#but it doesn't matter. it can be just for me

[blackdykegirlblogger]

vi who is the biggest, fattest, meanest bottom leaning switch of all time. i don’t make the rules, fortiche does. i always knew girlie pop was a switch, but originally i assumed she was more top leaning if anything. but then s2 came along….i don’t even ship caitvi but that kiss???? changed my perspective on a lotttttt of things. 

she was also a stone cold virgin when yall first got together. she’s gotten a smooch or two from some pretty girls around the lanes when she was younger (maybe had the chance to grab a tit here and there. maybe.), but outside of that? she’s never been touched. 

it’s not that she’s unattractive or that she doesn’t have options, she’s just traumatized with extremely strong attachment issues (which i honestly feel like isn't acknowledged enough). trust me, plenty of fine candidates have attempted to shoot their shots over the years. and maybe she would talk to a girl or two for a little bit, testing the waters and such, but it never lasted very long.

this. bitch. whimpers.

^^^ at even the slightest of touches. try it out. stroke her hair, adjust the collar on one of her jackets, kiss her on the cheek. she sounds like a kicked puppy.

like previously stated, while she doesn’t top as often as most fics would have you believe, she’s still a switchy switch at heart. she’s also an absolute demon with the strap, don’t get it twisted.

she will turn your stomach inside out and leave you unable to walk for several days afterwards. she will grind your cunt against her thigh until you’ve soaked the fabric of her pants. and she will slurp on your clit like it’s a damn jolly rancher for hours at a time. don’t test her. please test her. 

anyways back to her being a bottom <3

she has pretty pierced nipples! tug on them with your mouth and she will cream her pants in record time. she’s also against wearing bras ever at any point in time, so they always poke through whatever shirt she’s wearing. (not counting pitfighter! vi, in which case she binds her tits with bandages. the point still stands tho).

as a matter of fact, it’s actually a running gag between the two of you. she’s an ass girl (I DON’T MAKE THE RULES), and you’re more of a tittie lover yourself. she slaps your ass whenever you’re bent over or walking by, and you pinch and twist at her nips until they’re pebbled and sore. 

has the stamina of a fucking horse, regardless of if she’s above or below you (or behind you hehe). the type of mf to finally agree to take a break 3 rounds in for like 4 mins, and before you know it she’s looking at you with those big sparkly eyes asking if you’re ready to go again. smh damn nympho. 

is actually a puppy dog. like, when she isn't at the gym she is 100% glued to your hip at all times. you say jump, she leaps. you say run, she sprints faster than usain bolt. you say "vi can i have a little head 🥺" and the bitch doesn't come up for air for the next 3 hours.

she will deny having a favorite position until she's out of breath, but secretly she lovessss her some backshots. like i said earlier, she loves her some ASS. and what better way to admire yours than constantly slamming it back into her hips until you're sore?

backshots with her sound like fucking bombs going off but moving on

is a squirter <3 now it doesn't happen very often and you really have to wreck her in order to get her there but when you finally do? she becomes a watergun. she hates talking about it or even admitting that it happened but you think it's the hottest thing in the world (vi squirt on me pls-)

has a daddy kink lwk but that's like a special feature you can unlock after being with her for a good amount of time (maybe like a few months or so).

will give strap but has reservations about actually taking it. getting finger fucked until she's crossed eyed? yup. head until she passes out? fuck yeah! tribbing until she's whimpering and begging you to cum all over her? sounds like a perfect friday night. what who said that . but idk, as evil as her strap game is...the idea of getting that energy thrown her way intimidates her. but hey, that's between her and her therapist.

vi's body is actually tea and we as a fandom don't appreciate it enough. it's always "caitlyn kirramountains" this and "thick thighs sevika" that, but are we ignoring how this bitch is shaped like a damn hourglass???? her ass is fat, waist is gone and she just loves whenever you take the time to acknowledge it. bc of this she ADORESSSSSSSSSSS body worship bro. like she melts for it.

[phantomrose96]

Honestly I recommend everyone learn just a littttle bit of CSS because it really is powerful and just makes bits and pieces of your internet experience more convenient.

Right now I'm cataloguing recipes I've really enjoyed, just trying to get them all in one place. Many of these are instagram recipes and, because I don't trust link rot (aka the possibility that the instagram link goes dead one day), I'm including a screenshot of the recipe along with the link.

But instagram on desktop... looks like this

(Link, for credit. It's a good recipe)

I obviously could just copy-paste the recipe out of there. But a screenshot would be cleaner for how I'm cataloguing these.

And as-is, I'd have to scroll the whole height of that small right-side window about 4 times to fit it all.

But actually... I can just resize that div holding that whole right-side content

Basically I

hit f12 to open the dev tools

clicked the element finder

clicked on an element inside the recipe side

followed it up the tree until I found the element holding the whole recipe side (do this by hovering the div in the dev tools panel way on the right, then hovering upward and up until I find the element which is the highest up that still only contains the recipe-side content)

in the element.style part, set "width: 1000px" and "height: 1500px"

(I notice the width seems to still be less than 1000px, even though it got bigger)

likely suggests there's an element above it with a max-width set

go up the tree higher until I find the element with the max-width and uncheck that style

screenshot ready

Maybe that sounded complicated but it took me probably 20-30 seconds

And this isn't just about screenshotting recipes like.

website with an annoying gif? select gif, delete gif

do you want a clean screenshot of a digital receipt for record-keeping without a large company banner or irrelevant information? delete unnecessary elements, adjust widths, screenshot

SOMETIMES, you can bypass paywalls if they're relying on something like overflow: hidden, or an overlay in the way, or some JS that runs (you can disable JS in the dev tools)

lost the jpg/png file you used for your profile picture and size doesn't totally matter? grab it from the img src while logged in. (you might even be able to find it in a bigger size by changing the url query parameters)

color contrast on an article really bad? find and change background color. find and change font color

want to make a funny fake screenshot without learning photoshop? just edit the page content in the dev tools

This isn't about like being good enough to write scripts or browser extensions. Really if you just have some basic HTML/CSS understanding a hat worth of tricks, you can make so many little adjustments in your favor.

