slamming against hers, the way she’s moaning, the way he’s biting his lip and groaning while railing her? Fuck, you need that. You want that, badly. Usually, you don’t crave a content creator that much. Sure, you need to at least like his work to do a collab, but this is the first time you genuinely want another dude on OF to rearrange your insides. So you don’t waste any more time, you reply and accept the offer.

Onlyfans!Toji almost jumps on his phone when he sees the notification, and a big smile spreads on his face. He jumps on his bed and the two of you start texting. There are questions and answers regarding the collab, like the money matters, what the two of you like and dislike, boundaries, ideas for the video, your schedule, and most importantly, updated test results.

Onlyfans!Toji doesn’t know why he’s so excited and why he’s behaving like a 15 yo texting his crush. But he can’t wait to see you. You end up texting for hours, and eventually, you exchange numbers to FaceTime each other which quickly ends up in Toji stroking and hitting his dick on the phone, while you’re rubbing your wet brown pussy for him. You both don’t know what’s going on, and why you’re acting like this, but you can’t wait to finally meet each other

Eventually, it’s getting late and you tell him you’re going to sleep. Since Onlyfans!Toji is not tired yet, his mind is too focused on you, so he decides to make this paid request a fan asked for earlier that day. A $500 video of him jerking off while saying the fan’s name. He’s not the one who sets the price, the fan has money to waste, and who Onlyfans!Toji is to refuse such a good offer after all? The fan already paid, it was time for him to do his part now

Onlyfans!Toji removes his clothes, lays on his bed, grabs his phone, and starts recording. At first, it’s a lil intro to edge the fan, tell her whatever she wanna hear before the camera is now on his cock. He makes it twitch a bit and says how hard it is because of her which is a lie, he imagines the fan is you. He starts stroking himself, and says the name of the fan all while thinking about you, thinking about that FaceTime and the way your fat pussy lip wrapped around your two fingers as you rubbed your clit, the way you moaned his name in despair while begging him to fuck you. He groans and starts going faster “Fuuuuuuck mama… I wanna fuck you so bad shiiit…” As he keeps going, he starts dirty talking, imagining saying all those things to you, imagining doing all those things to you, and it takes everything in him to not say your name. His imagination is running wild now, he grabs his cock a bit too tight and hits the camera a bit too hard, a feral groan leaving his lips “Fuck… suck that fuuuucking dick you fucking bitch… Do you like that? Uh?” God knows what the fuck Onlyfans!Toji is imagining right now but one thing is for sure, he’s gonna do that to you.

After a few minutes Onlyfans!Toji cums all over his abs, groaning like an animal as he pictures your dick sucking lips around his tip, swallowing his semen. He’s panting, he can’t believe he felt so much pleasure from just using his hand “Damn [fan name], see what you made me do? Fuck, I’m dirty now because of you, but it was worth it. Thank you for making me feel good.” This is clearly not for the fan but whatever. He stops recording, sends the video to the girl on Onlyfans then gets cleaned up. You’re gonna be the death of him.

A week later it’s finally time to record this video. For once, Onlyfans!Toji wants his colleague to come to his place. He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t. Usually, he meets the other content creators at some hotel or their place but never at his own. It’s not like he lives in the slums, that Onlyfans money made him rich and he lives in a beautiful penthouse. He just knows how some of these content creators become clingy and/or possessive after getting fucked by him. He doesn’t need stalkers on top of that. But you? He has that weird desire to see you boneless on his bed, HIS. And maybe he’ll be able to keep you around for a few more rounds off camera, or on, who knows.

You finally arrive and Onlyfans!Toji finds you even more breathtaking in real life, and by the look on your face, you probably think the same thing about him. Before he loses it and jumps on you to take you right there and then, he chats a bit with you, he still wanna act like a civilized man and not like a caveman. He asks you if you need anything to eat or drink, if you’re okay if you’re ready, and if you have any safe words. Once it’s settled he brings you to his room, where a whole set next to the bed is ready for you. The tension is high in the room. You didn’t plan a scenario, you both decided to go with the flow. You don’t know why you’re so nervous when you’re used to it, after all, it’s your job, but the dark and hungry look in Onlyfans!Toji’s eyes make your heart race.

