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solxamber · 2 days ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles: Speedrunning Marriage Fraud || Ace Trappola

You get isekai’d as the heroine in a romance novel, but instead of dreamy suitors, you’re stuck with a yandere cryptid, a billionaire with no impulse control, and a knight who thinks he's in a Shakespearean tragedy (and more).

Your solution? Commit marriage fraud with your best friend, Ace Trappola, and hope no one asks for a marriage certificate.

Series Masterlist

You should have known better than to leave your apartment. You should have listened to your instincts, that deep, primal voice that told you the outside world was a dangerous and unforgiving place. But no. You just had to touch grass.

It had all started with an innocent desire for fresh air. You had gone to the park, found a nice spot, and opened the novel that a colleague had given you—probably as a form of psychological torture disguised as a gift. From the summary alone, you knew it was going to be a lot, but you had no idea just how much your soul would suffer.

The heroine was a noble who clearly did not want to be in this story. Every single page was filled with her staring off into the void, giving half-hearted responses to the five men vying for her attention, like she was a protagonist who hadn’t realized she was in a romance novel yet.

And the love interests. Oh, the love interests.

The (Discount) Yandere Viscount (who had never heard of stealth)

His idea of "obsessively watching over the heroine" was lurking in the shadows like a particularly uncoordinated cryptid. Every single time he tried to “stalk” her, he tripped over his own sword. At one point, he dramatically whispered, “I will protect you… wait, don’t run!” before faceplanting into a bush.

2. The Childhood Acquaintance (who was delusional)

This man had spoken to the heroine exactly once when they were both six years old, but somehow convinced himself they were soulmates. He carried around the same handkerchief she had given him more than 15 years ago like it was a sacred relic and refused to take no for an answer.

3. The "Genius Strategist" Prince (who had the IQ of a raisin)

The man had already planned their wedding, their honeymoon, and the names of their three children within four minutes of meeting her. When she told him she wasn’t interested, his brain blue-screened and he simply repeated, “Ah, you’re just shy.” No, sir. She is not shy. She just isn't interested.

4. The Brooding Duke of the North (who was a caricature of a chaebol heir from a K-Drama)

He believed love could be bought. He once gifted her a solid gold chair because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.” He bought an entire carnival just so she wouldn’t have to wait in line. At one point, he threw money at a random tree, and you weren’t even sure why.

5. The Drama King Knight (who needed to calm down)

He was so powerful but refused to use his strength unless it was for dramatic effect. He got scratched by a cat once and collapsed into the heroine’s arms like he had been mortally wounded. His sword had the power to split mountains, but the only time he ever drew it was to dramatically point at the moon while monologuing about destiny.

And the villainess? She wasn’t even that bad. Compared to these five disasters, she looked like a sensible person.

Somehow, despite all odds, the heroine chose Ace Trappola, her childhood friend, which you had to respect. That was the one good decision this novel made. But just when you thought there might be some semblance of satisfaction—an assassin appeared out of nowhere (sent by the villainess of course) and killed her.

That was it. That was the ending.

You felt your soul leave your body.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you weren’t sure if it was grief for the heroine, sheer frustration, or physical pain from how hard you had been laughing at this disaster of a novel. It was the most ridiculous, nonsensical, brain-cell-destroying thing you had ever read. You could feel your neurons committing arson inside your skull.

You snapped the book shut and decided that was enough stupidity for one day.

It was time to go home.

As you trudged back, your brain still processing the absolute war crime of a plot you had just read, you heard it.

A faint rumbling.

A presence.

And then—

“OUT OF THE WAY, SONNY!”

A blur of gray hair and unholy speed tore through the park, the sound of wheels screeching against pavement like a demonic banshee’s cry. You turned your head just in time to see a grandma on rollerblades, moving at a velocity no elderly person should legally be able to achieve.

For a split second, you locked eyes.

And in that moment, you knew.

You were not surviving this.

Before you could even process what was happening, she collided into you full force, sending you into a full aerial somersault before you crashed into the bushes like a ragdoll. You barely registered the thundering roar of her departure as she continued skating into the sunset, leaving you for dead.

Now, as you lay crumpled in a bush, your body feeling like it had been hit by a sentient freight train in orthopedic shoes, you had to accept the consequences of your actions. The world had punished you for your hubris.

She. Didn’t. Even. Stumble.

Your body ached, your limbs refused to move, and as darkness crept into your vision, your last conscious thought was, How is a senior citizen more sturdy than me…?

And then, everything went black.

The first thing you noticed upon waking up was the suspiciously pleasant smell. It was fresh, like lavender and high society, with a hint of expensive tea and wealth you’d never personally known.

Your groggy brain latched onto the first thought it could process:

Damn. Hospitals really upgraded their budget.

Then, half a second later, a much more terrifying realization hit you.

Oh God. The ambulance bill.

Your eyes snapped open in unfiltered financial terror, hands clutching at the sheets as you prepared to calculate your medical debt down to the last miserable cent. You were already accepting your fate as a lifelong indentured servant to the healthcare system when—

The ceiling was too ornate. The bed was too soft.

And there was a man sitting beside you, holding your hand.

Your breath caught in your throat as your vision sharpened. Red hair. Heart earring. A cocky smirk, even in his sleep.

You knew that face.

You knew that godforsaken face.

This wasn’t a hospital. This wasn’t even your world.

Somewhere in the heavens, a cosmic entity was laughing as you stared at Ace Trappola, the very same Ace Trappola from the cover of the book you were reading before you got absolutely trucked by a grandma on rollerblades.

Your will to live immediately evaporated.

This couldn’t be happening. This was not real. There was no way that the trashy dumpster fire of a novel you barely got halfway through had decided to swallow you whole and spit you out as its heroine. You were a victim of circumstance. You hadn’t even wanted to read the book. Your colleague had shoved it into your hands with a laugh, saying, “It’s so bad, you’ll love it.”

And now? Now you were going to die in it.

While you were still reeling from this existential horror, Ace stirred beside you, stretching like he’d just taken a refreshing nap instead of being complicit in your suffering.

“Oh, you’re finally awake,” he said.

You almost threw up in real time.

NO. NO, HE DID NOT JUST SKYRIM YOU.

Before you could even begin to unpack that offensive introduction, Ace leaned back in his chair, regarding you with an amused grin.

“Man, you were out for so long,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself at your expense. “We were starting to get worried.”

He paused, then snickered. “Not that I can blame you, though. You got knocked out real bad after Sir Drama decided to pick you up and carry you across a puddle—y’know, because chivalry—and then you started struggling and he, uh…” Ace coughed, failing to smother his laughter. “He might’ve… dropped you on your head.”

Your soul left your body.

The sheer force of your disgust, fury, and resignation compressed into a singularity of unparalleled despair.

You had already suffered a head injury in this world and it hadn’t even been five minutes.

Meanwhile, Ace—clearly unbothered by your silent mental breakdown—casually reached out and ruffled your hair like you were some kind of small animal.

“Try not to scare everyone like that next time, yeah?” he said, standing up with a stretch. “Anyway, I’ll let you rest. See ya, drama queen.”

And just like that, he walked out.

The door clicked shut.

And you were left alone.

You sat there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, dead inside.

Then at the overly luxurious furniture.

Then at the mirror across the room.

You knew what you would see before you even looked.

White nightgown. Perfect noble lady bedhead. The very same reflection that haunted you from the novel’s terrible cover.

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaled, and let out the most guttural, primal scream into your pillow.

This was real. This was happening.

And worst of all—

You were about to be pursued by five of the worst men to ever disgrace the literary world.

Tears pricked at your eyes.

You needed a plan.

You needed a way out.

You needed to reject them.

You needed to survive.

With renewed determination, you wiped your tears, hardened your heart, and began plotting your escape.

The moment you accepted that you were, in fact, trapped in this flaming disaster of a novel, you immediately went into damage control mode.

Step One: Gather Allies.

Your first course of action was to round up every single sane person in your immediate social circle—which, in this case, meant the heroine’s original friend group. You weren’t sure how well they’d take this, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

So, within the hour, you managed to corral Ace, Deuce, Riddle, Cater, and Trey into a private room like some kind of organized intervention.

They were all staring at you expectantly.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the sheer stupidity of what you were about to say.

“Listen,” you began, voice firm. “I need help. Serious help. I am being actively hunted by five of the worst men to ever exist, and I need to figure out how to reject them before I end up dead in an alley.”

There was a pause.

Riddle, bless his soul, was the first to react.

He patted you on the back, nodding solemnly. “Finally,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to grow a spine. It’s about time.”

You blinked. That was the most support you had ever received in your life.

Meanwhile, Trey and Cater exchanged amused glances, Ace looked way too smug for comfort, and Deuce was already looking at Ace like he was onto something.

“You need to get rid of them?” Trey asked, as if he were merely discussing pastry ingredients.

“Yes,” you stressed. “Immediately.”

Riddle hummed in approval. “Good. Then let’s strategize.”

You, Riddle, Trey, and Cater huddled together like you were planning a war campaign.

Ace and Deuce, on the other hand, were having a separate conversation entirely.

A conversation that consisted of Deuce elbowing Ace repeatedly while Ace sat there, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Then, with the casual arrogance of someone who absolutely had an ulterior motive, Ace stretched his arms and leaned back.

“Y’know,” he drawled, cutting into your very serious rejection plan, “we could make things way easier if you just tell ‘em you’re already taken.”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Ace smirked. “You'd just need a fake lover, right?”

“…Yes?”

He shrugged. “I could do it.”

The room went silent.

Deuce’s face twisted into an undisguised scowl of "That's not what i meant." Riddle raised an eyebrow. Trey hid a knowing smile behind his hand. Cater was visibly entertained.

You, on the other hand, were experiencing about five different emotions at once.

On one hand, Ace clearly had a crush on the heroine—for you. Which meant using him for this felt slightly scummy.

On the other hand, game was game, and survival was survival.

And you were not above exploiting every advantage you could get.

“…Alright,” you agreed, shoving your morals into a dark abyss.

Ace grinned like he’d just won a bet.

Deuce looked one second away from committing homicide.

And just like that, Operation “Escape Horrible Men” was officially underway.

The first lunatic to cross your path was, tragically, the childhood acquaintance—if you could even call him that. This was a man whose entire personality was built on a single act of kindness you had allegedly performed when you were six, like some kind of feral pigeon imprinting on the first human to throw it bread.

He had the look of a man who had been living exclusively off delusions and a diet of unattainable dreams, and you could already feel your soul attempting to evacuate your body at the sight of him.

It all started when you, Ace, and Deuce were having a perfectly nice day at the market. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and you were engaged in the kind of casual battery that only true friends participated in—swatting at each other, shoving, stealing food mid-bite, and slinging arms over shoulders like a group of rowdy idiots. It was peace. It was joy. And then he appeared.

Like a cockroach that had survived a nuclear apocalypse, he inserted himself into the conversation with an ease that defied all reason, his hand creeping onto your waist as if that was something people just did.

The audacity. The sheer gall. The unmitigated temerity.

On instinct, you physically rejected his existence. You shoved him off with enough force to make a statement, then slammed your heel down on his foot. You were not the original heroine. You did not believe in suffering in silence. You believed in equal opportunity violence.

But this man—this absolute buffoon—had the mental resilience of a particularly dense brick. He simply did not process rejection.

You walked away. He followed. Like a stray cat you accidentally fed once, he clung to your side, ignoring all signs that he was unwelcome.

You showed Deuce a cool charm for his sword; he inserted his completely unsolicited opinion.

You cracked a joke to Ace; he forced out a laugh like you had told it for his benefit.

At one point, you were fairly certain he was just mimicking your breathing patterns to convince himself you were soulmates.

Alright. You had tried being civil. Time to be petty.

You turned to Ace with the kind of dramatic flourish that only came with years of consuming terrible romance novels, throwing yourself into his arms like some damsel in distress. Ace, to his credit, took exactly one second to process before he immediately understood the assignment.

He leaned in close, breath brushing against your ear like he was whispering something scandalous, and you, in turn, made a show of gasping, clutching his shirt like he had just recited the most romantic poetry in existence.

Then he hand-fed you a pastry.

It was too much. Too intimate. Too stupidly effective. You let out a little dreamy sigh, delicately biting into the pastry like it was a love declaration and not just your breakfast. Ace, ever the performer, brushed a crumb off your lips with his thumb.

Deuce, at this point, was convulsing with laughter in the background, nearly choking on his own spit.

But the acquaintance? The parasite? The man who had lived the past decade of his life under the assumption that you were his? He was seething. His face was twisted like he had just swallowed a whole lemon rind and all.

Time to twist the knife.

You turned to Ace with the most lovestruck expression you could muster and, in a voice dripping with sugar and malice, cooed, “Darling, when are you going to propose? I simply cannot wait to be engaged to you”

Ace visibly blue-screened for a moment. You could hear the Windows error noise in real-time. But he was nothing if not quick on his feet.

In a devastating move, he took your hand in both of his, looked into your eyes like you personally invented the concept of love, and murmured, “My love, I’ve searched the entire kingdom for a ring that shines as brightly as your eyes, but nothing has been worthy of you yet.”

That was it. That was the final blow. The childhood acquaintance physically recoiled, his reality shattering like fragile glass, his world crumbling like an over-soaked sponge cake.

“You’re… dating?” he whispered, trembling, as if he was the protagonist in a tragic opera.

You and Ace turned to him in perfect synchrony, all wide eyes and lovesick smiles, and in the most disgustingly sweet voices you could manage, declared, “We’re soooo in love~”

He ran away crying.

It was magnificent. It was euphoric. You turned to watch him flee, skidding into the distance like a wounded deer, while Deuce collapsed against a stand, wheezing.

And then, just for a moment—barely a second—you caught Ace watching you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder like nothing had happened.

One down. Four to go.

The invitation to the ball had arrived with the pomp and circumstance of an execution notice.

You had already survived assassination attempts (by fate and by your own refusal to engage with the five unhinged men vying for your hand), but now you were being asked to waltz? Like some graceful noble lady who had spent her entire life twirling through candlelit halls and not someone whose idea of “dancing” was flailing in the kitchen at 2 AM while waiting for instant noodles to cook?

You tried to tell yourself, maybe the original heroine’s muscle memory will kick in.

It did not.

You attempted a single spin in your room and promptly tripped over the hem of your dress, landing face-first into the carpet with all the elegance of a sedated goose. The reality was undeniable—you needed help.

Unfortunately, Deuce and Riddle, your two best hopes for structured, competent lessons, were drowning in their official duties. That left you with Trey(thankfully), Cater, and Ace.

Ace. The man who claimed he could “totally waltz” but then proceeded to move like he was dodging invisible potholes. He swore he was just "freestyling," which, sure, was a thing people did—just not in 18th-century ballroom dancing.

Trey, ever the responsible elder brother figure, took pity on your plight and offered to teach you. You gratefully accepted, placing your hand in his, and the two of you began to move across the floor. Or, rather, Trey moved and you decimated his toes with every step.

Ace, watching from the sidelines, looked like he had been personally wronged by the universe.

His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His grip on his drink? White-knuckled. If he had been any tenser, his soul might have ascended on the spot.

Cater, in contrast, was having the time of his life.

Sipping tea like a smug little gremlin, he watched the spectacle unfold with the kind of amusement normally reserved for reality TV drama. He did not care that Ace was clearly dying inside. In fact, it was making the tea taste better.

Meanwhile, Trey suffered.

He suffered so much.

You stepped on his foot. Again. You stepped on it without intent. Without malice. But with the weight of a hundred failed dance lessons.

“Ah, you’re getting there,” Trey said with the patience of a saint, even as he subtly tried to guide you away from his crushed toes.

Ace twitched.

The evening ended with you being marginally better at dancing and Ace looking like he had been force-fed an entire lemon tree.

The next day, you arrived at Ace’s estate with the singular goal of dragging him into town for shenanigans.

Instead, you were met at the entrance by his butler, who, with a knowing wink that immediately put you on edge, informed you that Ace was “currently practicing” and that you were "free to go in and see for yourself."

This, of course, set off all your mental alarms.

You pushed open the door just a crack, peeking inside, and what you saw nearly short-circuited your brain.

There, in the middle of the room, was Ace Trappola.

Dancing.

With a coat hanger.

He held it like a real partner, moving across the floor with surprising grace, his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pressing into a frustrated pout whenever he missed a step.

You felt something unfamiliar rise in your chest. A warmth. A flutter. A sense of being deeply, irreversibly touched.

You immediately squashed the feeling. Crushed it under your heel like a bug. Incinerated it. You refused to let sentimentality win.

So, naturally, you cleared your throat and went straight for the teasing.

“Wow, Ace. I didn’t know you and the coat hanger were so close.”

Ace startled so hard he nearly dropped the poor inanimate object.

He turned to you, face flushing an almost adorable shade of pink, before scowling and attempting to play it cool.

“I—this—I wasn’t practicing for you or anything!” he scoffed, crossing his arms as if that would somehow erase the memory from your brain.

“Oh, of course not,” you said, nodding sagely. “You were obviously training to impress the coat hanger.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed the back of his neck. Refused to meet your eyes.

“…You wanna practice together?”

And that was how you found yourself dancing with Ace in the dim glow of the evening light, his hands warm against yours, the two of you laughing every time you stumbled.

It was awkward. It was messy. It was weirdly fun.

And somewhere in the background, Ace’s butler was already reallocating the estate’s budget for your wedding.

You had successfully survived the dance.

This was, by all accounts, a miracle.

There had been no toe-crushing disasters, no tragic falls, no wardrobe malfunctions that would have made the noble ladies clutch their pearls and whisper about you for decades. Not even a single case of you flinging your arms out too enthusiastically and smacking a duke’s son in the face.

You had defied fate.

And it definitely helped that your partner had been Ace—as much as that bruised your pride to admit. He was annoyingly decent at making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet, even though he kept smirking the entire time like he was waiting for you to say something ridiculous like "Wow, Ace, you're so talented and charming and handsome, what would I ever do without you?"

You would rather perish.

So, once the dance ended, you immediately excused yourself and found a nice, solid chair to collapse into. Ace, good little fake boyfriend that he was, offered to get you both drinks, which was a very convenient excuse for you to not be near him for five minutes.

And that was when the Genius Strategist Prince swooped in.

You did not see him approach. You did not sense his presence. It was as if he had teleported into existence like some eldritch being fueled purely by narcissism and misplaced confidence.

One moment, you were sitting peacefully, and the next—

He was there.

The cursed arm wrapped around your shoulders. The infuriating smirk. The unbearable arrogance wafting off him like overpriced cologne.

Oh, this was bad.

"You looked quite beautiful on the dance floor tonight," he murmured, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "Almost like a queen-to-be."

This man had the audacity—the sheer, unholy nerve—to look at you like you were supposed to giggle and blush at that line instead of chewing through your own tongue in an effort not to commit a crime.

You had one option.

You fled.

You simply stood up and walked away, directly towards the only person in this cursed ballroom who could save you from this richly perfumed disaster of a man.

Ace.

Ace, who had perfectly timed his return with two glasses of something that was hopefully strong enough to erase the last ten seconds from your memory. Ace, who took one look at your expression, saw the absolute horror trailing behind you, and immediately understood the assignment.

Without missing a beat, he wrapped an arm around you.

Possessive. Protective. The very image of a devoted fake lover.

You had never been so grateful for his dramatic streak.

The prince, who had followed you like a particularly persistent case of food poisoning, bristled.

"Remove your arm," he commanded, his voice low and sharp.

Ace did not remove his arm.

In fact, he pulled you closer, tilting his head just slightly in a way that perfectly balanced smugness and challenge.

"Why should I take my hand off my partner?" he asked.

You, who had spent your entire life developing a survival instinct specifically for escaping situations like this, felt the distant whisper of a self-preservation alarm. That was still the crown prince, after all. Ace was many things—irritating, reckless, an absolute menace—but he was not immortal.

Fortunately, before you had to say anything, help arrived.

Across the ballroom, Riddle nodded.

To your left, Deuce gave a subtle thumbs-up.

The plan was in motion.

Phase One

From the far end of the ballroom, Trey, the royal chef, emerged, balancing an enormous cake on a silver tray. It was a towering, masterful creation—a true work of art, layers stacked high, delicately sculpted sugar decorations shimmering under the chandelier light.

A cake that, in mere moments, would be used as a weapon of mass destruction.

Trey took one fateful step.

Tripped (As planned)

And the entire cake, in all its elaborate, multi-tiered glory, toppled over.

Straight. Onto. The. Prince.

Ace immediately shielded you from the debris. His hand was firm on your back as he turned you slightly away from the chaos, and when you glanced up at him, he was grinning.

Smug. Smug. Smug.

Something in your stomach did something.

You ignored it.

The prince, meanwhile, stood there in horrified silence, cake and frosting dripping down his very expensive, very now-ruined clothes.

And then came Phase Two

Deuce, moving with the "concern" of a man who absolutely knew he was about to ruin someone’s life, rushed forward.

"Your Highness," he said earnestly, holding out his own coat, "you should remove your clothes."

The entire ballroom went silent.

The prince, still picking fondant out of his hair, turned slowly.

"What?"

"You’re covered in cake," Deuce explained, voice so painfully genuine that you nearly choked.

The prince, who absolutely would rather die than undress in public, refused.

Which was unfortunate. Because Deuce, bless his heart, did not take no for an answer.

He grabbed the prince’s jacket.

And pulled.

The ballroom collectively inhaled.

Because underneath—where there should have been the broad, powerful shoulders of a “warrior prince,” where there should have been toned muscle sculpted by years of battle and strategy—

Was nothing.

Not just nothing—an outright betrayal of physics and expectation.

The prince was built like a malnourished Victorian ghost.