[divinesangel]

— random details about your future spouse [PAC]

pm me for an affordable, in-depth personal reading! — 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞!

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟏

they've been through some stuff and came out the other side with a calm, steady mindset. they're the type who doesn't get easily shaken or overwhelmed by life’s challenges.

when things get hectic or stressful, they stay chill and don’t panic. they can handle chaos without losing their cool, making them someone you can rely on in tough situations.

they’re not the type to rush into things. they like to take things slow, think things through, and make sure they’re making the right moves, whether it’s in relationships, work, or life decisions.

they probably have a strong sense of family and respect for long-held values. they believe in things like loyalty, commitment, and honoring what came before, whether that’s family traditions or their own personal principles.

they’re either spiritual or have a strong personal philosophy that guides their life. they probably reflect on the bigger picture and have a deep understanding of their own purpose or place in the world.

they're not afraid to step out of their comfort zone. they love exploring new places, trying new things, and keeping life exciting. they can be spontaneous and enjoy breaking out of routines.

always thinking outside the box. they might have a knack for coming up with new ideas or solutions, whether it’s in their work, hobbies, or just life in general. they love expressing themselves in unique ways.

they don’t take shortcuts. they put in the effort and grind steadily toward their goals, even if it takes time. they understand that success is built on consistent work and dedication.

you can count on them, no questions asked. they keep their promises and show up when they say they will, whether it’s for something big or small. they’re the kind of person you can trust with anything.

they’ve got their finances together. they don’t live paycheck to paycheck, and they know how to manage money responsibly. they’ve probably built a secure foundation for themselves and are smart about financial decisions.

once they’re in, they’re in for the long haul. they’re fiercely loyal and protective of the people they love. they’ll stand by your side through thick and thin, and you’ll always know they’ve got your back no matter what.

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟐

they’ve been through some tough stuff before (like heartbreak or betrayal), and they’re still working on getting over it. they’re in a process of healing, so they might be a bit cautious when it comes to love, but they’re definitely growing through it.

at times, they might feel a little lost or unsure about where they’re headed. they’re working on figuring things out, but they can get stuck in their head, trying to make the right choices. they may need a bit of time to get their confidence back before moving forward with big decisions.

they used to hold onto things too tightly, whether it was their money, their emotions, or their need to control everything. but now, they’re realizing they need to loosen up a bit and trust the process. they’re getting better at letting go of the things they can’t control.

they care a lot about building something real and secure for the future. they’re the kind of person who’s thinking about their career, their finances, and how to make sure they’ve got a strong foundation. they’re not into quick fixes; they’re focused on what lasts.

they can get caught up in the “what ifs” and feel like there are too many options to choose from. they might struggle with indecision or fantasizing about all the possibilities instead of making moves. they’re learning to focus and stop overthinking everything.

they’re someone who’s always looking for fresh starts. they might be starting a new chapter in their life—whether it’s career, relationships, or just personal growth. they’re focused on making things better and are always willing to work toward something new and more secure.

they’re ambitious and want more for themselves. they’re standing at a crossroads, thinking about what the next step looks like. they’re starting to plan ahead, but they’re also trying to figure out what path is the right one for them.

they’re soft-hearted and sensitive, not afraid to show their feelings. they’re the type to express their emotions and be vulnerable with the people they trust. they’re also really intuitive and can pick up on how others are feeling, offering emotional support when needed.

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟑

they’re someone who’s got their life together and doesn’t rely on others to feel secure. they’re proud of what they’ve built and enjoy the rewards of their hard work. they’re confident in their own abilities and don’t need validation from anyone else.

they know that good things take time. they’re not into rushing through life but are all about putting in the work and letting things grow naturally. they’re all about steady progress and building something real and long-lasting.

sometimes they feel unsure of themselves, especially when things aren’t going as planned. they may have moments of questioning their strength or abilities. they’re still figuring out how to trust themselves fully, but they’re working through it.

they can be a little guarded, especially when it comes to their emotions or what they’ve worked hard for. they like to keep control, but they’re learning to let go and trust more. it’s a process, but they’re getting there.

they’re the type of person who handles life with a lot of maturity. they take responsibility seriously and know how to manage their finances, their career, and their relationships in a practical way. they don’t take shortcuts.

they can be hard to read sometimes, and their emotions are deeper than they let on. they’re intuitive and sensitive, but they often keep their feelings under wraps. they might struggle to fully express what they’re going through, but they’re working on understanding themselves better.

they don’t like rushing into decisions. they’ll spend a lot of time weighing out their options and might even avoid making tough choices altogether. they want to make sure they’re doing the right thing, but they can get stuck in overthinking.

when they finally make up their mind, they’re sharp, direct, and won’t hesitate to go after what they want. they’re all about clarity and truth, and once they’re sure about something, they’re confident in their actions.

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 !

hi! it's daphne here.

i'm currently offering personal readings for €8 and soulmate readings for €15 so don't hesitate to send me a private message if you're interested!

thank you for being here!

[cjlouwho]

Sick of It

in which Tommy gets sick, and he and Buck head towards making up.

The first time Buck gets a call from a number he doesn't recognize, he ignores it.

He does the same the second time too.

The third time, he waits for it to go to voicemail so he can block it.

“Why don't you just answer?” Hen asked, annoyed by his grumbling. “Might be something important.���

“No. Someone gave my number to a debt collector and I've been dodging calls for a Victor Fornell all week. It's nothing.”

He'd barely had time to block the number and resume his search for new bread recipes when Bobby was walking out of his office and calling out to him on the couch.

“Buck, Captain Dominick just called me.”