You are out of breath, you are overstimulated, and your slicked-back bun is a whole mess. You didn’t know recording a video with Onlyfans!Toji would leave you in that state. Well, you expected it, but still, you can’t believe it. This man is a monster in bed. He praised and degraded you, made you ride his face until you came at least twice. He made you suck his massive dick until you were a crying, drooling mess with a sore throat. He had you in full Nelson, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, backshots, the princess position, and now you can’t count how many times this man made you squirt. And he wasn’t done, cause he didn’t cum yet. This man has the stamina of a goddamn bull on steroids. Right now you’re in missionary again, your wrists pinned, your legs wrapped around his waist, moaning in a way you never thought you would as his cock keeps pocking your cervix.

With the way Onlyfans!Toji is panting and groaning, you can tell he’s getting close to cum “M-ma, fuck I’m close mama… goddamn fuck- your pussy feels so good… such a good girl for me…” he groans in your ear, which makes your clench tighter around him. You bite your lip, and you’re so fucked out that you tell him to cum inside you. “You sure ma? Want me to fill you up and get you pregnant? That’s what you want?” You’re on the pill so it’s safe but you’d lie if you didn’t find the idea fucking hot. You nod desperately “Yes please… cum in my pussy… knock me up baby..” you whimper, your voice almost gone from the way you moaned and screamed earlier. That’s when Onlyfans!Toji snaps. He growls, releases your wrists to wrap his buff arms around your body, and violates your insides as you scream for dear life. You scratch his back so deeply you might draw blood. “Goddamn fucking slut y/n take my cum…!” When he says your name you cry out as you have another orgasm, he follows you quickly after, growling so loudly it gives you goosebumps. You can feel the warm gooey texture filling your womb, the feeling is amazing. You both stay like this for a moment until he pulls out, his cum leaking from your abused hole. He’s tempted to fuck it back into you but you’re already boneless, so he grabs his phone and stops recording.

Onlyfans!Toji looks at you affectionately and caresses your cheek while admiring your state. “You were amazing y/n, such a good girl for me.” You can barely hear him, but his caress gives you some reassurance. Eventually, you doze off and he starts editing the video. After a while, he posts a sneak peek on his Twitter account. A 20-second video of him taking you in different positions while you’re screaming in pleasure. He writes a lil caption: “@Y/N might have been my best collab so far, ‘ma knows how to take a good dick😩😈 full video on OF real soon🍆💦” and then posts it. It doesn’t take long before he gets shitloads of reactions under the tweet, both from his fans and yours.

@mahito’sstankass: holy fuckkkk I wish I was y/n 😩😩

@y/n’sdirtydraws: fucking hot I’m already touching myself rn

@tojiA1dickrider: oh my god she takes it like a champ! Wish Toji fucked me like her🤤🤤

@dcktoobigforyou: goddamn that mf gets all the baddies im jealous right now

@gojo_right_ball: I need my bf to fuck me like toji or I might break up with him idc

@coochiehair: I need the full vid asap the chemistry is insaneeeeee🔥🔥

@y/n’sasscrack: ikr??? They were downright making love! I hope they make more videos

@tojifckmepls: omg I can tell they were both into it I need more!!! My pussy can’t take it!!!🤭🤣

Onlyfans!Toji chuckles and then looks at you, the comments were right, he felt it and he bets you felt it too. This won’t be your last video together, he’s sure of it.

You can tell I was fucking horny while writing some of these lmao hope you liked part 2🫶🏾

taglist: @midnightry @tojicvmslut @getoisinnocent @samoankpoper21 @remithenonbinaryrat

[dollishmehrayan]

# “THE WOMAN WAS TOO STUNNED TO SPEAK…” ── .✦ ( batboys w an unhinged!reader and blunt!reader )

a/n: this is from my little brain of mine , and I like to honor it for @kyriakis anywhoo I’m back and omg 1k?! Alsoo guys dw! I’m gonna do the event tomorrow && I’m gonna pick out some prompts I have organized, so i didn't forget okay but i just got a lot of DMs asking when I’m gonna do it for you guyss so yeah it’s gonna be tomorrow since I’m gonna re-edit + add some ideas of your guys votes!! Tags: (batboys x unhinged!reader)

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

He’s always caught off guard but loves it. Your bluntness is a breath of fresh air for Dick, who’s so used to diplomatic conversations. You say whatever’s on your mind with zero filter, and he’s like, “Oh, wow. Okay. I respect it.”