His coat—once the source of his so-called “strong, masculine presence”—had been heavily padded. Not just lightly stuffed, but outright engineered to create the illusion of bulging biceps and warrior-like stature.

Biceps, it was now evident, larger than his actual head.

The ballroom gasped.

The prince, red-faced and humiliated, did what any reasonable man would do when faced with public disgrace.

He ran.

You, Ace, Deuce, and your co-conspirators high-fived.

And the next morning, Cater, journalist extraordinaire, published an excruciatingly detailed article titled:

"From Brawn to Busted: The Prince’s Muscle Mirage!"

2 down. 3 to go.

It had been a regular morning. A peaceful morning. A morning where you had intended to do nothing more than descend the stairs like a normal, functioning member of society, have breakfast, and not make a complete spectacle of yourself before noon.

The universe had other plans.

One moment, you had been confidently stepping forward, and the next—

Betrayal.

Your foot had missed the step. Gravity, that treacherous, fickle force, had seized its chance. You had plummeted like a sack of potatoes launched off a moving carriage, limbs flailing, dignity abandoning ship before you even hit the floor.

And then you hit the floor.

Hard.

Ace, your beloved thorn in the side, had stood over you, blinking, until you groaned and weakly waved a hand to signal that you were probably not dead.

And that was when he had completely lost it.

He had laughed for ten minutes straight. A full, wheezing, tears-in-his-eyes, struggling-to-breathe kind of laugh, slapping his knee like an old man who just heard the funniest joke of his life. The servants had peered around corners in confusion. One poor maid had whispered, "Should we call a doctor?" Not for you. For Ace, because he was about to rupture a lung.

"You're fine," he gasped out eventually, still giggling like a goblin. "It's just a sprain, right? But your ego— oh, your ego is never coming back from this one."

And that was how you had ended up here.

Ace had decided—without your input, without even a semblance of human decency— that you were now a particularly large handbag.

He carried you everywhere.

There was no logical reason for this. You could still walk. You had one (1) slightly messed-up ankle, you were fine. But Ace, seeing the opportunity to be the worst person alive, had simply hoisted you up like a particularly unruly sack of flour and declared, "Guess you're stuck with me, huh?"

And he had not put you down since.

Which led to your current predicament.

You had planned to meet Riddle, Trey, and Cater for tea in the gardens, because you were a person of class and refinement, not some gremlin carried around like stolen treasure. But did that stop Ace? No. Of course not.

The three of them had been waiting peacefully in the garden, cups of tea in hand, enjoying their serene afternoon—

And then Ace had strolled in, with you draped over his shoulder like a particularly expensive piece of luggage.

Silence.

The kind of silence that one might expect after watching a clown cartwheel directly into the king’s court.

Trey looked concerned. Riddle looked like he was going to spontaneously combust. Cater, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looked entertained.

And you? You had given up.

"You could just let me down, you know," you muttered, swatting at Ace’s shoulder in what you hoped was a dignified manner, though it probably looked more like a dying fish flopping around.

Ace grinned, because of course he did. "Nah. Too late. You’re furniture now."

You scowled. "Then put me near the table so I can actually reach my tea, you absolute menace—"

Ace ignored you completely.

He dropped into a chair, still holding you.

This was your life now.

Trey, who had likely woken up hoping for a quiet afternoon, cleared his throat and asked, very diplomatically, "So… sprained ankle?"

"Tragic accident," Ace said, like he was recounting the tale of a fallen soldier. "There I was, just minding my own business, when—boom. Disaster. Absolute catastrophe. They will sing songs about this one for years."

"You were laughing," you deadpanned.

"And now I'm grieving," Ace shot back.

Riddle, who had quite frankly had enough of both of you, massaged his temples.

Meanwhile, Cater, who had pulled out his camera at some point, was taking photos.

"This is gold," he muttered, already plotting his gossip column.

And then, just as you were mid-swat, trying to smack the smirk off Ace’s face while he cackled like a heathen, Riddle sighed under his breath, voice heavy with exhaustion and despair.

"They're so obvious," he muttered. "Sevens save us all."

Trey nodded solemnly. Cater just grinned.

It had been a perfectly normal day.

Which, of course, meant disaster was imminent.

You were standing in the grand hall, sipping a totally normal, non-poisoned cup of tea (probably), when you felt it. That eerie, spine-chilling sensation. The distinct, unsettling awareness that you were being watched.

Slowly, you turned your head.

A pair of glowing eyes peered at you from behind an indoor potted plant.

You sighed. Loudly. "Viscount, I can see you."

"Tch," the Viscount hissed, stepping out of his entirely inadequate hiding spot. "So perceptive… as expected of my fated beloved."

As if to ruin the illusion entirely, he tripped on his own cape and had to grab onto the plant for support. The entire thing tipped over with a thunderous CRASH.

Silence.

A servant slowly turned to look at him, unblinking.

The Viscount, sprawled across the floor, cleared his throat. "Pretend you did not see that."

You rubbed your temples. "What do you want?"

He rose to his feet dramatically—or at least, he tried. His foot got tangled in his cape again, and he had to do an awkward little hop to untangle himself before he could finally regain his dignity (what little he had left).

"I have come to confess," he intoned, "the depths of my undying love for you."

A dramatic wind blew through the hall. (Despite the fact that all the windows were closed.)

You braced yourself. This was going to be painful.

"From the moment I first laid eyes upon you," the Viscount continued, stepping forward (but nearly tripping over a rug). "I knew that you and I were bound by fate."

He gripped his chest. "Your beauty, your grace, your ability to evade me every time I attempt to watch over you from the shadows… truly, you are like a rare and precious bird, always just out of reach!"

"You mean because I run away every time you try to talk to me?" you deadpanned.

"Exactly!" he said, passionately. "Such a clever game of cat and mouse we play!"

You stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.

Cater was, once again, taking pictures of this entire trainwreck. Deuce had just pulled out a chair, grabbed a snack, and was watching like it was a soap opera.

"But no more!" the Viscount declared. "Today, I shall break this cycle and claim my rightful place at your side!"

He took a bold step forward—

—and promptly slipped on the fallen leaves from the potted plant.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Then—THUMP.

He faceplanted straight into the marble floor.

Cater wheezed. Deuce actually fell out of his chair. Riddle was muttering something about public executions. Trey looked like he was reconsidering his entire life.

But the Viscount?

He slowly pushed himself up, nose bleeding, expression unfazed.

"A minor setback," he rasped, wiping the blood off his face with his own cape like some kind of tragic war hero. "Love… is pain."

You exhaled deeply. "Alright, you know what?" You straightened your posture, voice heavy with overwhelming sorrow. "My dear Viscount… if only you had come to me sooner."

His breath hitched. "You mean—?"

"If only fate were kinder," you continued, placing a hand on your chest. "If only my heart were not already…taken."

Fake gasps echoed through the hall.

The Viscount staggered. "No… it cannot be!"

"I am afraid so," you whispered. "For I… I have already pledged my love to…"

You spun dramatically—and pointed straight at Ace.

Ace, who immediately choked on his drink.

Ace, who had agreed to fake date you but was now staring at you like you had just struck him with a bolt of divine judgment.

Cater’s camera zoomed in on his expression.

You turned dramatically, seizing Ace’s arm with a grip that could bend steel. "My darling fiancé, my heart, my sun and stars!" you declared, throwing yourself against him like a maiden in distress. "Forgive me for not introducing you sooner—this is my betrothed, Ace Trappola!"

Ace made a sound like a cat getting drop-kicked across a room.

"WHAT."

The Viscount looked like someone had just run him through with a broadsword.

"I know," you said, voice trembling with unspeakable woe. "It seems impossible. Unthinkable. But love, my dear Viscount, is a force beyond comprehension. Who are we to fight against fate?"

Ace was still making distressed noises. Riddle looked like he was five seconds away from committing homicide.

"No—no, this cannot be!" The Viscount staggered back, clutching his chest like he had just been mortally wounded. "You would choose him over me?"

You gripped Ace’s collar, pulling him until your foreheads nearly touched. "How could I not?" you whispered. "Look at him. Look at his—his, um. His face!"

Ace mouthed: WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?

"His personality!" you continued, wildly grasping for reasons. "His—his unparalleled ability to be so Ace-like at all times!"

"I hate every single word coming out of your mouth," Ace muttered.

"And most of all," you gasped, voice hushed. "The way he carries me when I sprain my ankle. A true gentleman. A man among men."

The grand hall erupted into chaos.

Ace visibly short-circuited. "I— WHAT??"

Cater's hands visibly shook as he tried to keep taking pictures. Deuce had fully dropped his snack. The Viscount let out a dramatic, heartbroken wail.

"Engaged?!" the Viscount gasped. "But how? When?!"

You clutched Ace’s hand tighter. "Last night."

"LAST NIGHT??" Ace screeched.

You shot him a look. Ace, whose entire face was on fire, gulped and quickly switched tactics.

"Aha… aha… yeah, totally!" He threw an arm around your shoulders, grinning through his existential crisis. "We got engaged last night! Super romantic and all that! Just me and my beloved—" his voice cracked, "—who I love so much!"

You patted his chest reassuringly. "See? True love."

The Viscount staggered back. His entire world was shattering. The intensity of his emotional turmoil was so strong that he tripped over his own cape again and went tumbling down the nearby staircase.

It took twenty entire seconds for him to hit the bottom.

More silence.

Then, from below: "Love… is pain…"

Ace, still holding you, whispered, "What did you just do to me?"

You turned, smiling sweetly. "I just made you my fiancé, Ace."

Ace felt faint. His heart had been going a normal amount of fast when he agreed to fake date you, but this? This was illegal.

Meanwhile, Cater was already writing the next article.

The night had started so normally. Just you, your expensive, holy-grail skincare routine, and the unwavering determination to emerge from this ritual looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. You had your headband on, your fluffy robe wrapped around you, and the greenish-white sludge of your face mask setting into a crusty layer of beauty and self-care.

Then Ace Trappola happened.

He kicked the door open like he was the protagonist of a spaghetti western, took one look at you, and lost his entire mind.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" he gasped, immediately doubling over in laughter. "Oh my god, you look like a haunted doll."

You did not hesitate. You lunged at him like an apex predator.

And despite all his athleticism and street-rat reflexes, Ace had not been prepared for an attack from a fully masked-up, vengeance-driven individual armed with a whole tub of premium skincare.

"WAIT—NO—"

It was too late.

You straddled his lap, pressed his shoulders down onto your bed, and slathered the mask onto his stupid, laughing face with all the delicacy of an artist painting their magnum opus.

"See?" you said sweetly, coating his nose with a dramatic flourish. "Now we’re both glowing."

Ace wanted to talk back— wanted to make a joke, to tell you off, to do anything but sit here like a dumb, frozen idiot while you cupped his face, held his chin so gently, and smoothed the mask over his cheekbones like he was something precious and breakable.

And he was losing it.

Your legs were slung over his lap. His back was against your bed. Your hand was on his jaw, tilting his face however you wanted. And Ace, the very same Ace who laughed at every romantic in the kingdom for being cringe and stupid, was about two seconds away from throwing his dignity out the window and leaning into your touch.

Because all he could see, smell, and feel was you.

Your voice kept going, rambling about something stupid and inconsequential—some royal drama, a new gossip column, your thoughts on different brands of facial cleanser—but Ace couldn’t process a single word because his entire stupid, traitorous heart was screaming at him to just—just—

The revelation slammed into him like a meteor. A deadly, world-ending, history-changing impact that reduced his brain cells to rubble and left behind only the smoking wreckage of a man who was well and truly screwed.

This was not a platonic feeling.

This was the opposite of a platonic feeling.

And yet, instead of saying anything, instead of introspecting like a sane person, he just let you keep talking, let himself bask in the feeling of your fingers on his face, let himself sink into the sheer stupidity of his predicament.

By the time he could regain enough motor function to think about moving, it was too late.

You had both somehow, inexplicably, fallen asleep.

The morning arrived with the unmistakable sound of high-pitched giggles.

You cracked open a single bleary eye, your body heavy with sleep, and—oh.

Oh no.

Ace was snuggled up against your arm, his face relaxed in a way you had never seen before. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found, replaced by something painfully soft and vulnerable.

His hair was a mess, sticking up in ridiculous angles, but somehow, it made him look even cuter. His cheek was squished against your shoulder, his arms curled slightly around yours, one leg lazily slung over yours like he had every right to use you as a makeshift pillow.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t even weird.

It felt… right.

And that was when it hit you.

Like a meteor. Like an act of god. Like the universe itself had conspired to wait until you were at your most defenseless before smacking you in the face with one singular, undeniable truth.

You were in love with Ace Trappola.

You. Loved. Ace.

How unfortunate.

You had half a mind to violently shake him awake, make him take responsibility for making you feel this way—but then he muttered something in his sleep, something unintelligible, and shifted closer, pressing his nose against your arm.

You stopped breathing.

The maids were still standing at the door, watching, waiting for you to react.

You slowly raised a hand.

And, with the elegance of a queen issuing a decree, you waved them away.

Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

The Duke of the North was an annual disaster. Like a migrating bird that exclusively flew south to be annoying, he only visited the capital once a year—and every single time, it was to do one thing: propose to you.

This would have been flattering, except for the fact that you had been rejecting him since the dawn of time. Yet, for some reason, he was deeply convinced that, one day, you would simply change your mind upon seeing him standing there, brooding dramatically in his tailored, imported-from-a-country-that-doesn’t-even-exist coats.

He did not take rejection well.

Of course, you never answered his letters. Why would you? His correspondence was a tragic novel in real-time, each letter trying and failing to sound aloof, with absolutely zero success.

"I suppose you are busy, as I am also very busy, thinking about extremely important things, such as war and finance and not at all about why you have not replied to me in the last six months." "Should you choose to acknowledge my existence, I will, of course, consider taking time out of my incredibly packed schedule to respond (though I have already cleared next Tuesday for you, just in case)." "It is of no consequence to me whether you reply. However, I have sent my fastest courier, so you may want to respond before he breaks his legs trying to reach me before nightfall."

Pathetic.

And now, as expected, here he was again.

And as always, he came prepared.

This time, he had doubled down on his "love can be bought" philosophy.

A solid gold chair—because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.”

An entirely new breed of horse, bred specifically for you, because "standard horses are beneath you."

A fleet of ships. Why? No one knew. You were not a sailor. You had never even been on a boat.

Riddle, who had been an unfortunate witness to this entire spectacle, had been slowly turning redder and redder, not out of anger, but out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. He looked like he was debating whether to intervene or let natural selection take its course.

Meanwhile, the villainess, who had been throwing you dirty looks since the Duke’s arrival, stood nearby. It didn’t take long for you to realize why—she liked him. She wanted him.

You turned to face her. Slowly. Deliberately.

Your expression said: “Lady, I don’t even want him.”

Her expression said: “You lying harlot.”

And before you could even think of clarifying that you had no interest in this walking gold reserve, the situation somehow got worse.

Ace appeared out of nowhere, grabbed your hand, and, with the audacity of a man who had never once in his life considered the consequences of his actions, declared with full confidence:

"Oh, sorry, we already got married."

Riddle choked on air.

The Duke froze, mid-proposal, like a glitching NPC in a poorly coded game. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were about to say something but his brain was actively refusing to process the information.

"You," he said hoarsely, like someone had just stabbed him in the chest. "What?"

You nodded solemnly, forcing yourself to look as heartbreakingly sincere as possible. "We even have a dog," you said.

Ace, who had waited his entire life for a bit like this, effortlessly raised the stakes.

"Two dogs," he added, gripping your hand even tighter.

You smiled sweetly, as if recounting precious memories of a long and happy marriage. "Three, actually."

The Duke’s breathing audibly shortened.

Riddle buried his face in his hands and muttered, “Oh my god, make it stop.”

"WHAT?!"

Ace sighed, the weariness of a devoted husband weighing down on him. "We also have six kids."

The Duke, who had already been dangerously close to a stroke, seemed to visibly glitch.

"SIX?! BUT IT HASN’T EVEN BEEN A YEAR!"

Ace, seeing an opportunity and deciding to go all in, dramatically gestured at a group of stray cats on the street.

"There they are," he said, with the utmost conviction.

The Duke followed his gaze, slowly, hesitantly, as if he already knew he was about to regret it.

There, on the sidewalk, were six very dirty, very chaotic stray cats.

One of them, making full eye contact with him, immediately started hacking up a hairball. Another was biting its own tail, because it had seemingly forgotten that it was attached to its body. A third was somehow climbing a wall upside down, defying both gravity and logic.

The Duke completely lost his mind.

"YOU—YOU HAVE—YOU’VE BIRTHED FELINE OFFSPRING?!"

Riddle made a strangled noise. His entire body convulsed with the effort of holding back laughter.

Ace did not hesitate. "Yeah, we just love them so much," he said, as if this were a completely normal and factual statement. "Fatherhood changes a man, y’know?"

"Don't forget our youngest," you added helpfully, pointing at a cat stuck in a flower pot.

Ace wiped an imaginary tear. "That's little Gregory. He's the smart one."

At this point, Riddle was not even trying to stop laughing anymore. He had completely given up, his usual decorum shattered beyond repair.

The Duke, however, looked like he was experiencing all five stages of grief simultaneously. His face twisted into pure devastation. He opened his mouth to say something, then immediately closed it, shaking his head in silent agony.

And then, without another word—he left.

Ace, smug beyond words, turned to you, grinning. "That went well."

Riddle, who had just witnessed a full-scale psychological takedown using nothing but sheer absurdity, wiped a tear from his eye. "You two are insane," he muttered, shaking his head.

Ace didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the evening.

Ace doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

He’s always liked you. A little.

A manageable amount. A totally ignorable amount. The kind of dumb little crush that normal people have. The kind you lock in a box, throw into the ocean, and then blow up the ocean for good measure.

But then you woke up from your fainting accident and became his worst nightmare.

Because somehow, in that brief unconscious state, you became ten times more interesting. More chaotic. More fun.

You met his sarcasm with even faster comebacks. You encouraged his bad ideas. You had absolutely no self-preservation. You went from exasperatedly tolerating his nonsense to actively participating in it, and it was the worst thing you could have possibly done to him.

Because now?

Now he’s the one barely keeping up.

You match him perfectly—step for step, disaster for disaster. If he’s instigating, you’re escalating. If he cracks a joke, you one-up him. When he nudges you in the ribs, you shove him into a bush.

And when you grab his arm, lean in close, and whisper, "Hey, let’s cause some problems," his brain just shuts the hell down.

He’s so ruined.

And the thing is?

Ace has done this to himself.

Because when he suggested pretending to be your lover, he genuinely thought it was a great idea. A genius plan, even.

He’d fake it, get it out of his system, and then tragically move on once you found someone else.

Except now he’s holding your hand in public.

Now he’s whispering in your ear just to make you laugh.

Now he’s calling you ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’ and ‘my love’—and you play along like it’s a game, and every time, his heart detonates like an unstable potion.

At this point, if you actually fell for someone else?

Ace thinks he might literally die.

No, really. He would simply perish. Collapse. Expire. He would crumple to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been violently severed and haunt the castle as the world’s most bitter, lovesick ghost.

Cupid was somewhere, rolling on the floor, wheezing.

The other day, you smiled at him for too long, and he forgot how to walk and almost tripped.

You called him ‘Acey’ once, and he almost bit through his own tongue.

One time, you said, "I feel safest when I’m with you," and he blacked out for a full thirty seconds.

You took a sip from his drink the other day, and he had to go lie down.

And now you’re standing beside him at some stupid jewelry stall, pointing at a necklace with that gleam in your eyes, and Ace is staring at you like an absolute idiot.

He can’t stop thinking about how pretty you look under the market lights.

How he’d buy you every single piece of jewelry in the damn kingdom if you asked.

How his entire soul is in shambles because he’s standing next to you thinking, "Oh no. I actually, genuinely, idiotically am in love."

Ace Trappola, Ace ‘Fake-Dating-Was-A-Good-Idea’ Trappola, is staring at you thinking:

"Oh, Trappola. You absolute dumbass. You’re in love."

And then you turn to him, all bright-eyed and smiling, and ask, "Ace, do you think this would suit me?"

And he almost chokes on his own tongue.

Because yes.

Yes, it would suit you.

So would every other necklace in existence. So would a crown. So would the title of Supreme Ruler of the Universe, if he could somehow get that for you.

But instead of saying that, he just shoves his hands in his pockets, tries to look normal, and mutters, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you like it, just get it already."

And you laugh.

And Ace Trappola is never going to recover from this.

The worst of the lot finally appears.

You had dealt with the Brooding Duke who thought love could be purchased, endured the Prince who wept into his lace handkerchief at every rejection, and even managed to shake off the Yandere who believed true love was an elaborate chess game. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the Drama King Knight.

He stood before you in the garden, his impractically long cape billowing in the completely windless afternoon, because he had, no doubt, hired a peasant to stand just off-camera fanning him.

His sword—which was capable of splitting mountains but had only ever been used to dramatically point at celestial bodies—glinted in the sun. He looked at you with eyes that had definitely rehearsed this exact expression in the mirror for three hours.

"Fairest of all," he said, already halfway through a monologue you did not want to hear. "I have braved the perils of—"

You sighed dramatically, cutting him off. "A single brush of your hand might shatter my frail mortal bones."

The Knight visibly trembled. His gauntleted hand hovered in the air like he was about to faint. "You’re right… I must protect you. From myself."

Riddle, standing beside you, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Do that. From very, very far away."

And for a moment, it seemed like that would be enough. The Knight turned away, his cape swishing dramatically. You could practically hear the imaginary background music swelling, the curtains closing, the credits rolling.

Then he whirled back around. God, why do they always whirl back around?