The name got Buck's attention fast. He stood. “The captain at 217? Why? Wh- What's wrong?”

“Calm down, Buck. Tommy didn't show up for work today and Dominick couldn't get ahold of him. You heard from him lately?”

“N- No. No, I- Was Captain Dominick the one trying to call me?”

Bobby nodded. “Apparently, Tommy put you down as his emergency contact a few months ago. Like I said, could be nothing,” he repeated, noticing Buck's heavy breathing, “it's just not exactly like him to not show up.”

“No,” Buck agreed. “No, it's not. Um, Boss, I-”

Bobby held up a hand to stop him. “I'm not stopping you,” he said, “but I also don't want you going alone. Chim,” he said, glancing around Buck to see all the others paying close attention, “why don't you head out with Buck and see what's going on?”

Chimney nodded, getting up and heading for the stairs. “Let me grab my bag and keys!” he called out to Buck. “I'll meet you at the car.”

Buck already had his phone pulled up to Tommy's name, typing out a text to ask if he was okay. He sent one text, then another, then another.

“Eddie, ha- have you talked to him at all? Since we, um, since the breakup?”

Eddie shook his head. “He broke up with you,” he reasoned. “I figured that's the end of that.”

“You're joking.”

“You're my best friend, Man, I wasn't gonna take his side.”

“Eddie, you've gotta b-”

“Okay, okay,” Bobby interrupted. “Buck, you need to get going.”

Buck turned his phone toward Bobby, eyes pleading. “He... He's not answering me, Bobby.”

“Go.”

*****

“His spare key is in one of these,” Buck said, lifting up rock after rock in the flower bed at the front of Tommy's house.

“We could try knocking on the door first, Buck.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Buck replied, waving Chimney off. “Try it. I'll keep looking.”

Chimney knocked three times, then waited. Called out Tommy's name, and knocked again.

“Maybe he's out?” Chimney suggested just as Buck found the fake rock.

“His car is here, Chim.”

“Could've gone for a walk.”

“When he's supposed to be at work?”

“Just trying to be positive here.”

Buck unlocked the door and entered slowly, afraid of what he might find. “Tommy?!” he called. “T- Tommy, it's Evan.”

“And Howie!” Chimney added. “You here, Buddy?”

They waited for an answer, then continued on into the house when they didn't get a reply.

It was dark inside, the only light filtering in through a couple of open windows.

It was messy too, which was unlike Tommy. He was always so put together; had a space for everything and liked it that way.

But now there were half empty glasses on the kitchen counter, dishes in the sink. Take out containers were on the coffee table in the living room.

There was also a ridiculous amount of plants on every available surface.

“I think Tommy might have you beat in the breakup grief department, Buckley.”

Buck ignored him in favor of calling for Tommy again. “Tommy! You here?”

“I'll check the garage,” Chimney said, he and Buck splitting up to cover more area. Buck headed down the hallway, tilting his head a bit when he noticed a light shining from underneath the bathroom door.

“Tommy?” Buck felt anxious in a way he wasn't sure he'd ever felt before. As he neared the bathroom, he heard a weak groan, and then the sound of someone shuffling.

Every horrible thought ran through his head in a matter of seconds. What if Tommy was hurt? What if someone had tried to murder him? What if that was the murderer on the other side of the door right now?

“I'm coming in!” he exclaimed, shoving the door open as he braced himself for whatever was waiting on the other side.

And there was Tommy, lying on the bathroom floor. Not murdered, but definitely not okay.

“Oh my God,” Buck breathed out. “Chimney, in here!”

Buck knelt down beside Tommy, who was curled on his side, eyes clenched shut, practically vibrating with chills even as sweat covered his face.

“Tommy, what's wrong? Wh- What happened?” he asked, resting a hand over Tommy's forehead. He was burning up.

“I- I passed out, I think,” Tommy replied, teeth chattering. He managed to turn his head enough to look up at Buck. “I- Why're you here?”

“Doesn't matter. Chim!”

“I'm here, I'm here,” Chimney said, rounding the corner. “Whoa! Whatcha doin' on the floor, Tommy?” he asked, managing to keep his cool far better than Buck.

“I'm really... I'm okay, guys.” Tommy's weak voice betrayed his words.

“Don't think that's true, Man. Buck, mind giving us a little room?”

Buck nodded, pushing the hair off Tommy's forehead before standing and moving to the doorway.

Chimney knelt beside Tommy, putting on a pair of gloves before beginning to look him over.

“You fall?”

“K- Kinda. I felt like I wa- was gonna puke, so I was l- l... leaning over the toilet. Then I must've passed out.”

Chimney began to feel around his head and neck. “Can you tell me the year?”

“2024.”

“Your name?”

“Tommy K- Kinard.”

“And where are you right now?”

“Ugh,” Tommy groaned, a look of disgust on his face. “My bathroom floor.”

“Alright. I don't think you've got a concussion, but there's definitely something going on.”

“Ya... Ya think?” Tommy deadpanned.

“There's that humor we all know and love. I need to look you over, Bud, but I'm gonna have to move you a little. Can you turn to me a bit so you're laying flat?”

Slowly, Tommy turned, briefly glancing up at an anxious Buck before closing his eyes. “Hurts,” he grunted.

Carefully, Chimney began to feel around his abdomen. “Tommy, you still got your appendix?”

Tommy shook his head. “No."

“What first brought you into the bathroom?”

“Had t- to pee.” He sucked in a shaky breath, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. “Then puke. Then I mu- must've passed out.”

“Mm.” Chimney felt around Tommy's midsection, stopping when Tommy practically jerked away from him. “You been having pain in your side?”

“Mhm.”

“What about your back and/or groin?”

Tommy curled back in on himself, lying sideways on the bathroom floor. “Yeah.”

“Chim?” Buck spoke up from the doorway. “What is it?”