Hates it when you don’t hold back with him. He’s used to being the charming, funny guy who makes everyone laugh, but you hit him with a “That was dumb, don’t do that again” and his brain short circuits for a second. “You can’t just say that!” “Why not?”

Finds it hilarious when you wreck other people’s egos. You have zero time for anyone’s nonsense, and when someone messes up, you let them know. Dick’s in the background, trying not to laugh. “Do you not think before you speak?!…” He’s always acts so shocked but hey, he’s kinda enjoying it unless it’s aimed at him. (He can’t fight verbally for the life of him without saying some cringe shit)

Doesn’t even try to change you. Dick knows what he’s getting into, and he loves you for it. He’s never going to ask you to ‘tone it down.’ He actually finds your unapologetic attitude pretty hot.

He’s 50% worried you’ll get into trouble, 50% impressed. But in the end, he’ll always back you up, saying, “She’s just honest. Get used to it.”

JASON TODD ── .✦

Finally, someone who speaks his language. Jason lives for the fact that you don’t care what people think. He loves how blunt you are, especially when you cut through the BS with the precision of a sharp knife.

Gets protective when people try to push your boundaries. If someone dares disrespect you, Jason’s the first one to step in. “You’ve got a problem with her? You’ve got a problem with me.”, “Jason that was so fucking cringey..”

Appreciates that you don't sugarcoat things for him. You’ll tell him exactly how it is, whether it’s about his attitude or a bad decision he made, and he respects it, it’s like the tt sound where “that’s when it hit me, it was the best idea I ever had..” but like this: “Not gonna lie, that was a terrible plan, Jay,” and he’ll just nod. “Fair.”

You guys have the most chaotic, weirdest conversations. It’s a mix of witty banter, ridiculous one-liners, and deadpan sarcasm. Other people can’t even keep up with the energy.

The idea of dating a ‘good girl’ never appealed to him anyway. He thrives off your unhinged energy. You’re unpredictable, and it keeps him on his toes, which he loves. “Yeah, you’re definitely not boring.” (Although the thing is he does love innocent people, like if you’re like gen clueless he wants preserve your innocence.)

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Tim’s brain can’t keep up with you. Your blunt, no-nonsense attitude constantly makes him blink in confusion. One minute you’re casually roasting someone, and the next, you’re giving a straight-up critique of his latest plan. He’s learning that he can’t outthink you.

He admires your unapologetic honesty. Tim has a lot of internalized doubts, so watching you casually reject anyone’s judgment is a nice contrast. You don’t apologize for your thoughts, and it’s something he secretly admires.

Constantly second-guesses himself around you. Your sharp tongue makes him want to be as confident as you. He gets nervous about saying anything that might sound soft, so when he stumbles, you’re like, “What was that? I swear you just whispered something.” And he’ll blush hard, muttering an apology.

You both have a sarcastic sense of humor that others don’t quite get. You say something outrageous, and Tim will respond with the driest remark possible. People in the room often wonder if you two are joking or just genuinely a bit rude.

Not scared to call him out. When Tim’s too nice, you’ll be like, “You need to stop letting people walk all over you. Grow some teeth.” Tim won’t admit it, but that does motivate him to be a little bolder.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Damian is a bit taken aback at first. He’s used to people being respectful or like seeing him as kinda a role model, so when you come out with a “That’s dumb, don’t even talk to me right now,” he’s not sure how to handle it. He will stand there, blinking, while processing your bluntness. (He’s too stunned to speak 😞)

Genuinely respects your forthrightness, though. “I’ll admit, I have never met someone so… honest.” He starts respecting you even more, thinking you’re someone he can’t manipulate or charm easily.

Loves that you’re as stubborn as he is. If you’re determined about something, there’s no changing your mind. You’ll fight for your opinions even if it gets you into a heated debate. And Damian’s right there with you, arguing like it’s the most fun thing in the world.

Tries to match your bluntness. “You talk too much,” he says one day, and you immediately reply, “And yet, here you are, listening to every word I say.” Damian actually pauses for a second, impressed. “Right..”

Loves how you’ll shut down his critics with zero hesitation. Someone says something disrespectful to him, and you’ll be the first to shoot back, “He doesn’t need your advice, trust me.” He’ll give you a proud little smirk. “I like the way you handle things.”