"But if I cannot be with you in body," he declared, voice shaking with raw emotion, "then I shall remain by your side in spirit. Our souls, forever entwined. Our hearts, eternally wed!"

You blinked. "What."

"Yes!" He threw an arm toward the heavens, pointing at the sun like he was about to challenge it to a duel. "We shall be together in spirit! No matter where you go, I shall always be watching! Always waiting! Like the moon follows the tide, I shall—"

Alright. You had tried to reject him normally. You had been reasonable. But clearly, reason had no place here.

Riddle sighed. "Do whatever you're about to do. Just… make it quick."

You nodded grimly. If this was how it had to be, then so be it.

You squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and clutched your chest like a woman stricken with a terrible, unknowable curse.

"No," you whispered. "You don’t understand."

The Knight faltered. "Understand… what?"

You threw an arm over your eyes. "I am cursed! Any man who loves me shall be turned into a… a… a goose."

Silence.

The Knight blinked at you. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His sword, which had been dramatically trembling in his grip, clattered to the ground.

"A… a goose?" he repeated.

You solemnly nodded.

And then, as prearranged, Deuce rushed off to fetch the goose.

The Knight looked between you and Deuce’s retreating figure, his expression one of dawning horror, like a man realizing he had proposed to a person who was actually an eldritch horror in disguise.

Deuce returned, struggling slightly because the goose had absolutely no interest in being part of this nonsense.

But this was not just any goose. This was the Emergency Goose.

Ace, hiding behind a tree like the gremlin he was, gave you a solemn nod.

Deuce carefully lifted the goose, revealing the final touch—the little red heart painted onto its cheek.

Riddle rubbed his temples. "I hate that you were prepared for this."

"This," you declared gravely, "is Ace."

The Knight reeled. "No. That… That cannot be!"

The goose honked.

"Yes," you continued, "he loved me once. And this was his fate."

A perfect beat of silence.

And then, from behind the tree, Ace whimpered, "Save me."

The Knight—a man who had once stood before a charging wyvern and laughed in the face of death—let out a shriek so bloodcurdling it startled every bird within a five-mile radius.

And then, cape billowing, he turned and ran.

Not a noble retreat. Not a dignified exit. No. Full-speed sprint. He shoved a confused maid out of the way. He leapt over a market stall. A small child pointed and laughed as he fled, but the Knight did not slow down, because his heart—once so full of love and poetry—was now full of terror.

Terror of you.

Terror of your goose.

Terror of the idea that at any moment, he too might sprout feathers and begin honking at the moon.

You, Ace, Deuce, Riddle, and the goose watched him vanish into the horizon.

A long silence followed.

Deuce set the goose down. The goose, finally free from its obligations, pecked him on the shin and waddled off.

Ace emerged from behind the tree, cackling. "Did you see his face?! Bro really thought I turned into a goose!"

Riddle sighed the sigh of a man who was simply too tired for this nonsense. "You two are the worst people I have ever met."

"You love us," you said.

"I do not."

Ace slung an arm over your shoulder. "You totally do."

Riddle turned on his heel and stormed off in the opposite direction.

But you saw it. You absolutely saw it.

A single, fleeting twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Freedom. Sweet, unshackled, unburdened freedom.

No more men in capes dramatically reciting poetry at you. No more gold furniture being delivered to your doorstep. No more wild-eyed knights trying to prove their devotion by fighting literal bears in your honor. No more deranged suitors appearing at your window like particularly uncoordinated bats.

You were free.

And yet—

As you stood in the gardens, bathed in the golden glow of your well-earned peace, you felt… unsettled. Uneasy. Almost—upset.

Which made no sense. You had spent months rejecting these lunatics. You had faked engagements, lied through your teeth, orchestrated elaborate hoaxes, and weaponized a goose. You had done everything in your power to be rid of them, and it worked.

So why, in the face of your glorious victory, did you feel like you'd lost something?

And then, like a lightning bolt to the brain, it hit you.

Ace.

This meant no more holding hands in public to “convince” people. No more cheek kisses for the sake of believability. No more stupid, infuriating, wonderful Ace, grinning at you like you hung the damn moon.

It was over. Your fake dating/marriage/engagement (depending on the day and the level of your theatrics) had served its purpose.

And now it was gone.

The realization hit like a carriage crash.

You were an idiot. A complete, utter idiot.

Because somewhere between the first fake kiss in front of a suitor, the first time he laced his fingers through yours, the first time he winked at you like you were his favorite person in the entire world, you had fallen for him.

And now, standing in the wreckage of your successful campaign of repelling suitors, you realized that it was either confess right now… or take this to your grave.

Your horribly embarrassing, entirely unavoidable, painfully obvious feelings for Ace Trappola.

Ace is happy for you. He really, really is.

You’re finally free. No more unhinged declarations of love from men who have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. No more dodging elaborate marriage proposals like a rogue in a dungeon raid. No more looking over your shoulder, expecting some cape-wearing lunatic to be reciting poetry in your honor.

Most of them think you’re taken. One thinks you’re cursed.

It worked. You’re safe. You’re free.

So why does Ace feel like he’s the one who lost?

He was kind of hoping it would take longer. Just a little bit. A few more weeks, maybe. Another month, if he was lucky. Because every day you had to pretend to be his meant another day you were in his arms. Another day he got to hold your hand in public and call it necessity. Another day he could press a kiss to your cheek without consequences. Another day of you being his.

And now? Now it was over.

And he doesn’t know how to go back.

How is he supposed to just… be your best friend Ace again? How is he supposed to look at you and not wonder what it could’ve been? How is he supposed to stand beside you like nothing has changed when everything has changed for him?

Because now, every time he looks at you, he just wants to grab you and kiss you until you’re the only thing he can taste. He wants to pull you close, whisper all the things he never let himself say. He wants everything.

But most of all, he knows—knows deep in his bones—that if you ever fall for someone else, it will destroy him.

He has to confess right now or take it to his grave.

You’re running like a madman. Like some kind of deranged romantic heroine who’s just realized she’s been in love with her childhood friend all along. Your dress is catching on every stray branch, your hair’s a mess, and you probably look like you’ve barely survived a war. But none of that matters.

Because Ace is running too.

You see him, just as wrecked as you, his coat unevenly buttoned, his hair windswept, his face flushed and frantic like he’s been sprinting for miles. And maybe he has. Maybe you both have—metaphorically and literally.

You skid to a stop, panting, staring at each other like two idiots who have finally realized the answer to a question they should’ve known all along. Ace looks at you, his breath shuddering, his eyes wide and teary like he can’t believe you’re actually here. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that you’re both half out of your minds with feelings, but you throw caution to the wind.

You’ve survived up till now on sheer audacity. Maybe it can take you further.

So you kiss him.

And for a second, there’s nothing. Just the stunned stillness of the world as you close the distance, pressing your lips to his.

And then he’s grabbing you, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His hands are tangled in your clothes, your hair, desperate, shaking, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever, like he’s terrified it’s all a dream and any second now, he’ll wake up.

You pull away for air—and he chases after your lips, stealing another kiss before you can even take a full breath.

This one is deeper, slower, but just as desperate. It’s like he’s pouring everything he’s ever felt into you, like he’s afraid to stop, like he’s trying to tell you everything he never could with words. And you get it—because you feel the same way.

When he finally pulls back, breathless and shaking with emotion, you press one more soft kiss against his lips, and then you say it.

“I love you.”

Ace lets out a watery laugh, his forehead dropping against yours as he grins like a fool. His eyes are shining, and he cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

“What took you so long?”

And then he kisses you again.

The morning after your dramatic, borderline cinematic love confession, you and Ace walk into the usual meeting spot grinning like absolute fools.

You’re both trying to act normal, like the world hasn’t completely shifted on its axis, like Ace hadn’t kissed you breathless under the stars, like you hadn’t confessed to each other in a moment so romantic it could’ve been a grand finale scene in a novel. But normalcy is impossible because the second you walk in, hand-in-hand, everyone immediately knows.

Riddle, the most composed of the group, simply pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales sharply, and mutters, “Great Sevens, finally.” His tone is not congratulatory—it is the tone of a man who has suffered for far too long, who has borne witness to the sheer idiocy of your mutual pining and is just relieved that he no longer has to endure it.

Trey, ever the calm and collected one, gives you a small, knowing smile and nods. “Congrats,” he says simply, because Trey has probably seen this coming since the very beginning. He is the type of man who could predict the weather based on the way the wind blows and has likely bet money on this exact outcome.

Cater, on the other hand, reacts as expected.

“LET’S GO, MY MAN!” he hoots, high-fiving Ace so hard that Ace actually staggers backward. “Finally out of the friendzone, huh? This is a historic moment. A certified win.” He’s already pulling out his camera, preparing to document this for the masses, and you barely manage to swat it away in time.

And then there’s Deuce. Sweet, exhausted Deuce.

He doesn’t cheer, or exclaim, or even try to congratulate you. No, Deuce just sits there, staring at the both of you like he’s just been freed from an unspeakable burden. Like he’s been carrying the weight of Ace’s obliviousness and denial on his shoulders for so long that he no longer knows what to do with himself now that it’s over.

“I don’t have to hear him deny his feelings anymore,” Deuce whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I’m free.”

Ace shoves him.

And as your friends start heckling you, teasing you, yelling at you to get a room, you turn to Ace, grinning at him as he grins right back.

And in that moment, you can’t help but think back to the mysterious, rollerblading grandma who is the reason you even ended up here. The woman who defied all logic and physics, who sent you hurtling into this world with nothing but sheer willpower and questionable urban transportation.

You close your eyes, sending a silent thanks to her.

She was a real one.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #ace trappola x reader #ace x reader #ace trappola #twst ace #twst ace x reader #ace #trash novel chronicles

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heliosunny · 3 days ago

Note

Your writing is just… unbelievable! You’re doing such a good job, I hope you know that and you’re taking care of yourself (and your wrists!!)

May I request, if it peaks your interest, Yandere!Mydei x Reader, but slow-decent yandere over time as Mydei gets more possessive of reader, who they met when reader and Mydei accidentally bumped into each other in the market place, causing his pomegranate juice to spill on her. She didn’t mind, even licks a bit off of her to taste it before leaving, and runs a trinket shop for people at the edge of the market!

My wrists are doing okay- ;3

CROSSED PATHS

Yandere!Mydei x Fem!Reader

Mydei walked through the market with the same disinterest he always carried, he was all too familiar with this place. He wasn’t here for anything in particular, just taking the usual route through the stalls, a wooden cup of pomegranate juice in hand. The deep red liquid sloshed slightly as he moved, but he paid it no mind.

Then, before he could sidestep, someone walked straight into him.

The collision wasn’t violent, but it was enough to jostle his cup, sending the juice spilling forward. The rich crimson liquid soaked into the tunic of the person in front of him.

“Tch” Mydei clicked his tongue, already annoyed. “You should watch where you’re going.”

Instead of irritation, you simply looked down at the stain, then back up at him. Without hesitation, you ran a finger along the droplets clinging to your skin, bringing it to your lips and licking it off.

“Mmm. That’s good” you mused, amusement flickering in your eyes. “You’ve got good taste.”

Mydei stared, silent for a moment. He wasn’t sure what he expected your reaction to be, but it certainly wasn’t that. Most people would be frustrated, flustered, or at least make some effort to clean up. Instead, you stood there, completely at ease, as if the spill was nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

His gaze flickered to your clothes. “It’s ruined.”

You merely shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. Gives me an excuse to close up early anyway.”

That caught his attention. “Close up?”

“I run a trinket shop. Just by the market’s edge.” You smiled, “Little things to catch the eye and heart.”

Mydei didn’t reply right away, just watching as you gave him a small wave and disappeared back into the crowd, as if this meeting was nothing more than a fleeting moment.

The next day, Mydei found himself walking toward the edge of the market, where the usual noise and crowd thinned out. He wasn’t sure why he bothered. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was just something to do. Either way, he figured he’d at least take a look at the shop you mentioned.

When he arrived, however, the place was closed. The wooden sign hanging on the door was tilted slightly, as if it had been left that way in a hurry.

What was the point of bringing up a shop if she wasn’t even going to open it?

He exhaled through his nose, about to turn back and head home, when movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention.

There you were, walking toward the shop with a slow, lazy pace, arms stretching over your head as you let out a deep yawn. You looked half-asleep, hair slightly messy, and completely unbothered by the fact that most stalls had already been open since morning.

Mydei frowned. “Isn’t it late to be opening now?”

You blinked at him, then glanced at the sky as if just realizing the time. “Mm. Guess so.” You rubbed at one eye before giving him a lopsided grin. “But hey, better late than never, right?”

He stared at you. “That’s a terrible mindset for business.”

You only chuckled, fishing out the key and unlocking the door with an easy shrug. “Maybe. But I open when I feel like it. I still get customers, so it works out.”

That… was the most carefree approach he’d ever heard. He didn’t know whether to call it ridiculous or strangely impressive.

Instead of arguing, he crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the nearby post. “So, do you actually sell anything useful, or is it all just cheap junk?”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your chest. “How dare you.” Then you grinned. “You’ll just have to come inside and see for yourself.”

And for some reason, Mydei didn’t immediately walk away.

As you pushed open the shop door, the scent of old parchment, polished wood, and faint traces of incense drifted into the cool evening air. The interior was warm, lit by scattered lanterns that cast soft golden hues across shelves packed with trinkets—intricate carvings, delicate charms, aged coins, and strange little oddities that seemed to whisper of stories untold.

Mydei stepped in behind you, arms still crossed as his sharp eyes swept across the shop’s interior. He made a low noise in the back of his throat—half curiosity, half scrutiny. He reached for a small wooden carving of a beast with jeweled eyes, turning it in his hand. “You actually sell things worth looking at.”

You laughed, stretching lazily before stepping behind the counter. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

He huffed, setting the carving down before moving to another shelf. “Take it however you want.”

He studied everything with an almost calculated interest, fingers skimming over old coins, testing the weight of metal trinkets, and occasionally raising a brow at something that caught his attention. He wasn’t the type to be easily impressed, but you could tell he wasn’t just humoring you—he genuinely found the shop interesting, even if he didn’t outright say it.

“You actually know what you’re selling” he muttered, inspecting an engraved pendant. “Not just collecting junk and hoping people buy it.”

You leaned on the counter, resting your chin on your hand. “Of course. Every piece here has a story. That’s what makes them special.”

Mydei glanced at you briefly, as if considering something, but before he could speak, a voice cut through the quiet.

“Mydei!”

A man rushed into the shop, breathing heavily, eyes scanning the space before locking onto him. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere—” He paused, glancing between you and Mydei before continuing hurriedly. “There’s trouble. You’re needed now.”

Mydei clicked his tongue in irritation but didn’t hesitate. He turned to you, nodding once. “Guess I’ll have to finish looking around another time.”

You waved a hand dismissively, grinning. “Take your time. The shop isn’t going anywhere.”

Without another word, he strode past the man and out into the night, disappearing as quickly as he had come.

Five days had passed since Mydei had left in a rush, and in that time, life went on as usual. Your shop saw a steady stream of customers—travelers looking for charms, locals browsing out of habit, and the occasional collector intrigued by the more unique items you sold.

The place was lively today, filled with chatter and the occasional sound of trinkets clinking together as people picked them up and examined them. You were busy handling coins, giving a customer change, when a familiar figure stepped inside.

At first, you didn’t notice him. Mydei wasn’t the type to announce his presence, and he simply stood near the back, scanning the shelves with his usual unreadable expression. He blended in well, quiet and observant, though his presence carried a weight that would eventually demand attention.

It wasn’t until you turned, momentarily catching a glimpse of something unusual in the dim light, that you really saw him. A few stray leaves were nestled in his hair, likely from his journey back to town.

Without thinking, you moved toward him, reaching up on your toes to pluck the leaves away. “You’ve been out in the wild, huh?” you mused, brushing the last one from his shoulder.

He barely reacted, only arching a brow. “You didn’t even notice me walk in, and this is the first thing you do?”

You grinned. “Well, you weren’t exactly loud about it.”

Just as you stepped back, a child rushed past, bumping into you at full speed. You stumbled, thrown off balance, and for a brief moment, you thought you might crash straight into Mydei—until his hand caught your wrist, steadying you with ease.

“Careful”

You let out a short laugh, regaining your footing. “Thanks. You could’ve just let me fall, you know.”

“And let you take me down with you? No thanks.”

The day continued, and surprisingly, Mydei lingered. He leaned against a shelf, watching as you worked, occasionally glancing at the customers but never interfering. He had no reason to stay, yet he made no move to leave.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the last customer stepped out, you stretched with a sigh, locking up the shop for the night. “Didn’t think you’d stick around that long”

“It’s dangerous,” he replied simply, arms crossed. “Beasts have been spotted near town. You shouldn’t walk home alone.”

“Oh? And here I thought you just enjoyed my company.”

He scoffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he walked alongside you as you made your way home, the quiet hum of the night settling around you both. When you finally reached your door, he stopped a few steps away, watching as you unlocked it.

“This where you live?”

You nodded. “Yup. Cozy, isn’t it?”

He didn’t comment, only nodding slightly. “Stay inside at night.”

With that, he turned, disappearing into the shadows of the street.

You lingered for a moment, watching where he had gone before finally stepping inside. Something about him stuck with you, and despite his rough demeanor, you couldn’t help but smile.

The following days passed as usual. Customers came and went, some lingering to chat, others leaving with trinkets tucked away in their pockets. Yet, amidst the routine, you began to notice something—or rather, someone.

Mydei.

You never saw him enter the shop, nor did he ever buy anything, but you caught glimpses of him near the marketplace, often stationed in the same general area. He was never in armor, never dressed in anything that would mark him as a guard or knight, but there was something about the way he carried himself that made you wonder.

At first, you assumed it was coincidence. Maybe he just happened to be around. But as the days passed, you realized it was too frequent to be chance. He wasn’t a customer, yet he lingered. He wasn’t a merchant, yet he remained nearby. Still, you weren’t one to pry. If Mydei had business in the area, it wasn’t really your concern.

Then one evening, as the sun began to sink below the horizon, a group of men entered your shop.

You noticed them immediately—rough around the edges, their movements too casual, too calculated. They weren’t here to browse; their eyes weren’t on the merchandise. Instinctively, you stayed behind the counter, watching them with the same easy calm you always carried.

One of them stepped forward, idly picking up a small carved pendant. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Thanks” you said.

He turned the pendant over in his hands before setting it back down. Another one looked toward the back of the shop as if expecting to find something—or someone.

That’s when you realized. They weren’t stealing. They were looking for someone.

Before you could say anything, a familiar voice cut through the tense silence.

“Took you idiots long enough.”

Mydei stood in the doorway. The men stiffened, immediately straightening like soldiers caught slacking off.

“Captain” one of them muttered under his breath.

Captain? Well. That explained a lot.

“Back to your posts” Mydei ordered, “Now.”

The men hesitated for only a moment before shuffling toward the exit, each one sending you a quick glance as if only now realizing their presence might have looked… suspicious.

Once they were gone, you turned back to Mydei, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “So, Captain, huh?”

He exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I don’t make a habit of announcing it.”

“You also don’t make a habit of staying in one place unless you have a reason.”

His gaze flickered toward you, unreadable. He didn’t confirm or deny it.

Instead, he only muttered, “They won’t bother you again.”

You shrugged. “Wasn’t really bothered to begin with.”

With a short nod, he turned to leave.

It was another evening at the market, the golden hues of the setting sun casting long shadows as you prepared to close up shop. As usual, one of your friends—Edward, a vendor from a few stalls down—came by to help carry the heavier crates of unsold goods back inside. It had become routine by now, something neither of you thought much about.

“You really should hire someone for this” your friend teased, easily lifting a wooden box filled with carved trinkets. “One day, you’ll be stuck under a pile of your own stock.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “And ruin your chance to show off? I wouldn’t dare.”

The two of you worked smoothly, chatting about market gossip and the odd customers you had encountered that day. You didn’t notice Mydei at first, but he had been watching from a distance, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. He wasn’t even sure why he was still here. Yet, as he saw the easy familiarity between you and your friend—the way you smiled, the way they stood close—something in his chest tightened.

Before he could think twice, his body moved on its own.

He stepped in between you just as you reached for another crate, his hand easily grasping the handle before you could. “I’ll do it.”

“Mydei? Didn’t know you were in the business of heavy lifting.”

“You shouldn’t rely on random people.” He didn’t look at your friend, but the message was clear enough.

Your friend raised an amused brow but didn’t argue, instead watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled interest. “Not random” he pointed out, arms crossing. “I help all the time.”

Mydei didn’t respond. He simply hefted the crate as if it weighed nothing, walking into the shop with ease. You exchanged a glance with your friend, who smirked knowingly before waving you off and heading back to their own stall.

Once inside, you turned to Mydei, leaning against the counter with a grin. “Didn’t take you for the helpful type.”

He placed the crate down with a little more force than necessary, expression unreadable. “You’re careless.”

You tilted your head. “How so?”

“Letting just anyone help you. You don’t know what their intentions are.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You’re really that concerned?”

He scoffed but didn’t answer right away. Instead, he glanced around the shop, as if checking for anything else to ‘help’ with.

Part of him wanted to say no—that it wasn’t concern, that he didn’t care. But the truth was, he did. More than he should.

“…Just be careful” he muttered at last.

You smiled. “Always am.”

The next day, the marketplace was bustling as usual, and you were busy sorting through a new batch of trinkets when Edward stopped by. It was nothing out of the ordinary—he often passed through to chat or lend a hand when he had the time.

“You’ve got something on your face” he said, leaning in slightly as he observed your face.

You blinked. “Huh? Oh.”