Chimney raised a finger at him. “One second.” He turned back to Tommy, pulling a infrared thermometer out of his bag and pointing it at Tommy's forehead. He whistled when the temperature popped up. “Quite the fever you've got there. Tommy, does it hurt when you pee?”

Tommy managed to glare aback at him.

“It's important, Bud.”

“Mmm,” Tommy groaned. “Mhm. Yeah, i- it does.”

Chimney nodded. He placed the thermometer back in the bag and rested a hand on Tommy's shoulder. “I believe that you, my friend, have a kidney infection. A pretty bad one at that. How long have you been hurting for?”

“Few... Few days. Not this bad though.”

“I'm gonna call for an ambulance. Infection this bad might've gone into your bloodstream. Buck's gonna stay with you while I wait outside for the ambulance, okay?”

“It's really,” he had to stop as a wave of chills came over him. “Really no problem.”

Chimney rolled his eyes, standing and turning to Buck. “I'm afraid he might be close to septic shock,” he whispered. “He's gonna keep fighting against going to the hospital though, however weak he might be. Talk some sense into your man while I put the call in.”

“He's not my-” Chimney pushed past him and headed down the hall, “man.”

Buck moved back into the small space next to Tommy. Hesitantly, he reached out, his hand hovering over Tommy's arm. He'd touched him before, when he was checking for a fever. That had been in a rush, without much thought.

Now, he wasn't sure. Wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch.

He pushed the thought aside as another almost violent wave of chills overcame Tommy.

“It's okay,” he soothed, running his hand up and down Tommy's arm. “It's okay. Chimney's got an ambulance on the way.”

“I think... I just n- need to rest. I- I'll be okay,” he tried to insist. “It's n- nothing.”

“Tommy, it's not nothing. You're crying right now.” Buck leaned forward, gently running his thumb across Tommy's cheek, wiping away a tear. He'd never seen him like this before, and it was terrifying. “Do you wanna try to get up? Would it be more comfortable to wait on th- the ambulance in bed?”

“Don't think I can. Everything gets t- to dizzy when I move.”

“Okay. That's okay. Here, why don't I...” Buck's voice drifted off as he maneuvered Tommy and himself into a better position. One where Tommy's neck wasn't awkwardly angled down in a way that was sure to cause him more pain later.

By lifting Tommy's head slightly (and slowly), Buck managed to slide between him and the bathtub. He straightened out his legs, one on either side of Tommy, then gently rested Tommy's head on his stomach.

Tommy, still on his side, unconsciously curled his hand around Buck's thigh, gripping onto his pants.

It was quiet for a bit, then, “Ev- Evan?”

“I'm here, Tommy,” Buck answered quietly, running his fingers through Tommy's unkept and sweaty curls, softly massaging his head.

“It r-” his voice was cut off by a jerk, chills prickling up all over his body, “really hurts.”

“I know. Help will be here soon.”

“I- I tried to ignore it.”

“I can tell. Not sure that was the wisest choice.”

The side of Tommy's mouth managed to lift into a small smile, but as soon as it was there, it was gone, a grimace taking over.

“Maybe... Maybe I j- just need t- to sleep it off.”

“Well, you can sleep it off at the hospital.”

“I don't... I don't think I-”

“You're going to the hospital, Tommy, whether you like it or not,” Buck interrupted, matter-of-factly.

Tommy jerked again, a little whine slipping out as he curled in closer to Buck. “I- I'm sorry,” he said, nearly whimpering. “I'm sorry.”

Buck wanted to cry. Tommy- big, tall, strong, Tommy- looked so incredibly small right now. Like a scared child, afraid he was going to get in trouble for being sick.

Buck held him the best he could without hurting him. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Tommy.”

*****

When Tommy woke up, it was to Buck by his side. He was sitting in the visitor's chair, his head resting on the bed next to Tommy's thigh, their hands intertwined.

It made Tommy's chest ache. He wanted Buck there, wanted him to stay, but he didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve him.

Not anymore.

Tommy wiggled his fingers a bit. He didn't want to startle Buck, but he also thought it'd be best to wake him up.

Buck's head popped up quickly. He let Tommy go, using the back of his hand to wipe away the little bits of drool running down his chin.

“Good morning,” Tommy said, grinning over at him. “Or afternoon?”

“Night,” Buck informed him, causing Tommy to glance toward the window. A drawn shade blocked any potential view.

“I don't... I don't really remember getting here,” Tommy admitted.

“You, uh, you passed out in the ambulance. You'd wake up every once in a while, but you were kinda out of it.”

“Hm,” Tommy hummed. “Long day.”

“That was two days ago, actually.”

“Wow... Long week then, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

After a beat of awkward silence, Buck suddenly stood. “You thirsty?” he asked, pointing over toward the tray table. “I- I can fix you a cup of water.”

“Sure,” Tommy answered. “That'd be good.”

Buck nodded, but didn't move. He stared at the water, making no effort to actually go over and get it.

“Um, Buck?”

“The doctor said twelve more hours and you'd have been a dead man.”

Tommy closed his eyes, readying himself. He knew where this was going. “Buck-”

“What were you thinking, Tommy? You had to have been in pretty bad pain for a few days, at least. You should have gone to the doctor!”

“I know.”

“Or you could have at least called me, or Eddie, or Chimney. Somebody! Let someone know you were sick.”

“They're not my people to call, Buck.”

“Stop calling me that, and don't say that! I don't own them, Tommy, you could have called!”

“Are you really fighting a dying man right now?” Tommy pouted, wincing as moved himself up the bed slightly.

“You're not dying anymore,” Buck corrected, “and yes, I am! Seeing you like that, Tommy, it was... it was terrifying. The idea of you not being around i- is terrifying.”

“I'm sorry. Really, I am. I didn't mean to scare you. I didn't,” Tommy paused, taking a breath. “I didn't really think about calling anyone. It's not what I do when I'm sick. You just power through, you know? I figured I'd get better. Absolutely did not plan on passing out on my bathroom floor. Would have brought a pillow and a blanket with me, made things a little more cozy.”