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

At first, Bruce is a bit disconcerted by your bluntness. Bruce’s the kind of guy who expects people to be formal and classy, and you just come in with “This entire meeting is a waste of my time. I don’t care about any of this.” He blinks, then quietly admires your bravery.

Totally respects your unfiltered honesty. Bruce has had enough of the world’s games, so when you don’t bother to pretend or hold anything back, it’s like a breath of fresh air for him.

Secretly loves when you don’t play nice." He knows you're not afraid of saying what you think, and when you call him out on his brooding or overly protective behavior, he listens. “You’re right. I’m sorry for not trusting you more.” (He totally doesn’t have a tracker on your hair clip..🥰)

You both have moments of pure savage honesty that no one else gets. There’s no need for filters, and you’ll both exchange one-liners so dry that it leaves everyone else in the room confused.

Finds it endearing when you make his plans more interesting. “This is ridiculous. Why are we doing this again?” You snap at him in a room full of his board members, and he just gives you a look that says, “I’m never apologizing for you.”

[whorelaud]

OFF LIMITS – rafe cameron ¡ (01)

social media & irl AU !

pairing brother's best friend!rafe cameron x brat!reader summary you slide into a random boy's dms on instagram, anything but expecting him to end up being your brother's best friend, let alone the person you'll be spending your summer vacation with. while resisting Rafe and his lingering gazes was an option, you found yourself in the constant loop of crossing the line; said line being your brother. ch warnings none !

NAVIGATION. series masterlist | 01 ¡ 02

“Wake up, we’re here.” Ryan nudged your side, observing as your parents unloaded the trunk, arguing over the amount of luggage each one of you brought. “Get up, Bug, mom is gettin’ mad.” 

Ryan gave you a harsh push, disturbing your slumber as you jolted up from your seat. You blinked the sleep out of your eyes, eyeing your surroundings with haze, a mere attempt to make sense of the new setting that encircled the Airbnb your parents ranted. 

It was a beautiful view, the sight of the beach not too far away, ocean breeze heading in your direction. Ryan’s figure instantly filled your vision, earning a low grumble out of you. You tucked your hair out of your face, stretching out your arms over your head.

“You slept through the whole ride.” Your brother scoffed, gathering the crumbled candy wrappers from the cup holder. “Help mom! She’s really mad, why’d you bring so many luggages?” 

“Don’t piss me off,” you mumbled, kicking his knee, the gesture causing the latter to stumble back. “Move.” 

You shuffled out of your seat, hopping out of the car. The place was surprisingly big– not for a family of four, that’s for sure. An unfamiliar car was parked in the driveway, the sight earning a puzzled expression out of you. 

“Is someone else here?” You questioned, attention shifting to Ryan, who was busy tidying your side of the vehicle. “Who’s that car for?” 

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Ryan shot back, furrowing his eyebrows with confusion. “What, you thought we’d be here on our own?” 

“Wasn’t that what we had in plans?” You mumbled, strolling towards the creaked door. You peaked your head inside, an audible gasp escaping your throat when you spotted your parents chatting with a middle aged couple, whom you would assume were the guests staying with you. Their identities remain a mystery as they were faced away, unable to recognize them with only the back of their heads. You turned to face Ryan, whispering your next sentence. “There’s people inside.” 

“Yeah, no shit.” He rolled his eyes, shutting the door to the car. He approached you, squeezing by as he let himself inside. “You think I’m spending the next two months stuck with only you? Hell no.” 

“God, we should’ve let you rot on campus.” You groaned, following behind him. You remained as quiet as physically possible, not wanting to capture the elders’ attention, aware of the conversation they planned on dragging you to. 

While walking up the stairs, you winced, as the suitcase you carried collided into the wood on your way up, creating a thud. Your gaze shifted to where your parents stood, a sigh of relief escaping your throat when you noticed they were still accompanied by the couple to their side. 

You carefully settled your suitcase down, dragging it along as you observed each room, deciding which one would suit you best. You came to a halt once one caught your eye, growing intrigued as you opened the door all the way through, revealing the layout of the furnitured space. 

“Pretty.” You whispered to yourself, tracing the designed light switch with your fingers. 

“Not bad,” Ryan replied, his presence startling you. “Good choice, this room is actually mine.” 

“I was here first!” Your face twisted with annoyance, watching as your brother leaned against the wall, now facing you. “It’s my room, not yours.”