Before you could react, he carefully reached out, brushing the side of your face to remove whatever it was. The gesture was entirely innocent, but from an outside perspective—especially from a blocked or skewed angle—it might’ve looked a little different.

And unfortunately for Edward, Mydei happened to be that outside perspective.

From where he stood, partially obscured by a wooden post at the edge of the shop, all he saw was Edward’s face close to yours, his hand hovering near your cheek, and you standing there without pulling away.

In an instant, he was moving.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mydei’s voice cut through the moment.

Edward, startled, immediately pulled back and turned to see Mydei standing there—expression unreadable, stance tense.

You blinked at Mydei’s sudden entrance, then at Edward, then back at Mydei. It took you about two seconds to put the pieces together, and when you did, amusement curled at the edges of your lips.

Edward let out a short sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Relax, I was just getting something out of her eye.”

Edward, not one to test his luck, let out a low chuckle and took a step back. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” He shot you a knowing glance before casually making his exit.

The moment he was gone, you turned to Mydei with a smirk, resting your chin in your hand.

“Wow” you mused, tone playful. “Didn’t take you for the type to interrupt people like that.”

He clicked his tongue, looking away. “I have to remind you that you don’t know what people’s intentions are.”

You tilted your head. “Uh-huh. And what exactly did you think was happening?”

He didn’t answer, but his jaw tensed ever so slightly.

Your smirk widened. “You’re like a big cat that’s always on edge.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

“You know, the kind that watches everything, always looking ready to pounce if something gets too close.” You grinned. “Kinda cute, honestly.”

“… Stop talking nonsense.”

But despite his sharp words, Mydei stayed. Even when the conversation ended, even when there was no longer a reason to linger, he stayed.

Just like he always did.

----

The sun had long since passed its highest point when Mydei arrived at your shop, only to find the doors shut tight. No sign, no explanation, nothing. He frowned.

You never closed without warning.

For the first time in a long while, a foreign sense of unease settled in his chest. He told himself it was ridiculous—you were probably fine—but as the hours ticked by and the shop remained closed, that irritation grew into something sharper.

By the time dusk began creeping across the marketplace, he had already decided to check on you himself. But just as he moved toward the door, you finally appeared—yawning, stretching, completely at ease.

He stared. “Where the hell have you been?”

You blinked at him, rubbing your eyes. “Overslept.”

“…Overslept” he repeated flatly.

You grinned. “Yup.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. Here he was, thinking something might’ve happened, only for you to be completely unfazed, acting as if you hadn’t just left your shop closed the entire day.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you teased. “You worried?”

He scoffed, looking away. “Tch. You’re careless.”

“Well, since it’s already this late, might as well do something else.” You stretched again, eyes flicking to him. “What about you? Where were you headed?”

Mydei hesitated for a moment before answering, “…Camp.”

You tilted your head, interested. “Your camp, huh?”

“Not a place for civilians,” he muttered, already expecting you to drop it.

Instead, you grinned. “Sounds fun. Let’s go.”

His men were not prepared.

The moment you entered the camp, curious eyes peered from behind tents and around corners. Soldiers whispered among themselves, their gazes darting between you and Mydei like they had just seen a ghost.

Their captain—who barely tolerated company, let alone anyone outside of their ranks—had brought someone along? A girl?

Somewhere in the shadows, a small group crouched together, trying (and failing) to be discreet.

“She’s so… casual?”

“She’s actually talking to him.”

“She’s still alive.”

“Do you think she—?”

Before the last sentence could even be finished, Mydei turned sharply, his piercing gaze landing right on them.

“Out” he ordered.

There was a brief scramble of bodies before they all disappeared in a mess of quiet shouts and tripping feet.

You couldn’t hold back your laughter. “They’re fun.”

“They’re idiots” he corrected, rubbing his temples.

You only hummed in amusement, following him to where a small campfire burned, casting warm flickering light over the clearing. Mydei sat first, and you settled beside him, close enough to feel the lingering heat but not too close to crowd him.

For a while, there was only silence—the crackling of fire, the distant sounds of the camp settling down for the night.

You stretched your legs out, gazing into the flames. “So, do they always eavesdrop like that, or was this a special occasion?”

“They’re not used to seeing me with company.”

You smirked. “Oh? So I’m special?”

He shot you a look, but the usual sharpness wasn’t quite there.

You leaned back on your hands, watching the embers float up into the dark sky. “Y’know, this is nice. I should close my shop more often.”

“…You must be crazy.”

But despite his words, Mydei didn’t look irritated. If anything, he stayed there longer than necessary, watching the fire, listening to your stories, and letting the quiet companionship settle between you.

The fire crackled between you, warm and steady, casting shifting shadows over Mydei’s face. He had been quiet for a while, arms resting on his knees, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the flames.

Then, without looking at you, he spoke.

“…I have a friend.”

You raised a brow. “Oh?”

He nodded slightly. “He’s… in a situation.”

You smirked, already catching on to where this was going. But you let him continue.

“This friend,” he went on, “has a crush on a girl.”

You bit back a grin. “Mhm.”

“He doesn’t know how to… approach her about it.” His words were carefully chosen, like he was trying not to make it obvious. “She’s carefree. Doesn’t seem to take things too seriously. He doesn’t know if she’d even notice.”

You hummed, tapping a finger against your chin in thought. “Sounds like this friend of yours thinks too much.”

Mydei shot you a look. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” you countered with a lazy grin. “If he likes her, he should just… y’know, show it.”

He frowned. “Show it how?”

You shrugged. “Small things. Stick around her. Do things for her. Make it clear she’s different from everyone else. And if he’s brave enough, tell her.”

Mydei went quiet for a moment, mulling over your words. You weren’t sure if he expected something grander—some complicated strategy—but you could tell he was taking your advice seriously.

And then, almost immediately after, he tested it.

A second later, he reached out, plucking a stray leaf from your hair with casual ease.

“…What” he muttered, glancing away like it was nothing. “There was something there.”

You stared. Then, slowly, a knowing grin spread across your lips.

“Mydei.”

He tensed. “What?”

“You’re predictable.”

“What are you talking about?”

You laughed, nudging his arm. “You’re following my advice already. You’re really bad at being subtle.”

He scoffed, looking off to the side, but the way his fingers twitched betrayed him.

You shook your head, amused beyond belief. “Well, tell your friend this—he doesn’t have to worry. I think the girl already noticed.”

-----

The shift was slow—so gradual you barely noticed at first. Mydei had always been watchful, lingering near your shop more than necessary, helping out in small ways that he’d brush off as coincidence. But then it started becoming… more.

You weren’t the only one to notice. The market folk whispered about it. Your friend Edward raised an eyebrow when Mydei always happened to be around. Even his own men exchanged looks whenever you visited the camp, though they were too scared to say anything outright.

And Mydei? He didn’t care what anyone thought.

But what truly set things in motion was when another man—some passing traveler—got a little too comfortable in your shop.

It was harmless, really. The man was just talkative, leaning in slightly as he complimented one of your handmade trinkets, flashing a charming smile. You, being as easygoing as always, just laughed and continued the conversation.

And Mydei, standing just outside the shop, watching from the shade of an awning, felt something snap.

The stranger’s hand briefly touched yours as you passed him a necklace.

That was it.

Before you could react, a shadow loomed behind you.

“You’re done here.”

The traveler barely had time to turn before Mydei was there, towering over him.

The man blinked in confusion. “Uh—”

“Leave.”

The traveler raised his hands in surrender, stepping back. “Didn’t mean anything by it, mate. Just chatting.”

“Chat somewhere else.”

The moment the man was gone, you turned to Mydei, raising an amused brow. “That was aggressive.”

He didn’t answer, his jaw tight, his fists still clenched like he was resisting the urge to chase after the guy and make sure he never even thought about coming near you again.

You grinned, nudging him. “You’re like a big cat again. All tense, ready to pounce.”

His gaze snapped to you.

“Mydei?”

“I don’t like it.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t like people getting too close to you.”

You smirked. “Well, if you wanted me all to yourself, you could’ve just said so.”

His eyes flickered, something snapping into place. And then, in one swift movement, he stepped forward, crowding your space, forcing you to take a step back until your spine brushed against the counter.

“Fine,” he said, “I want you to myself.”

“No more ‘friend’ nonsense. No more watching you let people touch you, talk to you like they have a chance.” His eyes burned into yours. “If you belong to anyone, it’s me.”

Silence stretched between you.

“…Wait, what?” You blinked. “You—what?”

“I said,” his voice didn’t waver, though you swore his ears were turning red, “I want you to myself.”

For once, you were actually stunned into silence.

“…Alright,” you said, still watching his expression closely. “Let’s test that, then.”

“What?”

“A test date,” you clarified, tilting your head. “If you’re serious, prove it.”

His gaze flickered, as if trying to gauge if you were teasing or not. But when he realized you weren’t laughing—when he saw that you were actually agreeing—something in him shifted.

Before he could respond, however—

“WOOHOOO!”

The loud cheering and applause from outside made both of you jolt.

You turned your head just in time to see a whole group of people—his soldiers, a couple of market vendors, even Edward—watching from the entrance of your shop, clapping and whistling like they had just witnessed the grand finale of a play.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE HE FINALLY SAID IT!”

“I OWE YOU FIVE COINS, EDWARD!”

“OUR CAPTAIN’S FINALLY A MAN!!”

A vein visibly twitched on Mydei’s forehead.

“ALL OF YOU—LEAVE! NOW!!”

In an instant, the group scrambled, tripping over themselves as they scattered like startled rats.

You, on the other hand, were barely holding back laughter. “Oh, wow. They’ve been waiting for this, huh?”

Mydei groaned, rubbing his temples. “…I’m going to kill them.”

You chuckled, nudging him. “Not before our date, you’re not.”

“…Fine.” He shot you a look. “But don’t think this is just a ‘test.’ I don’t intend to lose.”

“We’ll see, big guy.”

Mydei was not a romantic.

This became very clear about five minutes into the so-called “test date.”

You had expected him to be awkward—maybe stiff, maybe too serious—but you hadn’t expected him to treat it like some kind of mission.

The moment you met up, he stood there, arms crossed, brows furrowed, eyes scanning you like he was assessing the situation.

“…What?”

“I don’t know how these things work.”

“That’s the point of a test, isn’t it?”

He grumbled something under his breath, but then—without warning—he reached out and took your hand.

Your eyes widened slightly at the sudden contact. He held it firmly, almost too tight, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“…Too much?” he muttered, not looking at you.

You chuckled, easing his grip just slightly. “A little. You’re holding me like a prisoner.”

His ears turned red, but he didn’t let go.

The first thing Mydei failed at was conversation.

You both walked through the market, and while you tried to talk about casual things—the weather, your shop, the odd things you saw—he kept answering in single words.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Maybe.”

“Hm.”

At one point, you just stopped walking and looked at him.

“…Are you planning on saying more than one sentence today?” you teased.

He frowned. “I don’t talk much.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

He shifted slightly, looking uncomfortable. You realized then that he was actually trying—it just wasn’t coming naturally to him.

“Alright, alright. Don’t stress. Just—” You tugged his arm slightly. “Tell me something about yourself. Something no one else knows.”

His eyes flickered toward you, something unreadable passing through them. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then, finally, he muttered, “I hate spicy things.”

You blinked. “Huh. Really?”

He nodded.

“…So if I gave you a something spicy right now, you wouldn’t eat it?”

“…I’d eat it if you gave it to me.”

Oh.

The second thing Mydei failed at was dealing with people.

As you walked through the town, a few people—mostly men—stopped to greet you. Some were regulars at your shop, some just acquaintances. But every single time someone so much as looked at you for too long, Mydei’s grip on your hand tightened.

At one point, one of your regulars, a friendly merchant, smiled at you and asked if you were free later to look at some new goods.

Before you could even answer, Mydei cut in with a flat, “She’s busy.”

The man blinked. “…Oh. I—”

“She’s not available” Mydei added, tone sharper this time.

You sighed, nudging him. “Relax, I can speak for myself.”

Mydei huffed but didn’t say anything else. He did not like people taking your attention.

It was ridiculous. But… also kind of cute.

The third thing Mydei failed at was subtlety.

At some point, you stopped by a food stall, eyeing some skewered meat. The moment you reached for your coin pouch, Mydei immediately slapped money down before you could pay.

You raised an eyebrow. “I can pay for myself, you know.”

“No.”

“…No?”

He crossed his arms. “I take care of what’s mine.”

Your breath caught slightly at the phrasing. But before you could tease him for it, he shoved a skewer into your hands, looking away like he hadn’t just claimed you in the middle of a crowded street.

By the end of the day, you had to admit—he was bad at this.

And yet.

Despite all the failures, despite all his awkwardness and overprotectiveness, he tried.

And then, as the sun was setting, he did something that truly moved you.

You had mentioned offhandedly a few days ago that your favorite spot in town was an old bridge overlooking a quiet stream. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

But as evening fell, Mydei silently led you there.

You blinked in surprise as you stepped onto the bridge, the soft glow of lanterns reflecting in the water. The air was crisp, the sounds of the market distant.

“…You remembered”

He stood beside you, arms resting on the railing, gazing out at the water.

“I remember everything you say” he admitted quietly.

For a moment, you just looked at him—the way the fading sunlight touched his sharp features, the way his fingers tapped absently against the wood, the way he had tried so hard today just because he wanted to be with you.

And that was it.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

Mydei froze.

You pulled back slightly, smirking. “You pass.”

It took him a solid three seconds to react. His face slowly turned red—first his ears, then his neck, then his entire expression.

“…Tch.” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, looking away. But he didn’t let go of your hand. Instead, he held it tighter.

“Guess I'll be bothering you from now on.”

“…I don't mind.”

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #yandere mydei #mydeimos #hsr mydei #mydei x reader #mydei #honkai star rail mydei

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justjasper · 2 days ago

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people getting legit heated about this.. i know it's the "piss on the poor" level of media comprehension but quick help: tradwife adjacent ragebait: overly complicated recipe with needless/weird steps (like that spaghetti hoop pie lady who kneaded the fucked up dough with her elbows), played totally straight/just "realistic" enough to be believeable, because the point is for people to assume the content is sincere and get frustrated at the skills/needless complexity etc and engage satire (this video): parodying the tropes of tradwife video content via something utterly nonsensical, relying on the assumption that the majority of people viewing have 1 sprinkling of common sense to understand satirical obsurdity, and familiarity with the tropes being parodied, who then engage with it because it's funny and they understand the tropes being made fun of.

i'm not trying to be uncharitable to people who struggle with media literacy, it is a learned skill with no real learning source! you learn through experience, especially in the age of content farming etc

consider it through a comedy lens: she uses 10 different sources of ice with no disinquishing qualities. repetition of needless information is a comedy trope. it's silly when the same information is neededly repeated.

if this was ragebait, e.g. trying to pass as "real" and not satire (making fun of something), there might have been lots of surpurflous steps, but they would be ones that could... passably be classed as believeable. maybe a couple of sources of ice, maybe stupid shit with ice cubes or stuff. even just a complicated rundown of how to filter/"purity" water, maybe. this kind of content is meant to be an exhibition of domestic labour and the women who are "kept" well enough by their white well off christian husbands to engage in it (or the woo-woo new age bent, there's different flavours).

when you see something ridiculous like this, ask yourself: is it ridiculous on purpose? what kind of reaction is this trying to get from me? what context clues are here to tell me if this is genuine, satirical, ironic, or something else?

#media literacy

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prlssprfctn · 7 hours ago

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You know how Jaybin was very "pat-patable" so there were always one or two panels where other characters patted his head? So, I actually need this to be ultimate Jason's ability to charm anyone to want to pat him on the head, to the point it continues even after he becomes a double-fridge. Once his helmet is not on him, everyone is just... struck with an urge to ruffle his hair. And it doesn't matter if they are older, younger, or shorter — everyone just want to do that.

Jason brings kids from streets to Leslie to check on them and help to settle down with new families? Leslie asks him to lean over here and pats him on the head, ignoring his flustered face. Jason cooperates with Two-Face? Get a random pat-pat.

The worst part? Kids do that, too!

One moment, he is squatting in front of a kid, cooing at them, and in the next moment, they softly ruffle his hair to thank him for help. And this is embarrassing.

Jason, muttering: I think I am cursed

Dick, worried: What? Why? What are the symptoms?

Jason: Look

Jason, making his way to Tim, who flips through files: So, birdie, I got rid of the trafficking ring you asked me to take care of.

Tim, without getting distracted: Thanks, Jay *reaches out to pat him on the head*

Jason: SEE? THAT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME. WITH EVERYONE.

Dick, stifling a giggle: Well—

Jason, calling Talia at midnight: Are you sure there are no side effects of Pit sounding like this? Sure-sure?

Talia, tired as fuck: I think I would notice that, Jason.

Jason: THEN WHAT IS THE REASON.

Talia: *hangs up*

Jason, pacing in the Cave next to Bruce, because he is a) also insomniac; b) is the greatest detective, so he should be a help: There is only one theory that stays unverified, but it is too unbelievable

Bruce: Hm? Which one?

Jason: The one that means that I am just cute like that. Ridiculous, right?

Bruce: *tries to fight a smile*

Jason: No. No. SHUT UP.

Bruce: I didn't say anything, lad.

Jason: I HEAR YOU THINKING FROM THERE

Bruce, amused: Okay, I'll think quieter.

#Bruce: I think I have a theory but we need to test it for the next month #Bruce: thus I will be patting you on head three times a day. for the sake of accurate collection of data.#Jason knowing well that this is bullshit but he is touch-starved (especially when it comes to B): ok whatever #jason todd #red hood #batman #dcu #dcu comics #dc universe #batfamily #bruce wayne #batfam #dick grayson #tim drake #harvey dent

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rosiecosy · 2 days ago

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ghosted˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

(ot13 x reader) — fluff

a/n — fun fact ! i was inspired to write this fic after i watched smile 2 w my friends. we defo should've watched tangled AHAHAHAH

you should’ve known this was a bad idea.

the night had started off so well—everyone piled into the living room with pillows and blankets, a ridiculous amount of snacks spread across the table. seungcheol had promised a chill movie night, so you let your guard down, thinking it’d be harmless fun.

you were wrong.

"okay, next movie!" seokmin announces, holding up the remote.

"let’s watch something fun this time," you mumble sleepily, snuggling into a blanket.

jeonghan hums. "or… we could watch a horror movie."

you sit up immediately. "no."

"yes," he grins.

"hyung, she’s gonna cry," seungkwan points out, already looking at you like you’re a wounded animal.

"which is exactly why we should watch it," jeonghan says. "she gets all cute and clingy when she’s scared."

"i do not," you argue, even though you know you totally do.

"yes, you do," woozi says, not even looking up from his phone.

the vote is cast. the horror movie wins.

—

forty minutes later, you’re regretting everything.

the movie is terrifying. every shadow in the room suddenly feels like it’s moving, and even though you know you’re safe, your brain is convinced that something is about to grab you from behind.

you cling to the closest person—who happens to be wonwoo. he doesn’t seem to mind, just lets you grip his arm like your life depends on it.

"you’re shaking," he murmurs, barely audible over the tense music playing on screen.

"shut up," you whisper back, too scared to move.

the worst part? jeonghan notices.

"aww, are you scared?" he teases, nudging your side.

you don’t respond. mostly because you’re trying not to scream.

then—

a sudden jumpscare.

you do scream.

the entire dorm explodes into chaos.

mingyu yells and throws his popcorn into the air. hoshi launches himself over the back of the couch. seokmin and seungkwan are shriek-laughing, rolling onto the floor.

and you?

you bolt.

without thinking, you make a break for it, dashing out of the living room and into the safety of your room. you don’t stop until you’ve thrown yourself into bed, yanking the blanket over your head.

silence.

then—footsteps.

your door creaks open.

"…she actually ran away," vernon says, amused.

"i told you guys she’d freak out," joshua sighs.

"hey, you okay?" seungcheol’s voice is gentle.

"no," you whine from under the blanket.

a weight dips the bed. then another. then several. before you can even react, the members are piling in, shoving and squishing themselves onto your bed.

"what are you doing?" you ask, peeking out.

"staying with you," dino grins.

"we broke her, so now we have to fix her," minghao deadpans.

"we should’ve just watched tangled," woozi mutters, clearly blaming jeonghan for all of this.

you huff but don’t argue. as much as you hate to admit it, having them all here makes you feel better.

"…fine," you mumble. "but if any of you snore, i’m kicking you out."

"no promises," hoshi laughs, already making himself comfortable.

you sigh, knowing you’re not getting rid of them anytime soon. but as you drift off, squished between your thirteen brothers, you decide that maybe this sleepover wasn’t so bad after all.

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witherby · 22 hours ago

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If the last fic takes place before the Batfam knew about Conners existence, I just wanna see Mouse explain to them that a Superman cosplayer saved them lol

I love that. "Yeah some cosplayer saved my life. 10/10 would let him do it again."

Littlest Wayne: Information Gathering

Masterlist is Here!

"You and Superman need to come straight to the Cave when you return to Earth."

"I miss you, too, babe," Hal smirks, gliding just above the ground on a planet he and Clark are guarding for a major diplomatic conference. "Tryna get the debrief out of the way so we can get me out of by boxer briefs right after?"

"Mouse was in a hostage situation in Metropolis today that was too overcast for them to get out of."

Hal's good mood plummets. He almost shouts for Clark to get his ass over to him so they can immediately head back.

"Are they —"

"Alive, and relatively unharmed considering the severity of the event."

"What does relatively mean in this context, B?" Hal snaps. "Relatively unharmed by vigilante standards or by civilian standards? Are they in the hospital?"

"Some bad bruising to the temple and a low-grade burn on the right arm. They're safe."