Buck rolled his eyes. “You're using humor as a defense mechanism.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Is it working?”

“Not even a little bit.”

Tommy sighed, but gave Buck a smile. “Listen, um, thank you for coming and everything. I'm gonna be fine though, so you can-”

Buck's face fell instantly. “I swear to God, if you're telling me to leave.”

“Buck-”

“I told you to quit calling me that! To you, I'm Evan, and I'm not leaving you! I don't know what it is about me that makes you think that that's what I do, but it's not!”

“Evan-”

“And I'm also sick of everyone telling me what I should or shouldn't do, so jot that down!”

“Evan-”

“And I'm sick of you acting like you're not worthy, or whatever the hell you're doing, because it's not true. And I also know you're doing worse than I am with our breakup, which I didn't think was possible! I saw your place, it's a mess! So don't you-”

“Evan!”

“What?!” Buck yelled.

“Why don't you sit down and we'll talk, okay?”

Buck eyed him curiously. “Really?”

“Mhm.” Tommy patted toward the chair beside his bed. “I think we both need it.”

Buck stood straighter, puffing out his chest. “Y- Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He went to sit, but Tommy stopped him before he could.

“But,” he said quickly, “could I get water first? I actually am thirsty.”

“Oh, damn it!” Buck exclaimed, eyes widening. He hurried over to the tray table, pouring a glass of water and grabbing a straw. “Sorry about that,” he said with a little laugh. “Got distracted, you know, yelling at you.”

“It's fine,” Tommy assured him. “I probably deserved it.”

“Oh you definitely did.” He shooed Tommy's hands away from the cup as he brought the straw up to his mouth. “Just sip, I'll hold.”

“Yes, Sir.”

They were both silent for a few seconds while Tommy drank, and then. “Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“I- I want to be here, okay? I need you to know that.”

Tommy stared up at him, giving him a nod. “Okay,” he replied. “I want you here.”

[justmoveyourhand]

I don't need to see characters pores. I don't need to see individual hair follicles. I don't care if my characters dumb cost keeps clipping through their legs. Especially because it doesn't matter; in 10 years, it will look dated anyway. Hyperstylize over trying to capture realism. I mean crap, look how good borderlands 2 still looks. That was an early 360/PS3 game, and it still looks wonderful. Look at Dishonored, same exact situation (though a little strange, it feels right). Hell, look at Pokemon. BDSP may technically be graphically superior, but everyone I've spoken to prefers DPPt, because it has Personality.

I think this fixation AAA studio have on graphical quality has also helped popularize Indy titles. Devs spending months fiddling with a lighting engine slows development, so you pick up this tiny game you've never seen before to fill the time, only for it to change your view on something forever. Sure, it might have been a simple 2D puzzle that looks like it came right off the SNES, but that didn't matter. It was gorgeous, and it's art style was a key part of its identity. And, more importantly, it isn't taking up 1/3 of your hard drive. You can hear the melancholic soundtrack without having to max out volume to drown out your whirring fans. As gaming has gotten more popular but more people move away from consoles, accessibility has gotten to be a priority. When everyone was running on 1 of 3-4 major consoles, it was easy to know your limits. Now, with the nigh infinite array of computer setups, ranging from $3k Bitcoin mining rigs to "my old college laptop" trying to be gamed on, specs are a slap in the face. Nothing feels worse than finding the perfect game, checking all your boxes, exactly what you need right now....but your computer can't keep up.

And it's there in the gameplay, too

Small stories become more appealing, as AAA lean more into pvp-first, battlepass infested repetition. And don't get me wrong, there's a place for all of that. I love to grind out a little LoL here and there, I'm loving marvel Rivals right now..but God I hate that I can be in a dedicated gaming store and there are maybe 3 co-op games on the shelves. That there are no RPGs that aren't either part of a 30 year franchise or mobile-game-level horny baiting (looking at stellar blade here). Indies, you can find anything. Weird RPGs that crush your soul like Omori. Shovel Knight, one of the best platformers we've seen in decades. Hades, which I hold responsible for reinvigorating rougelikes in the mainstream.

I'm just rambling and this point. But I wish games could focus less on tech specs, and more on the games again.

this is a controversial opinion and I’m not a gamer but I don’t need my graphics to be that good. I don’t need to see every individual feather on a bird. my poor computer doesn’t deserve to carry that weight either.

[shiny-jr]

WAR IS OVER.

It happened. The story is gone.

The account is still up, but that matters little to me at the moment. I'm just so happy that the story is finally gone. It took about nineteen days, probably dozens of reports from everyone combined, likely over a hundred comments, many updates throughout the days. But it finally happened.

Right now it's really difficult for me to think straight because I am just so relieved. But I will try my best to formulate some type of message.

I'm playing Happy XMas (War is Over) on loop right now. This doesn't feel real. Y'all don't understand how I would wake up, fine one second, but filled with unexplainable dread and false hope as soon as I remember the plagiarism. I would pray that it was gone when I checked my phone, and it never happened. Which is why it was so hard to believe it was gone this time. I didn't believe my eyes.

This would have never happened without the help of everyone here and the readers that know me and my mutuals. I'm sort of at a loss for words right now, I can't convey what I want to say properly at the moment. All I can really say is thank you. Thank you so so so much, I cannot say it enough. I probably would've been dealing with this for months if I was on my own, and there wouldn't have been an end in sight. So again, thank you for the reports, the research, the comments, the sharing, the encouragements. Thank you for all of it. I nearly gave up hope a few times, but y'all kept me going and gave me hope that I needed for this to happen.