“Oh, we’re going there?” He warned, cocking his head to the side. “I’ll tell dad about the time you sneaked out every day for an entire month, and made me cover for you whenever you got in trouble.”

“That was four years ago,” you reasoned, huffing at his ridiculous threat. “Besides, you’ve done worse. Remember all the marijuana you hid in my room? Or did we forget about that?” 

“Okay– that was–” Ryan stammered, slumping his shoulders as he rolled his eyes. “I’ll kill you if you tell anyone about that.”

“Whatever, get out of my room.” You shoved his arm, the contact earning a dramatic gasp out of him. “Go complain somewhere else, I’m not giving you this room.”

“C’mon, Bug!” He whined, resisting the hands pressing to his back, forcing him out of the room. “There’s better rooms, why do you want this one specifically?!”  

“Probably for the same reason you do.” You exclaimed, sighing once you gave Ryan one last push, the action causing him to stumble out into the narrow hallway. “And stop calling me that, I’ll kill you if you refer to me as Bug in front of everybody.” 

“Everyone calls you Bug.” He clicked his teeth, fixing the collar of his shirt. “I forget that your name isn’t Bug sometimes, you know, jus’ used to it.” 

“Are you trying to distract me right now? ‘Cause it’s not working.” You forced a tight-lipped smile across your face, earning a groan out of Ryan. “Busy yourself with something else, I don’t have time to pamper you.” 

“‘Kay, fuck you then.” He spat out, flipping you off as he walked away. 

You shut the door with a chuckle, taunted by your brother’s lash out. You placed your luggage on the bed, growing confused when you noticed the bed was slightly undone, indicating someone clearly had been there. You brushed it off, thinking it was Ryan’s doing, as you were too exhausted to further process it. 

You searched through your suitcase, acquiring your everything-shower bag. You set it to the side, retrieving a clothing set, one suitable to be seen in, and comfortable enough to get you through the night. 

Once you had everything you needed, you grabbed your belongings, freezing when footsteps echoed through your ears. You were painfully aware that this was not Ryan, as you would’ve heard him come in with the click of the door. 

You aimed for your bag, equipping yourself for the hit you planned to swing, now that you sensed your life being at risk. Nothing could’ve prepared you for what you had coming as you swiftly turned around, a ragged breath escaping your parted lips at the sight of a certain someone. 

Mere inches away from you stood Rafe, the Rafe Cameron whom you have messaged a few hours from now. You couldn’t believe your eyes, instantly brushing this off as a dream, because there’s no way in hell he was there, half naked, with only a towel hanging low around his hips. A blank expression remained plastered across his face, not too astonished by your presence.

A nervous gulp dried your throat, gaze following the water drop trailing down his exposed chest, on full display, revealing his muscular figure. God, his arms, the photos weren’t doing him justice, because besides his toned body, the man was gorgeous. 

His eyes were a radiant shade of blue, nose slightly pointy, as well as his pink lips, that you wouldn’t describe as big, but just the right size, as you wanted nothing but to lean forward and kiss him, ceasing the unnecessary distance between you. 

You shook the thoughts off, clutching into stuff that you had in hand, instantly growing nervous by the latter as he took a step forward, now towering over you, making you feel small under under his gaze. You glanced up at him, shifting your vision back to his chest when you caught him already staring at you. 

Rafe broke into a grin, amused by how flustered you were, nothing compared to how brave you were over text. He remained in front of you for a moment, awaiting a response out of you, a question perhaps. 

“I…” ah, there it was. “I didn’t know you were in here.” 

“That’s okay,” he reassured, voice dripping with sweetness, that the moment he spoke, you found yourself melting in the spot. “Look at me.” 

Your face flushed with heat at the statement, shifting your gaze back to his face, breath knocking out of your chest when his eyes locked with yours, creating a mess out of you. He leveled himself with your body, adjusting his position where he stood now that he caught your attention. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he hushed out, grogginess visible through his tone. “Bug, was it?” 

Yeah, had you known Rafe Cameron was spending the next two months with you, you would not have shown up, aware of the consequences that came with your feelings. 

How were you supposed to set a limit for yourself when he’s there, existing and looking so attractive while doing it?

a/n prepapre to be sick of me theyre my new obsession!! also i PROMISE i have something planned for the whole bug nickname pls give it a chance ehebhe ei hope you enjoyed wheww im so nervous to publish this

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lmk if u wanna be added >__< !!