Bruce's calm tone and steady cadence helps relax Hal. His shoulders un-tense and he lets out a sigh.

"Alright. But there's more to it, otherwise you wouldn't have contacted me."

Bruce hums in that quiet way he does when he's pleased by Hal's deductive reasoning. It makes him smile and miss him that much more, and he's only been gone two days.

"They were rescued by a new Meta. Called himself Superman."

"Look at you, crackin' jokes on an official League line. Never thought I'd see the day!"

"..."

"You're not joking. There's a second Superman flying around?"

"A Superboy, by the looks of it. He's the real deal — the flight, the strength, and the suit all points to another Kryptonian. This will make three, after Supergirl."

Hal furrows his brow. He lets his feet hit the ground and starts to pace, kicking up little bits of purple dirt. This planet is ridiculously fragile. It's part of the reason he and Clark are protecting it during these peace talks.

"Is it a baby? Don't remember either Kara or Lois looking pregnant."

"A teenager. Around Mouse's age, by the looks of him, and very inexperienced from what scattered footage I can find of the event."

"Which makes no sense. There's something up if he's a teen but still can't use his powers right. Supes told us he could hone his almost perfectly before he was old enough to drive a car. A new scheme by Luthor or Waller, maybe?"

"I knew I married you for a reason."

"Keep praising me like that and there won't be time for a debrief when I get home."

Bruce hums again. His considering sound. The Green Lantern suit feels very constricting, all of a sudden.

"You don't need to rush your mission to get back. There is one more thing you need to know prior to return, however."

"I'm all ears."

"Mouse described the Superboy as... handsome."

Hal falls to his hands and knees, kicking up a small cloud of purple dust.

"No, no, nooo! They're just a baby!"

"Well. They're seventeen."

"Well I say they're too young for romance! Yesterday they were afraid of Cooties!!"

"Time flies. It's inevitable."

"We're gonna wrap these peace talks up tonight."

Bruce sounds amused on the other end of the line, like he hasn't just crushed Hal's entire world three sentences ago.

"You aren't due back for another week."

"We're wrapping it up tonight!"

"Okay. Agent A will know to set your plate tomorrow."

"Can he make some of those mini quiches? I'm gonna need comfort food to get over this."

"I'll pass the request along."

"And can you wear the see-through robe you were given after you shot that Dior commercial?"

"...if you slick back your hair, yes."

Hal grins. He's still not happy about his youngest kid growing up so fast, but this is a nice consolation prize.

True to his word, Hal and Clark get the peace talks concluded by nightfall and head back to Earth. Clark is given the general run-down of what happened on the way, and his curiosity and insistence on getting answers lets Hal know it'll be a long night. He's gonna slick his hair back anyway. He misses his husband, dammit.

You sit at the meeting table in the Bat Cave, feet propped on top exactly like Jason does it, with your hands stuffed in the pockets of your hoodie. You stare groggily at Hal and Clark as they fly in from their trip, shuffling to your feet to give them both sleepy hugs.

"Welcome back," you yawn. "Dad said you have questions?"

"Hey, Mousey," Hal grins, ruffling your hair. You grumble and wave his hand away, then grumble louder when Clark does the exact same thing. "Just got some follow-up questions about the field trip, then we'll let you get back to bed."

You go back to your seat and slump into it, rubbing your eyes. "Kay."

"Did the boy you met tell you his name?" Clark asks, sitting to your right. There's a dossier sitting on the table that he flips open, glancing over the information Bruce collected with Tim's help. He frowns at a still image pulled from his interview on TV.

"Just called himself Superman," you explain. "He had a version of your suit on. It looked legit. I'm guessing he's not your son, based on the way you're looking at the file."

"He is not. Did he seem to be acting maliciously or under someone's control? Was he flesh and blood or robotic?" Clark asks. "Did he hurt anyone? Did he try to hurt you?"

"No," you say, "he was warm. He's flesh and blood and definitely saved us from that fire. In fact he seemed...uh.."

You wave your hand around vaguely and pick over the best way to phrase this.

"Okay! There's a boy at school named Rory. He transferred to Gotham Academy this year after being homeschooled."

"Mousey," Hal speaks up, "I know you're tired, but we kinda gotta stay on track —"

"I am!" You insist. "I am, I swear. Look, it was obvious Rory was homeschooled because he didn't know how to, like, socialize properly? He asked a lot of questions that feel like common-sense if you're used to going to public schools and talking to people outside your family. The Superman cosplayer kind of acted like that."

"Cosplayer?" Clark mouths at Hal, who waves him off.

"So you think he's never been out there doing any hero stuff before that day?"

You shrug and nod. "I think he's never been out at all before that day. He reminded me a lot of Rory on his first day of school."

"But he didn't hurt you?" Hal asks.

"I promise, he didn't. He spoke to me like twice and then brought me to the EMTs to get looked at. Then Jason showed up and brought me home after making sure the school knew I wouldn't be taking the bus back from Metropolis."

"Last question," Clark promises, recapturing your attention. "Can you find him right now? With your shadows?"

"Uh, I can try."

Your gaze becomes a little distant. The shadows cast from one of the overhead lights shifts and dissolves into the ground, zipping out of the cave. Hal and Clark wait silently as you work, feeling for the presence of the boy that saved you just a day before.

"... M e t r o p o l i s..." You mutter, voice taking on that faint, echoing quality it does whenever you speak through the darkness. "...A r o o m...c o n c i o u s...k n o w s I s e e..."

"Come back, Mouse," Hal says, urgent. You take a moment to get your bearings, yawning and rubbing your face. "He knows you used your power to find him?"

You nod. "He saw my shadow move in the corner of his room. Guys, it's so bare and dark. He's got a cot, an alarm clock, and one blanket in there. It looks like some room you'd stick a sick person in to quarantine them."

"Where in Metropolis is he? That doesn't sound like the Solitary Confinement cells in the prison."

"It's not a jail. It looked like a lab, I think?"

"Lex Luthor," Hal and Clark state at the same time. Clark stands up, drawing you into another gentle hug, then heads for the exit.

"Thank you for your help, Mouse! Sleep well."

"Bye, uncle Clark. Have a good night," you call after him. When Hal stands, you rise with him, stretching. "Can I go to bed, now?"

"Yeah, hon," Hal nods, pressing his hand to your back and guiding you to the stairs. "We'll head up together. I'll tell your dad what we learned when he comes back from patrol."

"Kay," you mumble, climbing the steps with another wide yawn. "M'sleeping in tomorrow. Being up at two am sucks."

Hal chuckles. "Yeah, it does. We'll put your breakfast in some Tupperware for when you get up, then."

Once the two of you climb through the grandfather clock and reenter the manor proper, you give Hal one more goodnight hug, then excuse yourself to go to bed. Your eyes are closed as you shuffle into your room and nudge the door closed behind you, navigating the space from memory. It's not until you start climbing back into bed that you feel a dip in it that shouldn't be there.

The dip of another person's weight.

You snap your eyes open and you inhale to scream. A hand presses itself to your mouth, and you find yourself staring at those brilliant blues from yesterday.

"Waitwaitwait-" the boy gasps, whisper-shouting. "Please!!"

You push his hand off and he lifts them both up in placation, floating off the bed and several feet away from you.

"What do you want!?" You whisper-yell back. "Why are you in my room!? That's creepy!"

He grimaces, knees curling towards his chest. In the low light, you can see color painting his cheeks.

"I wanted to come see you," he murmurs.

"Why?"

"I don't know your name."

You're completely flummoxed. You shake your head and shrug.

"Do you need to?" You ask.

The boy floats a little closer, his gaze intense. He looks at you like...he looks at you like you're the most important thing in the world right now. It makes your stomach swoop.

"Yes," he says, completely sincere. "I'm...I can't...there's this..."

His brow furrows. He's exceptionally easy to read, like he's never known how to be anything except fully, authentically himself. It's a welcome change in a family of vigilante detectives with emotional intimacy issues. It'll help you know if he's trying to deceive you, too.

Quietly, you give him your name. His eyes snap to yours and he repeats it, lips shaping the vowels and consonants with an unusual reverence. You can feel your own face getting a little warm.

"I'm...Conner," the boy says. His eyes dart to your mouth. You oblige.

"Hi, Conner," you mutter. His whole body un-tenses, looking like a puppet with his strings cut as he almost dangles in the air.

"Can I —" Conner cuts himself off. He drifts closer to you. You shift back, feeling cornered from where you kneel in your bed. "Ah. I wanted... I don't know how to say..."

Exhausted and confused, you gesture at him to hurry it up a little. You know you should probably alert someone that the new Meta boy is literally floating four feet away from you right now, but you know he isn't here to cause harm.

"It's late," you speak up. "Can you try a little harder to get the point across so I can sleep?"

"Yes," Conner says quickly, obediently. "Call for me."

You blink heavily. Your mind feels like sludge. "Elaborate."

"When you need something," he specifies. "If you're in danger, or lonely, or just...or just want to. Please. Call for me and I'll come to you."

"Why?" You yawn. It's getting harder to stay conscious. You let your body fall over until you collide with the pillows, eyes slipping closed. "Why me?"

Conner floats above you, reaching down to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with more reverence than is appropriate for having barely met. His fingers brush against the bruise on your temple, featherlight.

"Because it's you," he says, as your consciousness fades. "Something in my heart is yours... I hope that's okay."

You hum, managing a barely discernible "kay," in your last seconds of awareness before sleep pulls you under.

In your subconscious mind, you register warmth wrap around you for a moment, and then you're alone with nothing but a cracked window as evidence anyone had ever been there.

#littlest wayne au #batfam x reader #batlantern #conner kent x reader #gn reader #kon el x reader #conner kent #bruce wayne #hal jordan #clark kent #superboy x reader

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petermorwood · 4 hours ago

Text

As someone who's also done some writing, this is all Extremely Sound Advice. :->

Here are a couple of point enhancements, and a rant about how a famous production torpedoed itself - IMO, anyway - by getting fixated on one of them

*****

(2) Head-hopping / POV change - think screen format and a change of camera angle. A "dinkus" (one or more asterisks, bullets or other symbol) between paragraphs is enough to indicate this, and you're good to go.

I do something similar in my own posts, including this one, though properly speaking the asterisks would be centred. I've done that with the next set, though since I've done the centring by inserting spaces, they may be well off-centre in other themes:

*****

(3) and (4) Treat info- and expo-dumps like pungent seasoning. Your recipe (story) needs them, but Not All In A Lump.

A good way to do this (the equivalent to "stir in gradually") is to combine them with other action - eating a meal, a walk-and-talk, watching some non-essential business like someone grooming a horse, washing a car, mowing a lawn etc., etc.

Intersperse the necessary dialogue of the info-expo with descriptions of and comments on the other business. If that business can be made relevant to the info-expo (comparisons, side-comments etc.) so much the better, but the point is to break up what can too easily be what TVTropes calls A Wall Of Text.

Thriller-writer Philip Kerr's later books are notorious for this: there are numerous instances where a character starts to talk ("Open Quotes") at the top of one page and - without interruption and sometimes even without paragraphs - doesn't finish ("Close Quotes") until halfway down the next.

Worse, the character is often reciting a chunk of background information from Kerr's research files which should have stayed there, or at the very least been pared down to its bare essentials as something a human being might say during a conversation with another human being.

Which Does Not Happen. :-P

*****

(8) about epithets, tackles something well-enough known that it has a TV Trope, "Burly Detective Syndrome". This has a cousin, "Said-Bookism", and no matter what you might have heard or indeed seen posted along with lists of sometimes-ridiculous alternatives on Tumblr, "said" is not dead.

It's alive, it's well and it's doing its job, which is to be the unobtrusive hook from which dialogue is hung. As I've said more than once, if a hook attracts more attention than the thing it's holding up, something's gone wrong.

*****

(10) If there's a scene that's likely to be fun to write, and another that's likely to be a slog, then if it works for your writing habits try to swap to and fro between the writing of them, with fun as a reward for slog.

If chop-and-change writing like this throws you off, then write the slog first and the fun after since once again, that's the reward, something to look forward to. Doing it the other way means you're looking at the slog to come, and that's not my idea of a reward.

Also, it can happen (personal experience) that after the refreshment of the fun, you'll come back to the first-draft slog bit and revise it into something better.

*****

I'd suggest (6) and (7) about subverting expectations - whether characters' or readers', and the one will become the other as reading happens - are something that need approached with care, and should always have a solid reason beyond (box tick) Not What They Expect.

Showing an unsubverted episode or incident - for instance the character's going-out preparations, or their commuting-home routine - is necessary, often more than once *, to establish Normality, so the character and reader are aware that This Time Is Different.

(* I've seen this done by cut-and-paste repeating the same description from one chapter into the next. It was imaginative and effective there, but could easily have tripped up on its own cleverness by seeming UNimaginative. YMMV.)

Why is the character including a concealed weapon in their party dress-up? Why is the character concerned they might be tailed during that commute? A comparison between ordinary and extraordinary is needed to show this doesn't happen every single time.

It's also a good way of racking up page-turning tension before invoking (5) that cliff-hanger chapter ending... :->

*****

And now the rant... :-p

Subverting expectations as a (box tick) action because it was So Effective That One Time is what transformed the final seasons of a once-popular fantasy adaptation into such a disappointment.

"Game of Thrones" is an excellent example of subverted expectations, such as the Red Wedding where - despite the way heroes are expected to escape at the last minute - a crapsack world like Westeros means bad things play all the way through to their bad conclusion.

*****

It's also an excellent example of how bad writing and a (box tick) attitude can lead to subversions that should have been left alone.

One instance is the way Jaime Lannister's redemption was abandoned "to subvert expectations" (box tick) complete with redemption-dismissive dialogue that was a slap in the face to several seasons of character development.

The lack of any hint or implication that such a thing was even possible suggests - to this viewer anyway - that it was no more than a (box tick) without additional thought as to whether it was logical in-story, as long as it generated yet another "Oh No, we didn't see that coming!" reaction from the audience.

(Of course nobody saw it coming, since neither plot requirement nor character development had any reason for it to happen.)

Sometimes a story should play out logically as a story because It's A Story, Not A Documentary. Terry Pratchett knew this and called it Narrativium, the element which drives stories. TV Tropes calls it The Theory of Narrative Causality.

Whatever the name, and however storytellers may tinker and tweak with it, they ignore its basic rules at their peril.

*****

Another example is Cersei's death.

When a writer as amiable as C.S. Lewis said:

"Let there be wicked kings and beheadings, battles and dungeons, giants and dragons, and let villains be soundly killed at the end..."

...just dropping a building on her without involving any of the many other High-Profile Characters she'd hurt throughout the series was ridiculous, especially with one of those High-Profile Characters already in the vicinity.

It may well have subverted expectations, but it was a lousy resolution.

It was also bad storytelling which abandoned at least one long-anticipated set-up (all too common in later GoT), and still vexes me since in a storyline filled with subversions for the sake of shock value, NOT subverting audience expectations but instead rewarding them with what they want (what they really, really want) becomes a subversion in itself.

*****

It's not hard to imagine more original and entertaining ways of bringing Cersei's pigeons home to roost, the most obvious being a fatal encounter with Arya-reFaced-as-Jaime.

This IMO would have been a much more satisfying use of her well-established Faceless Man sneakmurder skills than that no-setup leap from nowhere onto the Ice King, another Bad Guy built up to deserve a more spectacular termination than his you're-done-now-kthxbye demise.

Certainly after eight seasons of scheming, murder, cruelty - and infuriating smugness, oh yes, that too - having Cersei "soundly killed" should have involved something, anything, more conclusive, up-front and personal than a load of bricks landing on her head.

Subvert, yes. But not just for the sake of doing it.

*****

And as @writeblrfantasy concluded, no matter what way you're doing it, have fun in the doing of it...

my 10 holy grail pieces of writing advice for beginners

from an indie author who's published 4 books and written 20+, as well as 400k in fanfiction (who is also a professional beta reader who encounters the same issues in my clients' books over and over)

show don't tell is every bit as important as they say it is, no matter how sick you are of hearing about it. "the floor shifted beneath her feet" hits harder than "she felt sick with shock."

no head hopping. if you want to change pov mid scene, put a scene break. you can change it multiple times in the same scene! just put a break so your readers know you've changed pov.

if you have to infodump, do it through dialogue instead of exposition. your reader will feel like they're learning alongside the character, and it will flow naturally into your story.

never open your book with an exposition dump. instead, your opening scene should drop into the heart of the action with little to no context. raise questions to the reader and sprinkle in the answers bit by bit. let your reader discover the context slowly instead of holding their hand from the start. trust your reader; donn't overexplain the details. this is how you create a perfect hook.

every chapter should end on a cliffhanger. doesn't have to be major, can be as simple as ending a chapter mid conversation and picking it up immediately on the next one. tease your reader and make them need to turn the page.

every scene should subvert the character's expectations, as big as a plot twist or as small as a conversation having a surprising outcome. scenes that meet the character's expectations, such as a boring supply run, should be summarized.

arrive late and leave early to every scene. if you're character's at a party, open with them mid conversation instead of describing how they got dressed, left their house, arrived at the party, (because those things don't subvert their expectations). and when you're done with the reason for the scene is there, i.e. an important conversation, end it. once you've shown what you needed to show, get out, instead of describing your character commuting home (because it doesn't subvert expectations!)

epithets are the devil. "the blond man smiled--" you've lost me. use their name. use it often. don't be afraid of it. the reader won't get tired of it. it will serve you far better than epithets, especially if you have two people of the same pronouns interacting.

your character should always be working towards a goal, internal or external (i.e learning to love themself/killing the villain.) try to establish that goal as soon as possible in the reader's mind. the goal can change, the goal can evolve. as long as the reader knows the character isn't floating aimlessly through the world around them with no agency and no desire. that gets boring fast.

plan scenes that you know you'll have fun writing, instead of scenes that might seem cool in your head but you know you'll loathe every second of. besides the fact that your top priority in writing should be writing for only yourself and having fun, if you're just dragging through a scene you really hate, the scene will suffer for it, and readers can tell. the scenes i get the most praise on are always the scenes i had the most fun writing. an ideal outline shouldn't have parts that make you groan to look at. you'll thank yourself later.

happy writing :)

#Writer Advice #subverting expectations #Game of Thrones #storytelling #narrativium #GNU Terry Pratchett #fun with words #fun with language

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reiding-writing · 13 hours ago

Note

Might be controversial but I like enemies to lovers more than cold reader x Reid. But kinda similar as they both could have slow burn. If that’s something you would wanna write I’d love it 🥹

PETTY & PETTIER. /spencer reid/

you knock over spencer’s favourite mug on your first day, big deal right? well, yes apparently.

s1!spencer enemy!reader 1.1k fluff? masterlist.

a/n | minor break from cold!reader in the form of something that’s almost similar, guess i have a type— (also new blog theme means new fic layout so yay)

Your first day at the BAU is going well—until it isn’t.

Gideon had been your mentor since your academy days, which is how you found yourself standing awkwardly in the bullpen of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, a cup of coffee in one hand and the weight of expectation on your shoulders. You were young, sure, but Gideon saw something in you. He was good at that.

What he wasn’t good at, apparently, was warning you about Dr. Spencer Reid.

It’s an accident—your elbow knocks the mug off the counter before you even realise it’s there. The ceramic shatters against the tile floor, coffee splattering everywhere. You freeze, mortified.

“Are you serious?”

You turn toward the voice, already apologising. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—”

You’ve read about him in your files before starting—youngest FBI recruit, three PhDs, literal genius. You expected someone…awkward, maybe. Soft-spoken. A little nervous.

What you didn’t expect was the sheer level of contempt in his expression as he stares down at the broken pieces of his mug like you just ran over his childhood dog.

“That was my favourite mug,” he says, voice flat.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“It was a limited edition.”

Oh, God. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

He scoffs. “You can’t buy a new one. It was a vintage 1997 Star Trek Voyager mug featuring—”

“Okay, Jesus, I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender. “I screwed up. It was an accident.”

Reid makes a noise that is, without exaggeration, a huff. Like an actual hmph sound. It’s so ridiculously childish that you’d laugh if not for the intensity of his stare.

Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks away.

You watch him go, bemused, and then glance around. Elle and JJ exchange amused looks. Morgan grins. Gideon doesn’t seem to notice, which is so typical of him that it’s almost funny.

It’s fine, you think. He’ll get over it.

Except, Spencer does not get over it.

—

Over the next few weeks, you begin to notice it. The way Reid actively hates you.

At first, you assume it’s about the mug. But the way he glares at you when you so much as breathe near him? The way he sighs—loudly, dramatically—when Gideon assigns you both to work together? The way he outright avoids talking to you unless absolutely necessary?

No.

This isn’t about the mug.

This is a personal vendetta.

And honestly? If Reid wants to be petty, you can be pettier.

The war starts small.

Reid insists on taking the seat farthest from you in the briefing room? You get there earlier the next day and steal his spot.

He gives you pointed looks every time you mess up a minor detail in a case summary? You start correcting his grammar in reports.

He spends five minutes explaining a concept you already understand? You interrupt with, “Actually, I already knew that.”

The others notice.

Morgan looks between the two of you with pure amusement. “Okay. What’s going on with you two?”

“What?” you ask innocently.

Reid scowls. “Nothing.”

JJ and Elle exchange looks. Hotch sighs, rubbing his temple like he can already feel the migraine forming.

Morgan points between you. “No. No, there’s something going on. Because every time one of you speaks, the other looks like they’re plotting murder.”

“We’re fine,” you say, just to be petty.

“We’re not fine,” Reid snaps.

You smirk. “Wow, you sound upset.”

“You are infuriating.”

“You started it.”