[darkmatilda]

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a spontaneous idea for a new year's eve party doesn't seem so brilliant anymore when there's so much to do and so little time left. and when the sound of fireworks wakes you up with flashbacks. but luckily, reid's right there with you. as always.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer x newbau!female reader, baking cookies together, the beginning is really chaotic, reader has a panic attack and flashbacks from time when she was a hostage (in my previous fic but there's no need to read it before. no major references as usual), mention of shooting. penelope garcia slaying. glasses read one more time (will i ever get bored of this?) a lot of jokes (successful i hope) most of the fic is very fluffy, inspired by new year's eve by taylor swift (i recommend listening to this song on repeat while reading)

𝐚/𝐧: this is probably one of my fav fics of mine, i literally cried while writing (because there's no one to clean up the bottles with me on new year's day)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6k

“Okay, I think we’ve got everything. Although, do you think we have enough types of cheese...?”

“There’s so much cheese it won’t even fit on one board, Pen.”

“Exactly, so maybe we should make two…”

“Hey, look. Do you think these glasses will work for champagne?”

“Two boards—one with cheese, more savory, and the other with…”

“Because I don’t think I have any others. Jesus, I need to wash these; they’re fucking sticky…”

“…and on the second one, we’ll arrange the cookies we’re going to bake…”

“Shit, the cookies. I’m not even sure if this oven works…”

“Wait, did we even buy olives? Fuck, how could we forget olives…”

“Screw the olives! Wash the glasses if you can, and I’ll check the oven…”

“What do you mean, screw the olives?! How the fuck are you supposed to make a cheese board without olives?!”

For about twenty minutes now, you and Garcia had been running around the kitchen in your house, talking over each other non-stop and hardly listening. A grocery bag sat unopened on the kitchen island, you hadn’t started preparing a single one of your overly ambitious snacks, and some pesky gremlin was doing flips on your shoulder, whispering tauntingly, you know it’s highly likely the milk in your fridge is expired, right?

Well, that’s just how it goes when you decide to throw a New Year’s Eve party spontaneously—on New Year’s Eve afternoon. Honestly, it was a fucking miracle so many people agreed to come. And once they said yes, there was no backing out. You had to organize everything: the food, decorating your house, outfits, makeup. With every passing minute, Penelope was transforming into a full-blown organizational beast, completely unsure what to tackle first. The two cute space buns on top of her head had fallen apart, leaving her blonde curls loosely cascading down her neck—not that she even seemed to notice.

You, on the other hand, were losing steam fast. All you wanted was to curl up in a ball on the floor and eat cheese without bothering to arrange it on a board in an aesthetic way. Two types of people under time pressure. 

To make matters worse, the doorbell rang.

“Coming!” you shouted, your voice so filled with irritation that, if you were in the visitor’s shoes, you’d have turned and run for your life. Quickly, you opened the fridge and sniffed the damned milk. No signs of spoilage, thank fuck. There was no way you had time to go back to the store…

You made it to the door, and halfway there, you realized you were still holding the open bottle of milk you had forgotten to put back. You sighed, turned around, and with a double dose of rage, anxiety, and sheer insanity, you finally opened the door.

"Hey," Reid greeted, standing on the doorstep. His glasses were perched on his nose, and his hair was slightly tousled from the rather strong wind that day. Without even looking at you, he pointed to the brown bag hanging from his shoulder. "So, about those board games, when you invited me, I decided to look something up online and ordered one that I think you'll like. It's inspired by the works of Jane Austen, and players take on the roles of characters from the Regency era..."

"Is someone trying to sell you something, or what?" You heard Penelope's voice from the kitchen.

"Anyway, I ordered it, but unfortunately, it didn’t arrive, so I just grabbed chess and..."

You could only manage a confused shake of your head.

"Reid, with all due respect, but what the hell are you talking about?"

He looked at you as if you’d asked him for the juicy details of raccoon marital life.

"You invited me over for New Year’s," he reminded you, frowning slightly, as if wondering whether he’d gotten something wrong—like the day, maybe. "Me and Garcia. We were supposed to play board games..."

Your mouth dropped open as you suddenly remembered he was absolutely right. You had invited him. For board games. And then forgot to cancel after you’d all decided to spend the evening in a completely different way.

"Give me just a second," you said, and without waiting for a reply, slammed the door in his face.

Then you screamed. Stomping your foot like a frustrated child. Why, oh why, did you have the memory of a goldfish? Forgetting literally everything, from buying those damn olives to canceling this meeting. Why did the last day of the year have to suck so much? Why couldn’t anything in your life just go smoothly?

"The plans have… slightly changed," you explained with an apologetic smile when you reopened the door. 

Reid rocked slightly on his heels, his hand clenched around the strap of his bag. He had clearly heard what happened after you closed the door and looked as though he was debating whether to hand you a note with the number of a good psychiatrist.

"But that doesn't mean I'm kicking you out," you assured him quickly. "I’m really, really glad you decided to come, seriously. So, sorry about how things turned out. But still—will you come in? Garcia's here."

He shrugged and followed you inside.

"What exactly does plans have changed mean?" he asked.

He didn’t look around the room—he’d been to your house countless times before. Lately, for the past few months, with an increasing frequency. But he did stare curiously at a disheveled Penelope, who was busy loading glasses into the dishwasher.

"Well, we met up for lunch," she began explaining without even turning to face him. You didn’t waste the little time you had either, pulling ingredients for cookies out of the fridge. "We talked a bit about Derek and Elle spending New Year’s Eve in the Maldives. And our princess here decided that she wasn’t going to spend the evening in a nerdy way, playing nerdy board games, with two nerds like us..."

"I didn’t say that!" you protested indignantly.

"...while they’re sipping cocktails on the beach and having a great time. And so, it turned out we’re throwing a party."

The explanation came to an end, and Reid listened to it all without much emotion on his face, something you caught out of the corner of your eye. But you didn’t expect him to be devastated. After all, it wasn’t as if you had canceled an event the two of you had been counting down to like prisoners marking days on their cell walls, eagerly awaiting freedom.

Standing by the kitchen island, he glanced at you, then at Garcia, then behind him, as if unsure whether he should stay or politely excuse himself and leave.

“You’re invited, by the way,” you clarified, because while you thought it was obvious, maybe it wasn’t so clear to him. “So, yeah, if you’re planning to come, you have no choice—you have to help me bake these cookies. Get with it.”

You tossed him one of the aprons. The other you began tying around your waist.

Reid caught the object you threw, looked at it with furrowed brows, then shifted his gaze to you, a hint of something resembling a smile flickering across his face.

“Who said I’m planning to come?” he asked.

His mock-offensive tone didn’t quite match what he was doing—slipping the apron over his head. It made you snort.

“Oh, what, got other plans, pretty boy?” Penelope teased. “Some wild party at the book club?”

She leaned over to close the dishwasher. But instead of straightening up, she froze in place, staring at her reflection in the machine’s door. Her jaw dropped, and she gasped in something close to horror.

“What happened to my hair? I look... I look like…”

“Like a homeless caveman who just barely won a fight with lightning?” you suggested in a syrupy tone. “But only just.”

“Excuse me for a moment,” she huffed.

She left the kitchen, the sound of her heels echoing as she headed upstairs to the bathroom. Reid turned to himself with a smug expression.

“Does a caveman qualify as homeless if he lives in a cave…”

You interrupted him with your outstretched hand, pressing it to his mouth.

“Cookies, Reid. Not philosophy.”

You were planning to bake simple butter cookies in the shape of stars, and then decorate them with edible glitter. You started pulling out all the necessary ingredients from the fridge and cabinets, which were soon covering the countertop in your kitchen. You stood side by side, and your eyes were drawn to the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, barely touching his wrists. Unable to resist, you grabbed his hand and started rolling the sleeves up to his elbows.

"You could've just told me..." he began, looking at you in surprise.

You merely shrugged. You found yourselves facing each other, and you nodded towards his other hand, which he gave you after a brief hesitation. Just like before, you rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, but this time much more slowly. As more of his skin appeared before your eyes, you gathered yourself to speak.

"I feel a bit bad about how things turned out with the games," you admitted, not looking up to meet his gaze. You focused on his hand, holding it by the knuckles.

"It's okay," he reassured you, his voice soft without a hint of reproach.

"I should've warned you earlier," you continued stubbornly. "Instead of doing it last minute. And, you know, if you don't want to come to this party, that's totally okay. I know you were expecting something different..."

"I was expecting to spend time with you," he interrupted, then paused to clear his throat. It was then that you realized you were still holding his hand. His fingers trembled slightly when you let go, and he immediately shoved it into his pocket—perhaps to hide it. "We can have a game night another time. On a different day. Like, this weekend, for example. If you'd want, of course. Not that I'm pressuring you..."

"I would like that," you assured him, looking up at him with a smile, amused by his over-explaining. It always charmed you. You used to think it was because you didn't know each other well and he still felt nervous around you, but as time passed, you came to realize that maybe that was just how he was. "Seriously. And it's not just because I feel guilty about how I left you hanging today. I'm genuinely curious about that game you ordered. It’s inspired by Austen's novels, right?"

He started to tell you more about it, while you both added the first ingredients into a large glass bowl. As he began to knead the dough with his hands, you leaned your elbow on the countertop, propping your chin on your hand, listening to him.

"...one of the symbols of excess in 17th century England was a dish called A Pie of a Thousand Birds..."

You wondered when the conversation had shifted to this topic, while Penelope was still in the bathroom.

 "...containing various kinds of birds, sometimes in different layers, cooked together. In the earliest records of this dish, it mentions anywhere from a dozen to several dozen birds such as quails, chickens, geese..."

Reid suddenly stopped when his gaze landed on you. He must have been so absorbed in kneading the dough and sharing this tidbit with you that he was completely unaware of the fact that you were staring at him.

You raised an eyebrow questioningly.

 "Is something wrong?"

"No," he quickly assured you, adjusting his glasses on his nose. He had a bit of dough on his skin, which seemed to escape his notice. He furrowed his brow, trying to remember where he'd left off. "And... quails..."

You couldn't bring yourself to tell him he'd already mentioned them. Instead of that, you moved from your spot, slowly lifting your hands off the counter and approached him to wipe away the stray bit of dough beneath his eye. Reid, wanting to make sure nothing else was left on his face, wiped it with his hand… which was completely covered in dough. At the sight of his expression when he realized what he had done, you couldn't help but burst out laughing, your head resting against his apron from the weight of it. Meanwhile, he desperately tried to wipe away the remnants using the clean skin of his forearms, muttering a few curses under his breath, which only made you laugh harder.

"I see you're having a great time," Penelope returned to the kitchen.

On top of her head were two cute buns once again, resembling little snails.

"The best," you corrected, undeterred, trying once more to wipe his face. This time, not as gently as before, until he flinched back under the pressure of your hand, scrunching his nose tightly.

You glanced at the clock, and your playful mood started to wane. There was still so much to do, and you rallied everyone into action. Penelope rolled up her sleeves to prepare the charcuterie boards (it turned out the olives were at the bottom of the bag), you got to work on the mini sandwiches, and Reid was busy cutting out star shapes from the rolled-out dough using a champagne bottle as a makeshift rolling pin.

“Oh, by the way, Pen,” you began, opening the heated oven to put in the first batch of cookies, “we’re still going to kiss at midnight, right?”

“That’s right, sweetheart. Nothing’s changed,” your friend replied, focused on arranging various types of cheese into the best possible combination.

Reid, meanwhile, was taking off his apron, folding it into a perfectly neat square, a frown of concentration on his face.

“Why kiss specifically at midnight?” he asked.

“You haven’t heard about that tradition?” you asked, surprised. “A kiss at midnight brings good luck in love and relationships for the whole next year. Skipping it means the opposite.”