Reid glares at you. “You started it.”

“You started it by hating me for no reason.”

The team watches this unfold like a ping-pong match.

“Okay, pause,” Elle interrupts. “Reid, why do you hate her?”

Reid crosses his arms. “Because she’s annoying.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“That’s enough of a reason.”

—

If the team was hoping that addressing it would fix things, they were wrong.

Now, it’s open warfare.

You start signing him up for unsolicited newsletters—scientific journals, conspiracy theory blogs, cat fact subscriptions.

He moves all your pens exactly one inch to the left every morning.

You convince Garcia to change his ringtone to the Barney & Friends theme song.

He leaves a 32-page thesis on the mathematical improbability of you ever besting him in psychological warfare on your desk.

The team is exhausted.

“They’re children,” Morgan says one day, watching as you and Reid glare at each other across the bullpen.

“No,” JJ says, “because children eventually grow out of it.”

Hotch looks like he’s considering transferring one of you just to get some peace.

—

The final straw is when you steal his coffee.

Which—okay. Maybe that’s fair.

But in your defence, you had no idea that Reid had some sort of special coffee blend that he kept in the breakroom. You’d run out of yours, saw an unmarked bag, and figured it was free game.

Apparently, it wasn’t.

Because the moment you walk around Reid’s desk with your coffee in hand, he scowls.

“You stole my coffee.”

“Yeah,” you say, blowing the steam from your mug pointedly in his direction. “What’s your point?”

His nostrils flare.

Reid doesn’t say anything. He just glares.

It’s a declaration of war.

Fine.

Bring it.

—

The rest of the team stops trying to intervene.

At some point, it just becomes a fact of life: the sky is blue, the BAU travels a lot, and you and Spencer Reid hate each other.

It’s not even professional rivalry at this point—it’s just petty.

You and Reid spend an entire plane ride passive-aggressively moving your seats to be as far from each other as possible.

When he lectures about a statistic, you purposefully contradict him—even when you know he’s right.

He takes your favorite pen? You take his entire stack of files and put them back out of order.

He switches the sugar in your coffee for salt? You swap his sugar for salt and take the last cookie from the breakroom.

It’s stupid.

It’s childish.

And it’s the principle of the thing.

If Reid is going to be petty, you refuse to be anything less than pettiest.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #mgg #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff

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s4svnn · 1 day ago

Text

Shower

Your stubbornness is part of what brought you together—it’s a fire that keeps things passionate and exciting. But at times, it can also be exhausting, especially when neither of you is willing to admit fault because of your pride. Arguments can escalate quickly, with both of you refusing to back down each determined to prove a point, so when things heat up maybe the best way to cool off is together…in the shower.

Pairing: F1 racer Jungkook x reader

Genre: fluff, angst, smut (18+)

Warnings/content tags: couples argument, egos, stubbornness, slapping, unprotected sex, rough sex, degradation kink, possessiveness, hair pulling, boob play, fingering, mirror sex, back shots, orgasm denial, sub + dom dynamic, spanking.

Word count: 5k

The door slammed shut behind us with a force that rattled the walls, the echo reverberating through the tense silence. My heart pounded against my ribs, my breaths coming in uneven gasps still heated from the argument that had started long before we even reached his house.

The air between us was thick with unspoken words, the weight of frustration pressing down on my chest. The dim glow from the entryway lights cast jagged shadows across Jungkook’s sharp features, emphasizing the tight clench of his jaw and the flicker of something dark in his eyes. His fists were curled at his sides, his posture rigid, as his entire body radiated barely restrained frustration.

"He likes you. I can tell."

I spun around so fast my hair whipped over my shoulder, my blood boiling at the audacity of his words. My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms as I glared at him.

"No, he doesn’t! We’re just friends!"

Jungkook exhaled sharply, the sound more of a scoff than a sigh, his lips twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smirk but wasn’t entirely devoid of amusement either. His head tilted slightly, the way it always did when he didn’t believe a single word coming out of my mouth, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as if he was holding back the urge to laugh at my denial.

"You really believe that?" he asked, his voice slow and skeptical, every syllable laced with quiet challenge.

I folded my arms across my chest, planting my feet firmly against the floor as I met his gaze with unwavering defiance, refusing to let him intimidate me. "Yes, because it’s the truth," I said, my voice steadier now.

Jungkook took a step forward, closing the distance between us just slightly, but enough for the air to shift, enough for the space between us to feel too small, too charged. The weight of his presence was suffocating, the intensity in his gaze making my pulse pound harder, though I refused to let him see the effect he had on me.

"People don’t look at their friends like that, Aylah," he murmured, his voice dropping lower, almost like a warning. "He looks at you like he wants to eat you alive."

A sharp, incredulous laugh burst from my lips, my head shaking as I fought the urge to scream at how ridiculous this entire conversation was. "I told you, he doesn’t like me!" I repeated, my voice rising in frustration. "And even if he did, I don’t like him!"

That should have been the end of it. That should have been enough. But of course, with Jungkook it never was, he just had to get the last word.

Before I could take a step back and create even an inch of space between us, he moved faster, quicker than I could react. His arms came up in an instant, trapping me between them, his hands pressing against the couch behind me as my back met the soft fabric. My breath caught in my throat, my pulse spiking as my body suddenly became hyperaware of the heat radiating from him.

"You sure about that?" he murmured, his voice quieter now, softer, but somehow even more dangerous than before. His eyes flickered over my face, searching, watching, waiting for something—an answer, a reaction, a crack in my defense. "I see the way you smile at him."

I scoffed, forcing myself to hold his gaze even though my heart was hammering so loudly I was sure he could hear it. "What, so I can’t smile at people now?" I shot back, my voice sharp, desperate to shift the focus away from the way his words made my stomach twist.

Jungkook exhaled, the sound rough, like he was trying to push down something simmering just beneath the surface. "That’s not what I’m saying," he muttered, his jaw clenching. "It’s just… I don’t trust that guy."

"Wow," I said, my voice dripping with disbelief. "So you don’t trust him, but you trusted Jade?"

His entire body went still. His grip on the couch tightened, his knuckles turning white as he processed my words, as they settled into the space between us like a ticking time bomb.

"What did you just say?" His voice was colder now—but I didn’t care.

I held my ground, refusing to flinch under the weight of his stare. "You trusted a bitch like Jade," I said, voice steady, unwavering, my eyes locked onto his. "But you draw the line at my harmless secretary?"

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence, suffocating and heavy.

Then, Jungkook let out a dark, humorless laugh, one that sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn’t amused. It wasn’t light. It was empty, hollow, laced with something almost cruel.

"Like you’re any better," he muttered, his voice laced with venom. His gaze flickered with something dangerous. "You were friends with the guy that tried to kill me."

The words barely registered before my hand moved on its own. The slap echoed through the room, the sharp crack of skin against skin cutting through the heavy silence like a gunshot. Jungkook’s head snapped to the side from the force, his cheek instantly reddening where my palm had struck. My chest heaved, shock rushing through me, overtaking the anger in an instant.

My lips parted, my voice barely above a whisper. "S-Shit, Jungkook, I didn’t mean to—"

Slowly, he turns his head back to face me, his gaze dark and unreadable. The tension in the air thickened as the sound of my pulse hammered in my ears.

Before I could fully register what was happening, his fingers tightened around my wrist, his grip firm and unrelenting as he pulled me forward. A startled gasp slipped past my lips, my feet barely keeping up as he led me up the stairs with a determination that left no room for hesitation.

A strange mix of nervousness and excitement twisted in my stomach, making it impossible to tell whether I wanted to pull away or let myself be dragged deeper into whatever this was turning into. The hallway blurred around us, my focus narrowing to the burn of his fingers against my skin and the charged energy radiating off him in waves.

The moment we reached his room, he didn’t stop. With a swift motion, he shoved open the bathroom door and pulled me inside, the sharp sound of the lock clicking into place sending a shiver down my spine. Finally, his grip loosened, my wrist slipping from his grasp. I barely had time to catch my breath, to make sense of the storm raging inside me, before my eyes widened at his next move.

Jungkook reached for the hem of his shirt, and in one fluid motion, he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. My breath hitched as the dim bathroom light cast shadows across his toned chest, the slow rise and fall of his breathing making the tension between us all the more unbearable. He took a deliberate step forward, his gaze locked onto mine, dark and unreadable.

"You wanna fight?" he murmured, his voice low.

I swallowed hard, but he didn’t give me time to answer.

He took another step forward, and suddenly there was nowhere left to go, my back meeting the cool tile wall as his presence surrounded me once more. His eyes flickered over my face, watching, waiting.

"Then let’s fight."

“W-what?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his fingers curled around the bottom of my shirt, the warmth of his touch burning through the fabric as he slowly, deliberately bunched it up between his fingers. The space between us was nonexistent, the heat radiating off him swallowing me whole, leaving me breathless as if I was trapped in the storm of his presence.

He leaned in, so close that I felt the ghost of his breath against my skin, the scent of him familiar and intoxicating as it pulled me under. His lips hovered just beside my ear, his voice low.

"Show me just how much you hate me."

His fingers loosened their grip on my shirt, releasing the fabric like he was giving me a choice, like he was daring me to move, to say something to stop him. But I couldn’t. My breath was trapped in my throat, my body rooted to the spot as I watched him.

Without breaking eye contact, Jungkook reached for the waistband of his jeans, undoing the button with slow but steady movements, testing my reaction. The fabric slid down his legs, pooling at his feet before he stepped out of them, his confidence unshaken. Then, without hesitation, he removed the last barrier between him and the heat of the shower, leaving nothing between us but the charged energy hanging heavy in the air.

I stood frozen, my mind scrambling to catch up with what was happening, with what he was doing—what he was trying to prove. My mouth parted slightly, but no words came out.

Jungkook didn’t smirk this time, didn’t taunt me like I expected him to. Instead, he turned, stepping into the glass-enclosed shower without another word. The sound of the water turning on filled the space, the steam curling around him as hot droplets cascaded down his skin. And still, I stood there, unmoving, pulse hammering, thoughts spinning in every direction. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

My breath came in shallow bursts as my fingers curled around the door handle. My first instinct was to leave, to put as much space between us as possible before this fight spiraled into something I couldn’t control. But my grip hesitated, knuckles turning white as I stood frozen in place.

If I left now, nothing would be resolved. We’d still be angry, still be drowning in the same unresolved tension that had been building for too long. But if I stayed… I was throwing myself right into the fire, into whatever storm was waiting for me on the other side of that glass door.

My chest rose and fell unsteadily as I slowly pressed down on the handle, feeling the slight give beneath my palm. I could still walk away. I could leave before this went too far. But then my gaze flickered back. The steam clung to the glass, blurring the outline of Jungkook’s figure behind the shower door. Water streamed down his body in rivulets, his movements controlled, as if he was waiting—no expecting me to make a choice.

I swallowed hard, heart pounding in my chest. And then, without fully understanding why, I released the handle. My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the hem of my shirt, dragging it over my head before letting it fall to the floor. One by one, each article of clothing followed until the cool air met my bare skin, sending a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the temperature.

I took a slow step forward, my pulse roaring in my ears. Then another. My fingers brushed against the glass as I reached for the shower door, my breath catching as I pulled it open. There was no turning back now.

The rush of steam hit me first, wrapping around my skin like a second layer, thick and heavy. Water cascaded down Jungkook’s back, droplets tracing over every muscle, his posture relaxed yet tense in a way that made my stomach twist. He didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge my presence at first, as if waiting to see if I’d hesitate again.

But I didn’t. I stepped inside, my bare feet meeting the slick tiles as the heat of the water seeped into my skin. My pulse hammered in my ears, a steady rhythm that refused to slow no matter how deep of a breath I took.

Then Jungkook finally moved. His head tilted slightly, just enough for me to see the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his wet hair clung to his forehead. When he finally turned to face me, his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. Neither of us spoke. Droplets of water rolled down his face, clinging to his lips, his chest rising and falling steadily despite the storm raging between us.

Then, slowly, he took a step forward. Before I could react, his hand shot out, gripping my wrist, and in one swift motion, he yanked me forward. A startled gasp left my lips as I crashed against him, my bare skin meeting his, the heat of his body searing into mine like a brand causing my nipples to harden. Water streamed between us, slicking our skin, but nothing could cool the fire igniting in my veins.

For a split second, we just stood there, bodies pressed together, chests rising and falling in sync. His breath was hot against my lips, his grip on me unrelenting.

Then his lips crashed against mine with a hunger that stole the air from my lungs, like he’d been holding back for too long and had finally snapped. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me impossibly closer, as if he needed me like oxygen, like this was the only way to breathe. I didn’t think—I couldn’t. My fingers tangled into his wet hair, nails scraping against his scalp as I kissed him back just as fiercely, pouring every ounce of frustration, anger, and something dangerously close to desperation into him.

The water pounded down around us, the steam curling between our bodies, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was him—his touch, his lips, the way he consumed me like he had no plans of stopping.

And, god help me, I didn’t want him to.

I barely had time to catch my breath before his mouth found my neck. A sharp gasp escaped me as his lips latched onto my skin, hot and unrelenting. He kissed, sucked, nipped, his breath ragged against my damp skin as he worked his way down, finding every sensitive spot with infuriating precision.

My hands clung to his shoulders, the muscles beneath my fingers tensing with every movement. His tongue flicked over my collarbone before he sucked at the delicate skin, teeth grazing just enough to send a shudder down my spine.

I tilted my head back against the tiled wall, my lips parting as waves of sensation crashed over me. The heat of the water, the steam curling around us, the feeling of his lips against my skin—it was too much and not enough all at once.

Without warning, Jungkook moved lower, his lips trailing a path of heat down my neck, past my collarbone, leaving a tingling trail in their wake. My breath hitched, my body tense with anticipation, but nothing could have prepared me for what came next.

His mouth latched onto my right breast, lips wrapping around the sensitive skin as he sucked, hard and purposeful. A strangled gasp left me, my head falling back as my fingers dug into his shoulders. My legs threatened to give out beneath me, the sudden rush of pleasure making me feel weightless and unsteady.

At the same time, his other hand found my left breast, his fingers rough and demanding as they kneaded the soft flesh. He squeezed, thumb flicking over my nipple before tugging, sending another sharp jolt of sensation straight through me.

My stomach clenched, heat pooling low, my body betraying me completely. The contrast between the warmth of his mouth and the firm touch of his hand had my mind spinning, every nerve in my body hyper-aware of him, of the way he was taking his time, dragging this out like he wanted to unravel me piece by piece.

I tried to suppress a moan, but it slipped out anyway, soft and breathless. Jungkook groaned in response, his teeth grazing over my sensitive skin before sucking harder, like he wanted to hear more, like he wanted to push me past the point of reason.

I clung to him, nails scraping against his damp skin as the heat of the shower wrapped around us, steam curling in the air like a haze, thick and suffocating. My heart pounded wildly against my ribs, my pulse a frantic rhythm in my ears.

Jungkook pulled back slightly, his breath warm against my skin as he murmured, voice low and rough, "Look at you… shaking already."

I barely had time to glare before his tongue flicked over the spot he had just abused, soothing the mark he had left behind. The smugness in his voice should have irritated me, but my body had other ideas, betraying me completely as another shudder ran through me. Jungkook's hands gripped my waist firmly, and in one swift motion, he spun me around. A soft gasp escaped me as my back collided with his chest, the warmth of his damp skin pressing against mine, his every breath sending a shiver down my spine.

Now facing the glass shower door, I was met with our reflection—our bodies slick with water, our skin flushed from heat and something far more dangerous. Steam clung to the glass, blurring the edges, but not enough to hide the way he towered over me, his dark eyes locked onto mine in the reflection, filled with something raw and unreadable.

His hands slid slowly up my sides, leaving a trail of fire in their wake before settling at my waist, his grip possessive, unyielding. I could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back, every inch of him pressed against me, making it impossible to ignore the tension crackling between us.

Jungkook lowered his head, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear as he let out a low, satisfied hum. "Don’t look away," he murmured, his voice dripping with something that sent another wave of heat through me.

I felt his hand trace a slow, deliberate path up the inside of my thigh, his fingertips barely grazing my skin. I refused to look down, knowing that if I did, I would completely unravel. But I could feel everything—his warmth, the steady pressure of his touch, the way he moved with agonizing patience, as if savoring every second.

Then, without warning, his fingers entered me, firm and unrelenting. A sharp gasp tore from my lips, my body jolting at the sudden contact. My hands shot out, pressing against the fogged-up glass in front of me, seeking something, anything to steady myself.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted, but my body had already betrayed me. My legs trembled, my breath coming in shallow bursts as his fingers moved at a maddening pace, pushing me to the edge of reason. My reflection in the glass was barely visible now, steam curling around us, blurring the lines between where I ended and he began. His free hand skimmed up my side, grabbing my left breast tightly, a stark reminder of who was in control.

"Tell me," he breathed, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. "Tell me how much you hate me."

"I-I hate you so much," I stammered, my voice barely above a breath. "You n-never listen… you just assume."

Jungkook let out a low, satisfied hum, but instead of slowing down, he did the opposite. His movements grew quicker, more insistent, tearing another sharp gasp from my lips.

"What else?" he murmured against my ear, his voice a deep, dangerous whisper.

I clenched my jaw, trying to fight against the flood of emotions surging through me, but it was useless. The frustration, the anger, the undeniable pull between us—it was all too much.

"Y-you think the world wants m-me," I managed between ragged breaths, my body betraying me with every shudder, every involuntary movement that pressed me closer against him. "But you never l-listen to what I want."

"Then show me," he said, his voice low, steady. "Slap me."

I froze, staring at him in disbelief. "What?" My heart raced, unsure if I had heard him correctly, the air between us thick with tension.

"Slap me, take your anger out on me, do whatever the fuck you want to me." he repeated, his voice unwavering, though his jaw tightened as if bracing for my response.

I hesitated. The words lingered in the air, a challenge I didn’t know how to answer. My fingers twitched, my heart still pounding. I looked into his eyes, searching for the meaning behind the request, and finally, after what felt like an eternity, I raised my hand.

With one quick motion, my palm met his cheek, the sound of it sharp in the stillness of the shower.

At that, his pace quickened. His fingers explored with newfound urgency, reaching places that made my breath hitch and my body tense. A sharp gasp escaped me, my forehead pressing against the fogged-up shower door as a deep, twisting pressure coiled in my stomach, winding tighter and tighter with every second. My fingers trembled against the slick glass, my entire body caught in the storm he was pulling me into, leaving me powerless to do anything but hold on.

Then, with a firm grip, he spun me around to face him once more, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sent a fresh wave of heat through me. Before I could catch my breath, his hand slid down my thigh, strong and possessive, fingers digging in just enough to make me shudder. In one swift motion, he lifted my left leg, hooking it over his shoulder with effortless ease, his body pressing even closer to mine.

His face hovered near mine, so close that our breaths mingled, the space between us reduced to mere centimeters. His other hand never faltered, continuing its relentless pace moving in and out of me.

A sharp gasp tore from my lips as the sheer intensity of it overwhelmed me, my body jolting against his hold as I felt myself near my release. His dark eyes stayed locked onto mine, watching, no devouring every reaction, every unguarded moment of surrender as my mouth fell open, a broken sound escaping me.

Before I could even gather myself, he released me abruptly, spinning me around once more. The sudden movement had me slamming against the cold tiles, the impact sharp but oddly grounding. His grip on my hair was fierce, yanking me back so that my ass arched into him, his hardness of his length evident.

His other hand shot out with sudden force, capturing my wrists together, then in one swift motion, he yanked them behind my back the pressure on my arms leaving me vulnerable and completely at his mercy.

His voice came low and dangerous, a growl against my ear. "You know what I hate about you?" he said, his fingers tightening in my hair, pulling my head back so I had no choice but to look at him. "You don’t fucking listen."

I tried to respond, but the words died on my tongue as he closed the distance between us, entering me in one go. I gasped, my mind going completely blank as I struggled to process the overwhelming sensation.

The fullness was intense, dizzying, and my body tensed in response, fighting to steady itself against the intrusion. Every thought scattered, replaced by nothing but the raw intensity of the moment, leaving me breathless and suspended in a haze of confusion and heat.

Jungkook began to move against me aggressively, the severity of his actions causing my ass to clap against him as he plunged into me harder and harder, "You think these guys want to be friends with you?" His words were sharp, filled with something darker, something that stirred the heat between us even further.

"You really believe they have good intentions?" he asked, his words laced with frustration. His grip on me tightened, before his hand came down on my ass with a firm slap at my lack of response, once, twice, three times.

I mewled at the stinging sensation as I stared up at him, his anger evident in his expression as he continued to move against me. “They don’t care about you,” he said, his tone edged with something sharp and almost desperate. “They just want to know how to get to you. How to tear you apart.”

His words hit me harder than I expected, the rawness in his voice drawing my attention. It wasn’t just anger I heard, but a deep, underlying fear.

His movements became more frantic, each thrust more urgent than the last. The heat between us surged, my body igniting under the intensity, every touch sending a jolt of electricity through my veins. My skin tingled with an intense, overwhelming mix of sensations as he gripped me with a force that left its mark. Red and purple bruises bloomed across my body, a testament to the desperation in his touch.

Each one felt like an imprint of something raw, something unspoken. I could feel myself nearing the edge, the tension coiling tighter inside me, my heart pounding with both anticipation and fear—afraid that, just like before, he might pull away again, leaving me suspended in that agonizing space of uncertainty, proving his point at the cost of everything we shared.

His grip tightened further, and his breath was hot against my ear as he spoke, his words laced with a possessive edge that sent a shiver down my spine.

“They just want to fuck you," he murmured, his voice low and strained. "They want to know how it feels to be inside you, but I won’t let them. You’re mine."

His words lingered in the air, the weight of them pressing down on me like a heavy storm cloud. There was no mistaking the intensity in his voice, the conviction in the way he held me.

“I won’t let them near you,” he muttered, his voice dark, almost possessive. “They think they can have a piece of you. Touch you. Know you. But you’re mine, Aylah. No one else gets to claim you. Not ever.”

He leaned in closer, his lips grazing the side of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. “I don’t care if they smile at you or talk to you,” he continued, his breath hot against my skin. “I don’t care what they think they can do. I’m the only one who gets to touch you. You belong to me, and I won’t let you forget that.”

I stood there, frozen for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. The possessiveness in his voice wasn’t just about control; it was about fear. Fear of losing me. Fear that I might slip away, as if I were something fragile, something worth holding onto with everything he had.

“You’re mine,” he repeated, this time softer, but with an intensity that sent a fire through my chest. “No one else matters. You don’t belong to anyone but me.”

At the realisation that I was lost in the moment, completely absorbed by his words, he abruptly released himself into me gasping against the back of my neck as he remained inside me. I gasped sharply, my breath coming in ragged bursts as my chest rose and fell with the intensity of my own release, each inhale shaky, every exhale heavy.

As his grip finally loosened, I turned to face him, my heart pounding in my chest, still reeling from the intensity of everything that had just happened. Without hesitation, I reached up, cupping his cheek gently in my hand, feeling the warmth of his skin under my touch.

"You need to stop worrying," I said softly, trying to steady the emotions that still swirled between us. "I'm a big girl. I can handle myself."

He leaned into my touch, his eyes closing for a moment as if my words were a quiet comfort, but when he opened them again, the concern was still there. "I know," he murmured, his voice low and almost vulnerable. "But I just...I don't want you getting hurt."

My heart ached at the tenderness in his voice. Slowly, I pressed my forehead to his, grounding us both in the moment. "I know, baby," I whispered. "But you just need to trust me. I promise, I'm not like Jade."

For a moment, his eyes faltered, as if my words had struck something deep inside of him. He let out a shaky breath, the weight of his fear still present. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible. Then, almost instinctively, he leaned into me, his head resting gently against my chest. "I know you're not like her," he whispered, his words full of quiet regret. "But I can't help but be scared. These feelings...they're all I'm used to."

I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him closer, running my fingers through the back of his hair in a soothing motion. "I know," I said softly, the understanding in my voice steady. "And it's okay. It's going to take time, but all I can ask from you is to put faith in us."

He pulled back slightly, lifting his head to look into my eyes. There was something different in the way he looked at me now, a tenderness, a deep honesty. "I do," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you."

My chest tightened at his words, the love between us palpable. And before I could say anything else, he closed the distance, kissing me deeply. I reciprocated, pouring everything I felt into the kiss—relief, love, and the silent promise that we'd face everything together.

Then, without warning I pushed him down so that he was sat on his knees. He looked up at me, startled by my sudden movement, his eyes wide with confusion as he stammered, "W-what...?" I didn’t dignify him with a response and instead threw my leg over his shoulder, pulling him closer with a determined tug so that his face was against my heat.

I looked down at him, a smirk tugging at the corners of my lips, but there was a sharpness to my tone. "You love me, huh?" I said, the words dripping with sarcasm as I raised an eyebrow, daring him to defend it. "Then finish me properly like a good boy."

He was taken aback by my words, clearly caught off guard, but he quickly tried to mask his surprise, forcing himself to regain control. After a brief pause, he let out a strained "Yes, ma’am."

I gripped his hair tightly, yanking him closer as I guided his movements with a firm, unrelenting pull, pushing him further into my heat until he had no space to breathe. He slowly ran his tongue along my folds, savoring each movement. His eyes flickered up, watching me as he gently sucked on my clit, the rhythm of his actions drawn out, each flick of his tongue creating a subtle tension between us.

I couldn't help but smirk, the playful edge to my voice matching the energy in the air. "Good boy," I teased softly, my words laced with a hint of approval. "You like that, don’t you?"

As he quickened his rhythm, he gave a soft murmur, “Yeah,” the word rolling off his tongue. Without warning, his hand grasped my other leg, lifting it and tossing it over his shoulder to mirror the first. In one swift motion, he stood, leaving me perched on his shoulders, my body leaning slightly forward as I tried to steady myself.

He stepped forward, pressing me firmly against the tiles, the cool surface sending a shiver through me as he resumed his movements with even more intensity. He sucked harder and harder causing my feet to curl behind his back as I felt myself release into his mouth, but he wasn’t done, instead he kept his mouth in place taking in every last drop of me as I watched it trickle down his chin.

His eyes closed for a moment, "I can’t get enough of you," he murmured.

I smirked, watching him enjoy the moment. “Good thing you’ve got forever to experience this,” I teased, the playful tone in my voice adding a lighthearted edge to the moment.

He met my gaze, his eyes intense, the smirk never leaving his lips. "I'll make sure to savor every second of it then."

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luesmainblog · 5 hours ago

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okay but can we talk about how much EXTRA fucked up this is? it... it's the pokemon world. at least 1/4th of any given country's population is kids/teenagers/young adults on their pokemon journey. where you very famously don't have an easy way to go home for a good chunk of it. i know the anime tells us that there's usually room at the pokemon center, but we ALSO know those centers have curfews and won't let you in to stay if you're past it. hotels are shockingly sparse throughout most regions, and it is not at all unusual for these - again, literal children - to be camping out in the wild. what i'm saying is, an expected part of everyone's path growing up in life makes you Effectively Homeless for a while. not because you don't have a home to return to, but because it's ridiculous to expect you to be able to get home in time unless you very specifically have a pokemon who knows Fly or a registration with a flying transport service.

and yet.... anti-homeless bench.

i wanna be really clear: these are already really, really fucked up for a city to implement. my point is that it's more fucked up the more homeless people there are in a city(i'm lookin at you, paris), and if we count people who are far away from home and on their journey, kalos has a LOT of temporarily homeless people.

inb4 anyone brings it up: yes i'm sure some employee just looked up "french benches" and modeled based off of what they found without really thinking about the implications or why it was designed that way. frankly, that'll actually be more upsetting than if it's a hint towards some larger part of the story.

Waht if we kissed on the pokemon legends z-a anti homeless architecture bench,

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sunshineangel0 · 2 days ago

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loving you, flaws and all (hyung line)

pairing- stray kids ot8 x reader summary- Your skin has never been perfect, and sometimes, the insecurities weigh you down. But each member of Stray Kids loves you in their own way, showing you that beauty isn’t just about clear skin—it’s about who you are. Through soft moments of reassurance, warmth, and genuine love, they remind you that your acne and scars don’t define you. genre- romance, slice of life, comfort, fluff word count- 1,7k (300-500 words each) warnings- mentions of acne, insecurities, self doubt, protective and affectionate stray kids members, pure wholesome content 🥰 an- i was feeling insecure today because of a little flare up so i wrote this. i hope it helps whoever it may need, too. remember, you are perfect no matter how much you brain tells you on insecure days that youre not. maknae line

bang chan

You sat at your vanity mirror, frowning as you traced a fingertip over the red blemishes dotting your skin. No matter how much care you put into your routine, your acne still flared up, leaving you feeling small and frustrated.

The door creaked open, and a familiar warmth wrapped around you from behind. “Why are you looking so sad?” Bang Chan’s deep voice murmured into your ear, his arms tightening around your waist.

You sighed, staring at his reflection instead of your own. “It’s just… my skin is so bad today.”

Chan frowned, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You say that like it matters,” he said softly. He turned you around in his hold, his warm hands cupping your cheeks. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You tried, but your gaze dropped. He didn’t let you. Gently, he lifted your chin with his fingers, his brown eyes scanning your face like he was committing it to memory. “I love every part of you,” he murmured, his thumbs grazing over your cheeks. “Your skin, your scars, all of it. None of that changes how beautiful you are.”

Tears pricked at your eyes at the sincerity in his voice. He always knew what to say, always made you feel loved in ways words alone couldn’t.

Chan suddenly tilted his head, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You know, if we’re talking about bad features, my nose isn’t exactly winning any beauty contests either.”

You gasped, swatting his arm. “Christopher Bang, don’t you dare insult my favorite nose!”

He laughed, crinkling said ‘bad’ nose as he grinned at you. “See? That’s what I’m saying. You love my nose, and I love your skin. We don’t get to insult the things we love.”

You huffed, but the fight had already left you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he said smugly, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then another along your jaw. “Now, how about we do some face masks? Not because you need them, but because I need an excuse to pamper you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Only if you wear a head band.”

Chan chuckled, already reaching for them. “Deal.”

lee know

“Stop touching your face,” Minho’s voice cut through the silence, sharp but not unkind. You barely had time to pull your hand away before his cat-like eyes flicked up from his book, catching you mid-scratch.

You groaned, flopping down onto the couch beside him. “I can’t help it. It itches.”

Minho let out a small sigh, dog-earing the page of his book before setting it aside. “And you’re going to make it worse,” he said matter-of-factly. Then, softer, “Come here.”

You hesitated, but curiosity won out. Scooting closer, you watched as he reached up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, barely grazing your cheek.

“I notice you do this when you’re anxious,” he murmured, studying your face like a puzzle he had already solved. “And when you’re frustrated.”

Your cheeks warmed. “You… notice that?”

Minho scoffed, giving you a pointed look. “I notice everything about you.”

Your stomach flipped, but before you could react, he reached for a bottle of moisturizer sitting on the coffee table. Unscrewing the cap, he squeezed a bit onto his fingertips before looking at you expectantly. “Let me.”

You blinked. “You’re seriously going to—”

“Do you want dry skin or not?” he interrupted, arching a brow.

You sighed, relenting as he gently smoothed the cool cream over your cheeks, his touch light, careful. He worked in silence, fingers tracing over each blemish and scar without a hint of hesitation or discomfort. It wasn’t rushed or forced—it was Minho in his quiet way, paying attention, showing care without making a big deal out of it.

“There,” he said after a moment, satisfied. “Now you don’t have to touch it.”

You swallowed, your heart hammering unexpectedly. He was already reaching for his book again, like he hadn’t just made you completely unravel with a simple gesture.

“Minho…” you whispered.

He glanced at you, smirking just a little. “Yeah?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You shook your head instead, exhaling softly. “Nothing. Just… thank you.”

Minho hummed, nudging your knee with his before flipping a page. “Anytime. Just don’t make me do this every day. I charge for my services.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Oh yeah? And what’s your rate?”

Minho smirked, finally looking up from his book. “One kiss per session. Non-refundable.”

Your breath hitched, and Minho, smug as ever, simply went back to reading like he hadn’t just sent your heart into overdrive.

changbin

You and Changbin had been close for years, but lately, things felt… different. He lingered when he looked at you, spoke to you with a tenderness that hadn’t always been there. You noticed the way he’d absentmindedly brush his fingers over your wrist when you sat next to each other, the way he never let you walk on the outer side of the street, the way his gaze softened when you laughed.

But despite the shift, despite the warmth he always offered, you couldn’t help but doubt what he saw in you.

Especially today.

The two of you were sitting at a café, your drinks resting between you, when you heard it. A group of girls at a nearby table whispering, their eyes flicking toward you. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but some words slipped through—remarks about your skin, quiet giggles muffled behind their hands.

Your stomach twisted.

You stared down at your cup, suddenly too aware of the way your acne stood out under the café’s bright lighting. Gosh. How you hated being in supermarket isles and stores because of that. Its like theyre doing it on purpose.

Changbin noticed. Of course he did.

He turned toward the girls, his jaw tightening. “What did you just say?”

The café noise didn’t seem to drown out his voice, low and sharp like a warning. The laughter stopped instantly.

One of the girls blinked, clearly startled. “Uh, nothing—”

“No, I think you did,” Changbin said, standing up from his seat. “If you have something to say about my girl, say it to my face.”

Your breath hitched. My girl.

The girls stiffened, their embarrassment evident. “We didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you did,” Changbin cut in, eyes dark and unreadable. “But here’s the thing—you don’t know anything about her. You don’t know how kind she is, how smart she is, how funny she is. You don’t know that when she smiles, it makes my whole day better.” His voice softened slightly as he looked at you, but the intensity didn’t waver. “So unless you have something respectful to say, keep your mouths shut.”

The girls mumbled apologies before quickly gathering their things and leaving.

Changbin let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair as he sat back down next to you. “Idiots,” he muttered under his breath.

You stared at him, still processing what just happened. “Binnie…”

He turned toward you, the hard edges of his expression softening. “Don’t listen to them,” he murmured. “They don’t get to decide how beautiful you are.”

You swallowed. “You really mean all that?”

Changbin scoffed, shaking his head. “Do you seriously not know?”

Your heart pounded. “Know what?”

“That I’m in love with you,” he said simply, as if it were the easiest truth in the world. “And nothing anyone says will ever change that.”

You blinked at him, completely speechless.

Changbin sighed, reaching for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours with a squeeze. “I’ve been trying to tell you for months,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “Guess I just needed an excuse to finally say it.”

You looked down at your joined hands, warmth blooming in your chest, chasing away the doubt. Slowly, you squeezed back.

“I think… I’ve been waiting for you to say it.”

Changbin grinned, leaning in just a little, his voice teasing but full of something real. “Good. Because I wasn’t gonna shut up about it anytime soon.”

hyunjin

Hyunjin had been acting weird all day.

You’d caught him staring at you more than once, his lower lip caught between his teeth like he was holding something back (but gosh looked it hot). He was fidgety, more than usual—playing with the rings on his fingers, running a hand through his hair, tapping his foot against the floor.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of stolen glances and unspoken words, he grabbed your wrist and tugged you toward his art studio.

“Come with me,” he murmured, his grip warm but insistent.

You let him pull you inside, watching as he took a deep breath before sitting you down in front of an easel, a canvas covered with a cloth. His fingers twitched as he hovered near the edge, nervous energy rolling off him in waves.

“I need to show you something,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Your brow furrowed. “Did you paint something?”

He nodded, still not looking at you. “Yeah. But… I don’t know if you’ll like it.” His voice softened, barely above a whisper. “Just—don’t get mad, okay?”

You blinked. “Why would I get mad?”

Hyunjin hesitated, then inhaled deeply, bracing himself. With one swift motion, he pulled the cloth away.

Your breath caught in your throat.

It was you.

Every detail—the curve of your lips, the light in your eyes, the way your hair fell around your face. The imperfections you always saw in yourself, the acne scars you had spent so long resenting… they were all there, painted with such care, such softness, it made your chest ache.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears. “Hyune…”

His hands trembled slightly as he stepped closer, his gaze flickering between you and the painting. “I just… I wanted to show you how I see you,” he murmured. “You always look at yourself so critically, but to me…” His voice wavered, his fingers brushing along your cheek, just like in the painting. “To me, you’re breathtaking.”

A shaky breath left your lips. “I don’t know what to say…”

He smiled, small but sincere, his thumb ghosting over your skin. “Then don’t say anything.” His voice was gentle, but there was something firm in the way he looked at you, like he was memorizing the moment. “Just let me love you the way you deserve.”

Your heart swelled, warmth spreading through your chest.

And in that moment, as he gazed at you like you were his greatest masterpiece, you knew—he already did.

skz general tags: @velvetmoonlght @scarlet789

(if you want to be added to my taglist, please comment under the post.)

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bananayuyu · 2 days ago

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Walker, Stalker

Pairing: Yunho x f reader

Genre: smut

Word count: 6.6k

Summary: The captain of the soccer team and the strange new girl who'd just moved in next door. Who would have thought that you and Yunho had the same fucked up fantasies?

Warnings: MDNI, smut, reader is short, size kink kinda, voyeurism, masturbation, sex toys, collars, stalking, degradation, mean yunho, unprotected sex, cnc vibes, please don't read if that isn't your thing!

A/n: this is inspired by that video above of Yunho walking and also this instagram post that had me losing my damn mind. @yuyusbabygirl thanks for making me insane. I hope you all enjoy <333

The air was cool and crisp the day you moved into your new dorm, campus nearly empty for spring break. As your beat up sedan pulled up to the curb you sighed, taking in the rare moment of silence.

It had been a harsh two weeks following your expulsion. And in all of the hiding and lying, you'd worn yourself thin. But what were you to do, tell the truth? If anyone here now, or anyone there then, heard the true reason for your transfer, you knew you'd never be able to show your face anywhere. Your accomplice had promised to keep his mouth shut too, promised to keep this whole thing a secret just as you had. And you had reason to believe him; his job was on the line, not just his reputation.

By then you were a jaded sophomore, already over everything about college; the power dynamics, the social expectations, the politics and bureaucracy that hung over all the professors. You'd learned too much about that, getting involved with him. It had been a bad idea, of course. But you had an insatiable need to fulfill certain fantasies, and try as you might you were never able to make the rational choice when it really mattered.

Moving in all on your own made for a tough day, but you were thankful for the solitude. Your friends and professors at your last school had been constantly asking you why for weeks; I thought you hated that school? All it's really got going for it is it's sports program.

You should have been more sad to leave them all behind; yes, you should have been, but your brain didn't seem to work the way it should, and you'd never been very attached to anyone. No one in the world could understand your true desires; and though you always tried to live as normally as you could, you'd realized this last year there was little point in truly trying to suppress it. The suppressing had only made it worse, which led to the shit storm you'd just passed through; you were determined not to make that mistake again.

The week passed in relative peace; with campus nearly empty you could walk about and get used to your new space, the new routes you'd have to take to your classes, the drive to the nearest grocery store. You'd heard mixed things about this place, but the cooler, wetter weather here meant that trees and bushes grew in abundance, and the grass by the student union building was actually soft enough to lay on. Your birthday was about to come, at the end of the week, and you resolved to buy yourself a little gift to celebrate. You'd done well to escape that potentially disastrous situation; you deserved a little treat for being so positive about the ridiculous move you'd just had to make.

You woke the morning of Friday with anticipation coursing through you, your legs and core already tingling with delight. The package wasn't set to arrive until the afternoon, so you busied yourself with what you could; going for another walk to double check your new routes, stopping by the store again to buy yourself a little cake to have with dinner. No one knew you were turning twenty today, but you didn't mind; you were going to celebrate tonight in your own way, in the way you liked, and that was all that mattered.

When you arrived back at the dorm in the mid afternoon the parking lot still looked relatively empty save for a few cars that you'd not yet seen. You had been so alone these few days, already growing used to it; but that was to change as soon as you entered the front doors and headed through the kitchen towards the stairs. As you walked past the refrigerator door slammed sharply; you jumped and peered back, locking eyes with a tall and broad man, his brown hair floppy and messily pushed back, his grey hoodie adorned with the school's bright green logo.

The eyes he fixed you with were dark and domineering, but he obviously looked surprised, seeing a new face here. The building wasn't tiny, but it wasn't huge by any means; you'd always imagined dorms to be massive enough for relative anonymity, but the one you'd been selected for housed only about twenty people, few enough that he'd certainly know everyone well by now. You snapped your eyes away from his quick and made for the stairs, your small cake clasped between your hands, your whole body trembling for some unknown reason. Maybe these few days you'd gotten so used to solitude that simply seeing another human ws scaring you; but really, if you were honest with yourself, it was something about the look in his eyes, the way they looked intense and dead all at the same time.

It was roughly an hour later that there was a knock on your door; opening it you found his face again, eyes still piercing yours when they met. Up close he looked massive, towering over you so much you had to look nearly straight up to see him, his shoulders so wide you couldn't see them all with the door only partially ajar.

"This came for you," he said, holding up your package, and your heart about fell out of your ass.

"Oh, thanks," you responded, swallowing hard, your mind racing with the knowledge of what was inside and his huge hands that somehow reached around the entire box. Your eyes fixed on the package as you grabbed it from him; your hands brushed, and a jolt of static snapped between your fingers. You jumped back, breath knocked out of you, before you stared back at him. He was staring at you too, eyebrows low, but his lips were turned up in the whisper of a smirk. You couldn't read him at all; you gaped as you watched him walk back to his room, the one right next to yours, and close his door without another word.

As you placed the package down it was obvious in an instant; there were multiple lines of tape that had graced the cardboard box, residue lines that were unmistakably in different spots that the current tape. Had he fucked with your package, had he opened it? You shook your head, feeling crazy; it was probably just a mistake that had been made at the warehouse, and the package had to be opened and taped up again. You didn't understand what it was about this guy that was shaking you so deeply. You were tired of feeling on edge, that was all the last few weeks had been. You needed to finally relax, that had been your plan for tonight; you pushed your worries from your mind and ripped open your package, immediately forgetting them all as you stared at the beauty in front of you.

A collar, with tiny spikes on the inside, that tightened if you pulled on the leash. And a stunning eight-inch dildo, purple and sparkly, a massive suction cup on the end. You'd had a routine down for months but had thrown out all your old toys during that period of suppression; now it was time to start building your collection again, and taking care of these sexual needs yourself. Your cake sat tantalizing you on your desk; but it would have to wait, you needed to try out your new toys.

You tied the leash to the back corner of your bed, making sure the rope was quite short; already the process was bringing you to the dark and sultry place your head liked to be, and you could feel yourself getting wet even before you'd grabbed the dildo, suctioning to the wall at just the right height. You started licking it, teasing it, getting lost trying to take it down your throat as far as you could; after gagging it was soaked with your spit, and in an instant you ripped off all your clothes and turned around, securing the collar around your neck carefully and tugging on the leash to make sure all was secure.

Then you positioned yourself in front of it; lining up your soaking entrance with the dildo you sunk onto it slowly, groaning at the stretch it was giving you, a sensation you hadn't felt in far too long. You liked feeling like you were splitting open from the inside, liked when it felt a bit painful, like it was too much for you to take. As you rocked forward your body weight pulled at the leash, squeezing the collar against the side of your throat deliciously, relenting slightly as you thrust back again. You started keeping a rhythm, the collar squeezing on the upswing, the dildo hitting your cervix the other way. This was what you'd needed to relax; the mix of pain and pleasure was numbing your mind just right, and as you continued to thrust your pleasure grew, your moans gentle as you tried your best to keep your volume down in this building you were no longer alone in.

You ripped several orgasms from yourself, over and over again, before you heard it. You'd lost count at that point; you were about to have another when you heard the unmistakable sound of metal creaking outside your window, and flashed up your eyes to see a grey hoodie moving past the glass, someone clearly on the fire escape outside. It all happened so fast, it didn't seem real; you didn't want to lose the pleasure you were feeling, so you started up your movements again, this time keeping your eyes trained in that direction. You'd lost it momentarily but the orgasm was building again; your mouth was slack open as you breathed hard, trying still to keep your noises soft, the tension in your core building even harder than it had earlier. This was bound to be a hard one, you knew it, and just as it started to wash over you, just as your legs began to tremble and your whole body erupted in flames of pleasure, you saw his face at the side of your window, his intense dead eyes meeting yours. Unable to stop yourself you came; right here infront of him, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, and as soon as you pulled off he vanished, his face disappearing from view.

It was undeniably awkward the next time you saw him in the kitchen, later that night, putting the left over half of your cake in the fridge. He was still in his hoodie, still looked exactly the same; you'd showered, changed, tried to wipe yourself clean of the slight debauchery of your evening. Compared to some of the things you'd done in your life it was nothing, but you were so scared of getting kicked out again, you had tried to recalibrate your understanding of where the line should really be.

He just stared at you again. No greeting, no hello, those dark eyes never leaving you as you walked past. You too, said nothing; what could you say? You were so convinced of your own insanity that you were questioning if you had really seen his face. Maybe you'd just wanted to, had hoped he'd be there watching. He was by all accounts your type; you like them huge and tall, like them to scare you and intimidate you.

Over the next weeks you learned just how intimidating he was; when he stalked around campus he could part a sea of other students, no one daring to step in his way. His shoulders swaggered and his head hung down a bit, and all it gave off was a sense of complete confidence and superiority. He dressed nice, was clearly doing well for himself. It took some time, but soon you learned he was captain of the school's soccer team, played right back, was feared by everyone, and was all that any girl around seemed to want to talk to you about.

You didn't even have to be subtle about your questions; people wanted to offer up everything they knew, from minor injuries he'd had, how the last game on the road had gone for him, who his parents were, his class schedule, everything. People on campus basically stalked him, you realized; which wasn't exactly uncommon these days, especially as he posted on socials enough to provide the dots to be connected. But to everyone he seemed uninterested in them; he barely followed anyone else, only his family and a few other boys on the team, and was never seen to be leaving comments on anyone's posts. He didn't give a fuck to know everyone else; that he'd made clear over his four years here, and as he was set to play professionally come the fall, everyone figured his attention was laser focused on his sport.

It would have shocked them all to know what really had started to fill his evenings; you had a regular schedule of masturbating, that he'd figured out right away, and it was all too easy for him to sneak out on the fire escape between your windows and catch a glimpse of you, complete ecstasy on your face as that collar bore down on your neck, your eyes rolling back. Behind your building a line of massive pine trees lay like a wall, and out here he could touch himself without a soul seeing, so long as none of the other students in this building looked out windows that faced this direction. He didn't know what had come over him, other than you'd unlocked that dark disturbed part that he'd hid away years ago; that first day he'd seen you in the kitchen he was awe-struck, your body impeccably curvy, your height minute compared to his, the slightly frightened look in your eye going straight to his crotch.

When he opened your package later and inspected the contents, his mind spun at the thought that not only was the girl who moved in next to him unbelievably hot, she was a glutton for pain, from the looks of it. Unfulfilled fantasies ran through his mind, fantasies he'd always known were wrong, disturbing. But your frightened little presence had him constantly thinking of them; he couldn't help it, he needed to know more. He'd always been one to use his computer skills for his own gain; it took a while, but he finally tracked down the name of the new girl just assigned to this dorm building a week ago, and with that he was up and running, searching far and wide to find anything he could about you.

Nothing about your family or friends was findable; you'd barely ever posted pictures with other people, but he could tell from the jump that there was something off about you, something strange about the way you'd just shown up here during spring break. He'd found the name of your old school easily; but breaking into their system would be a project, and with classes and practices of the upmost importance now, he'd have to be patient to find out why'd you'd left. Ordering you a little present, however, wouldn't take much time, and soon enough he was standing at your door and knocking again.

Not a word had passed between the two of you in weeks; just fearful and tense glances, or the fierce look you gave if you caught him in your window. You were used to it by now, and appreciated the intrusion; it added to your little escapades, and while you took time building up your toy collection again, you were grateful for it.

You opened your door as you had that first day, slowly and deliberately. As soon as you spotted him your eyes widened a bit, your grip on the handle tightening, your face turned up to look at him.

"This package came for you," he said, almost identical to your first interaction. He had to hold back laughter at the look of pure confusion that crossed your face; you hadn't ordered anything, and were positively vexed. But soon you saw the the package was addressed wrong; this address, but his room number, and the name Jeong Yunho.

You swallowed, grabbing the package from him and nearly slamming your door shut. Inside you sat on the floor, heaving. What the fuck he was playing at, you weren't sure. If this was a joke, he'd surely be knocking on your door again now, right? You set the package down and pushed it away from you, trying to collect yourself. More than ever your demeanor was one of panic and unassuredness; even with your daily ministrations you hadn't been able to completely calm yourself. You needed more, you needed to order more actual packages for yourself and get yourself off the way you needed.

You left it until evening, until your homework was done and your body was begging you to satiate it's needs. You opened it gingerly; a new collar sat inside, bright pink with a bell on it, and a long line of pink rope. As you lifted it you found a page of instructions; under that, what looked like a small box-cutting knife.

Follow these instructions, were the only words written in pen; everything else was printed, words explaining how to tie your own wrist restraint and tighten it down by pulling with your feet. You peered over at the knife, at the collar, and you could see plain as day what all this meant. For a moment you felt an almost sobering sickness come over you; the fact that this wasn't making you go and report him immediately was all the indication you needed that you hadn't really changed at all. It was in your nature, to like this kind of attention; attention you shouldn't want, attention that was wrong and invasive and all together disturbing.

You set the box aside and went to sleep that night without a bit of sexual pleasure, Yunho sticking his head around your window only to find your room dark and your small form curled up underneath your bed sheets.

He panicked, a bit, that night. Maybe it had been way too far, of course it had been way to far; what a crazy thing to do when the two of you had barely spoken any words to each other. You clearly were a bit kinky, but maybe he'd read it all wrong; maybe you weren't as depraved as him, maybe that little spiked collar didn't really hurt as bad as he thought it did. You made it a remarkable week without masturbating; your longest record in many years, and it had his edginess slowly building. You swore you could see it on him when you passed him in the kitchen or the hall; even once out by the fountain, as you walked towards the fine arts building, you saw his jaw set in tension as you walked by him, eyeing him only for a moment before turning your head away and smirking, acting with all your might like you weren't affected by him one bit.

You were only waiting to make it more fun for yourself, in the end. That Saturday you broke, doing just as the instructions had told, and as you pumped your hips back against that purple dildo the little bell on your collar rang and rang, loud enough that you worried a house mate might hear and come knocking about it. As soon as he heard rustling in your room he was up and outside; watching the whole scene unfold, watching you mess up the knot three times before finally getting it right. You eyed him nearly the whole time this time, and he didn't even reach into his pants, instead enjoying the view for all it was and stamping it permanently in his memory to use for as long as he could.

When you'd finally finished, the sun well and truly set and the air cool outside, you looked at him pathetically, the knife in hand. How you were going to get the knot off yourself, you weren't sure; even with the knife it was a struggle, for the angle your hand needed to reach was virtually impossible. You tried several times over, but failed each time; his smile grew and grew, and it was the first time you'd ever seen any expression on his face other than that of pure anger. His lips curled up at the corners slightly, his cheek bones popped; he looked positively terrifying and it made you actually whimper in response, your eyes darting away. You tried for the next hour to get the ropes cut off, but there was no way you could; you went to bed that night without peeing, your wrists still bound. There was no way to get dressed, no way in hell that you'd be leaving this room even if you could. You'd finally started to spark up a few casual friendships with two girls who lived downstairs, and on the off chance that they or anyone saw you scrambling to the bathroom, you decided to stay in.

Your sleep was fretful, but more for how turned on you were than anything; you couldn't stop putting your bound hands between your legs, feeling how fucking wet you still were, coming somehow again and again. It must have been early morning when you finally fell asleep; and then it was only a few hours later when he snuck into your room, your eyes barely opening and your consciousness barely there as he sliced you free of the restraint, running back to his room with the knife and rope in hand. All you'd felt was a large hand on yours and your restraints falling away; later when you woke you had no recollection of it, confused when you tried to find the rope and knife and couldn't see them anywhere in your small room.

Your wrists were badly bruised form it all; you'd had to wear long sleeve shirts for weeks even though the weather was heating up. The packages continued too, and you realized he was very selective with when he gave you them, only coming when the two other boys who lived down the hall from you were gone. Both were on the soccer team as well, so he knew they were at their study group for Japanese, one they never missed because the grad student who ran it was one they both had the hots for.

It was weeks of debauchery; more gifts, more collars and dildos, once a beautiful, bright pink shiny vibrator that must have cost hundreds of dollars. That became your favorite; along with the collar with the bell, which you combined with your spiked collar for the pain, you stuck that vibrator between your legs and rubbed yourself forward and back, coming harder than you had in ages. It was almost getting you there to that point you needed to be; but you still always made him wait, still never used these new toys too soon after you'd received them. His frustration was clearly only growing; a few times he'd left short notes in the boxes, I own you or Your secret is safe with me, slut. But you never responded to them, never said a thing. You eyed him if you passed by, by chance; but by then he was starting to try to strike up conversation with you. You never responded, only looked at him with those pathetic scared eyes and maybe scratched at your arm, pulling back the fabric of your shirt to reveal your bruises, or wore a low cut top and pushed your tits together "accidentally," eyeing him afterwards.

Suddenly the term was almost over, and you couldn't believe it; you weren't doing amazingly by any means, but you were set to pass all of your classes, as long as you didn't bomb any finals. It was a stressful week but you made it through, barely thinking of Yunho and his gifts, not having time for it.

"How are your finals going?" he asked you when you passed him on the stairs; you only ran away, sprinting up to your room, closing the door quickly. Later a note slid under your door; stop pretending like you can run from me. You only chuckled at it, slipping inside and taping it in your journal. He loved to be threatening in his notes or with the looks he gave you, but you were pretty sure at this point he didn't have the balls to actually do anything about it. On the whole it was probably a good thing; summer was about to come, and you'd stay to complete extra credits, but he'd be gone for good and graduated, and you'd never have to worry that he'd get you in trouble all over again.

"The final soccer game of the season is this Saturday, you should come!" your two friends told you as you sipped coffees in the student union building, your last final behind you.

"Wait, tomorrow Saturday?" you asked, and they nodded.

"I know you don't like to come out on the weekends but they're so fun, and the dance team performs during half time, they have fireworks usually for the last game of the year too. And there's always a big party afterwards at the huge frat by the stadium, Wooyoung texted me yesterday about it," one said, voice bright as can be.

"Wooyoung?" you asked.

"Wait, you seriously don't know who Wooyoung is?" she asked you.

"No, should I?" you said, trying to keep the sarcasm from your tone.

"He's the one who lives in the room next to Yunho's, just down the hall from you," she said, and it brought forth the image of long shaggy black hair and chiseled abs, the boy loving to walk around half naked whenever he had the chance.

"Oh, yeah, of course," you laughed, smiling at her.

"You should come to the party, seriously, it's so much fun," your other friend added.

"I don't love frat houses-"

"This one isn't like most of them, seriously, it's very nice and the parties are always actually fun," she said, cutting you off.

"I'll think about it," you chuckled, thinking of the healing bruises on your neck, your last bout with your collar having been a bit on the rough side. What you'd wear to the game and party to cover it all up, you had no idea.

But by Saturday you'd thought enough about it, and with the stress of finals behind you, there was enough of your brain trying to push you towards the health and normality of being involved in college life that you decided to go. You'd wear your favorite green hoodie; it wasn't officially school merch, but the color was close enough, and it covered the fading bruises on the side of your neck well enough. Paired with short spandex shorts and your white tennis shoes, you looked preppy and in spirit enough to fit in. The bus to the stadium was uncomfortably packed but your friends knew the best seats; they ushered you through everywhere with ease because they came for every game, and thankfully didn't make you sit in the student section like you'd expected.

Down near one of the corners you had a wonderful view, and as the players started to exit the tunnel the stands erupted in rumbling, everyone stamping their feet against the metal bleachers and waving school flags high and proud. Most of the players ran out; but then you spotted Yunho with a number nine on his back, walking in that way he always did, his shoulders swaying, his eyes fixed to the ground some distance in front of him, his jersey hanging off his lean broad frame in the most tantalizing way. His swagger from his angle was too much to handle; his back to you, you knew he had no idea you were there, would never expect it. He looked massive next to the other players; you didn't know much about the sport, but looking down now it seemed like soccer wasn't typically played by tall guys. His frame was a scary sight to the other team, it was obvious; as the game started it seemed they all dreaded when they came into contact with him, and as the minutes rolled on by you couldn't help the visceral reaction you were having to seeing just how good he was.

After a while, a whistle was blown; players started walking off the field as the dance team walked on, and your friend answered your look of confusion by telling you it was halftime. Like before most of the players ran back to the tunnel, but Yunho walked behind, talking with one of the coaches. He was facing you now and you stared at his face, flushed a bit but set in such a stony look of concentration. Suddenly he turned his head as if to stretch his neck; he caught sight of you, and he stopped momentarily in his tracks, doing a double take. His coach seemed to asked him what he'd seen; he looked away quickly and waved his hand while undoubtedly saying it was nothing. But the whole second half he was shooting daggers your way; now that the two teams had switched sides he was mostly facing you, and somehow even so far away you felt yourself shivering under his glare, the intensity of it not lost no matter how big the distance between you was.

Fine, you'd said, agreeing to go to the party. Your friends were so excited as you'd never been out with them before, and you too were excited if you really were honest, having missed letting loose a little, getting in the spirit of the true college experience. You had sworn you hated it all a few months ago; but that was before and during expulsion, when everything was blowing up in your face. As strange as it had felt you'd enjoyed the game, and as your friends showed you the way across the street, you were baffled by just how many people were walking that way with you, this house no doubt very large.

You all waited for a while in the backyard, the house apparently not ready for action just yet. Behind the frat was a large forest, and already people were drinking beers they'd snuck from the stadium, the air buzzing with anticipation. Finally the back doors were opened; there stood the entire soccer team, most still in part or all of their jersey's, and the group in the backyard cheered for them, their effort tonight apparently something worth celebrating. You weren't even sure if they'd won; you were preoccupied, and knew so little about most sports that it was hard to keep up. But you were having fun, the whole point of the evening.

It got off to a comfortable start, and you were feeling good with these two girls, giggling about your lack of knowledge as you sipped a seltzer, your first drink out in too long. Inside the house was beautiful, and though it was filled with many people you weren't being bothered. You fell into a calm state, almost forgetting any reason to be worried; that was until you spotted Yunho plodding down the stairs, clearly having showered, his hair only slightly damp and his clothes fresh and clean.

You were sure he hadn't spotted you, as your height often kept you hidden in groups. But you couldn't have been more wrong; as soon as he made it to the floor he was walking towards the kitchen, then back to greet everyone in a slow dance of moving closer and closer to you and your little group.

"Can we move outside?" you asked them, sensing the danger, his head sticking up above most of the rest of the crowd. He wasn't being obvious by any means, but you could see it; he was sneaking glances at you, was keeping an eye on your whereabouts the whole time.

"Yeah, you feeling hot?" one asked you.

"Yeah, and I can't take my hoodie off, I didn't wear anything under it," you joked, using the excuse she'd just put in your lap to cover up the real reason you wanted to move. As you three snaked between people you caught his eye only briefly; it was a blunt and scary look, and you could almost see the fires lighting in his brain, his anger at your movement so obvious. But you were just doing what felt right; just following your gut, following the instincts inside you.

Once outside you resumed sipping your drinks and chatting away; a few other people had already had the same idea as you, though everyone stuck to the paved area out back, the forest now dark and spooky with the sun fully set. Things were peaceful again for a moment, the air still and quiet out here, only the distant call of some bird disturbing the silence.

But then he exited the house too; now he was stalking towards you, unmistakably, his eyes fixed on you as he swayed the way he always did, his steps deliberate and strong and fast, his gaze as dead and dark as you'd ever seen it. Before you could register what was happening he grabbed you by the arm; your seltzer flew off into the bushes and you scrambled to keep up with him.

"I'm tired of these fucking games," he growled, his grip tight and painful.

"What games?" you whispered, running along to keep up with his huge strides, your eyes wide as you looked at him.

"You know what fucking games," he said, voice low and dark as you both stumbled onto the grass, the forest coming into view in all of it's darkness and mystery.

"What- what are you doing?" you asked, trying to pull away from him now, the grip starting to feel truly painful even though the sleeve of your hoodie was protecting your arm.

"What the fuck do you think?" he spit, spinning you around and hitting your back against the trunk of a tree, his features almost obscured in the faint light from the house behind.

"I- I don't know," you cried as he pinned your wrists together with one hand, holding them in front of you as he caged you in against the tree.

"Don't pretend like you didn't know what you were doing tonight," he growled, face only inches from yours now.

"I d-don't know what you m-mean," you stuttered, your body trembling hard now, your chest rising and falling fast as your breaths became almost hyperventilation.

"Coming to my last game? The most important game all season? Distracting me on the one day I needed to be perfect??"

"I had no idea, I-"

"You love to act all innocent, don't you?" he said, looking down at your outfit, something he'd seen so many freshman girls wearing.

"I'm not trying to," you responded, your blood pumping through you fast, your body alight with adrenaline. You tried wrenching your hands free; you felt strong, but it was no match for his strength, and he only doubled down on his grip, nearly crushing your wrist bones. "Ow, ow," you cried, trying to use your body weight to your advantage, only hurting yourself in the process.

"I bet that's turning you on, isn't it?" he spit, running his free hand over your parted lips, your eyes wide and your whole body cowering from him.

"N-no, not at all," you all but whispered, trying to steady your breathing.

"You're not a good liar, you know," he growled, face closer and closer to yours, before his lips smashed over yours and he fully crushed you against the hard bark of the tree, ravaging you.

Your breath was knocked from your throat in an instant; your body was tingling with excitement, every bit of you so happy that he'd finally broke, finally taken matters into his own hand. You hated to be the one responsible; you liked that this was his fault, that whatever messed up shit was about to unfold was his responsibility. You continued to twist and pull at him, but only enough to egg him on more; really you wanted this, your thin shorts already soaked, your hips bucking against his thigh that was pressed between your legs.

"See, I knew you liked it," he said, pulling back harshly, biting at your bottom lip. You let out a squeal of pleasure at that; it was hard enough that now you tasted blood, and the sharp metallic taste was making your head spin even more. You had no words to retaliate with; he chuckled in knowing he'd won, spinning you around and pulling at your shorts, pushing them down your legs just far enough to see your flushed pussy glistening at him, barely illuminated.

"Wait, not out here, they can all see-"

You were cut off by his cock slamming into you, the feeling more painful that pleasurable at first, and you let out a guttural scream, Yunho's hand coming up to cover your mouth as he pulled back and pounded into you slowly again.

"I know what you did with that professor, doll. I know you like when people are watching," he growled in your ear, hips slamming into yours repeatedly, your cunt struggling to adjust to the size of him. He was somehow bigger than that dildo you'd been using; how you were taking him without any warm up you had no idea. Your wetness was no doubt helping, but the severity of the feeling was leaving you almost limp against the tree, as you clung on to the bark for dear life and tried with your might not to collapse.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he grunted behind you, hand still on your mouth, the other pushing on your back and holding you against the tree in front of you. It was only another few strokes and you were coming undone; squeezing down on him sharply, your legs shaking and making it even harder to stand. The pain inside was now met with a sweet warmth, your whole body erupting in shakiness as the pleasure rolled through you. Your eyes rolled back, and then closed; you forgot entirely where you were in the darkness as he fucked you to that pleasure again, this time his hot load filling you, trailing down your legs after he'd pulled out.

He scooped you up as you started to collapse, your hands and face scratched from the tree bark, your shorts completely and obviously stained. You were slack against him, your head resting against his shoulder as he carried you bridal style; only a few more steps and he was lowering you into his car, driving you both back to your dorm. Again he carried you upstairs; it was totally empty, thankfully, for everyone was still at the frat party down the road. He cleaned you up in the bathroom, put a bandaid over a particularly bad cut on your left hand. You'd had to respond to some very worried texts from your two friends, assuring them you were home and fine; you knew that there'd be far more explaining to do the next few days.

You fell asleep as he cradled you in his bed; you felt at peace, finally seeing the way he kept things, feeling like you were stepping into a part of his mind and getting to have a look around. Calm, you felt so calm that night, finally; you were quite sad now that he'd be leaving so soon, and had a sinking feeling that you'd never meet someone who understood your fantasies as much as he did.

#ateez x reader #ateez smut #yunho x reader #yunho smut #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez yunho #jeong yunho #dark fic

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