“I didn’t know you were superstitious.”

“It’s just a gesture. Or maybe, better put, a symbol. But anyway, last year I was having a bit too much fun and passed out before midnight. And, well, I don’t think I need to tell you it wasn’t the best year for relationships. Or rather, the lack of them.”

“Doesn’t that mean you should kiss two people this year? One for the previous year and one for the current one?” Garcia suggested thoughtfully.

You mulled it over as well.

“Actually, that makes sense. But who?”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone,” your friend assured you. “There’s bound to be some handsome volunteer. And if not, Reid could always be your backup option.”

You glanced at him briefly, biting your lip as you considered the suggestion. Funny enough, you hadn’t thought of him at all. Not because you found the idea of kissing him unpleasant or something you wouldn’t want to do. It was just… this tradition felt more like grabbing a random person, the first friend within reach. Something done without much thought—a gesture that, in this context, meant absolutely nothing serious.

Wait, but with Reid, would it mean something serious? Why the hesitation all of a sudden? You shook your head, dismissing the train of thought.

You looked at him again; he seemed to be making a deliberate effort to keep his gaze fixed on Penelope, not on you. Though as soon as he sensed you looking at him, he turned his eyes to meet yours, his expression unreadable.

“What do you think?” you asked before you could stop yourself. To ease the sudden, inexplicable tension, you added with a playful smile, “My entire romantic year would rest in your hands—or rather, on your lips. Would you be ready to take on such a sacrifice?”

“Think carefully, darling,” Penelope chimed in, pointing a finger at him. “Otherwise, we’ll all have to spend the next twelve months listening to her complain about how awful men are and how unlucky she is in love…”

“I’m starting to feel an unjustified amount of pressure,” Reid remarked cautiously. You kept staring at him, arms crossed over your chest as you stood near the oven, its orange glow casting a warm light across the kitchen.

“No pressure. And just so we’re clear, it’s not like I’m taking advantage of you. You’d benefit from this too. Unless, of course, you decide to kiss someone else—then, fine…”

“Considering I probably won’t know anyone else at this party? Slim chances…”

A snort escaped you before you could stop it. Both of them turned to you with curiosity.

“What I mean…” you began hesitantly, gesturing toward him. He was objectively handsome—maybe not every woman’s type, but then again, no man was. In your opinion, though, he absolutely was. There was something about his polished, intellectual demeanor that occasionally clashed with his sharp wit, creating a strangely magnetic allure. You gestured at him again, as if emphasizing your point. “Just try not rolling down the sleeves of that shirt until midnight, and you’ll see your chances aren’t that slim.”

He shook his head, utterly bewildered.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Oh, Pen, explain it to him,” you sighed in mock defeat.

“She means your forearms are sexy,” Penelope clarified without missing a beat.

Reid looked down at his hands as though they belonged to someone else entirely. You exchanged an amused glance with Garcia, and the whole midnight kiss topic… well, it drifted away. You weren’t entirely sure if he had agreed or not.

You wanted to casually bring it up again, but soon Penelope left the kitchen, leaving the two of you alone with a tray of freshly baked cookies ready to be decorated. Somehow, to your own surprise, you couldn’t summon the courage to ask.

"I bought edible glitter specifically for these cookies," you said, pulling a small box from the cupboard. "Apparently, it’s flavorless, but it’ll make the star-shaped cookies look magical. Maybe we should mix it with the icing?"

Reid stared intently at the label on the bottle, silent.

"What? What’s wrong?" you asked, suddenly worried.

"That’s not edible glitter," he announced. For a split second, you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. But when he noticed your completely bewildered—and now slightly furious—expression, his face quickly returned to its usual stillness. "It’s just regular glitter."

"You’ve got to be kidding me, Reid."

"Since when does edible glitter contain polyethylene terephthalate and aluminum?"

You snatched the package out of his hands, and when his words were confirmed, you slapped your forehead.

"Did I just almost kill all my guests?"

"Maybe not kill them right away," he said, his tone comforting as he took the package back from your hands before you could hit yourself with it again. "Complications from eating include gastrointestinal irritation like vomiting, nausea, and possibly damage to the mucous membranes of the mouth..."

"You're not helping."

"Sorry."

For a moment, you both stood in silence, your gaze still fixed on the tray of cooling cookies.

"But this isn't the end of the world," Reid said gently after a moment. "They still have their... interesting shape. We can decorate them with regular icing. Draw something on them. They may not sparkle, but they'll be just as delicious. And that's probably the most important thing, right?"

You knew he was right, but still, there was a certain sadness in the way you nodded. It took you a while to realize how much you’d been obsessing over such a small thing. You let out a chuckle, and he did the same.

"And I even came up with an idea for what to do with the glitter," you announced after a moment, taking the open box in your hands. A bit of the shimmering particles landed on your outstretched palm, and Reid squinted when you blew on it, sending the glitter his way. "I’ll make you shine. You’ll match the rest of the decorations..."

When Penelope returned to the kitchen, she found herself in the middle of a full-blown war, not even a battle anymore. Reid had both of your hands raised and held still, preventing you from reaching for another handful of glitter. You tried to wriggle out of this trap, kneeing him or doing something, but it wasn't really working. So there you were, looking like you were caught in some kind of bizarre dance neither of you knew the steps to, but your half-smiling faces suggested you weren’t too bothered by it.

You knew you wouldn’t be able to get that glitter out of your hair until the next New Year’s Eve.

*

You had a rule to be careful with alcohol when the party was at your house.

 You preferred to make sure everything was running smoothly. Nothing slipped out of control — no one played baseball with your TV (although you hoped the adult crowd had outgrown that kind of entertainment), no one felt unwell or needed help. Moving between people, conversations, and laughter, asking if anyone needed anything or was having a good time, reminding everyone not to smoke inside. You didn’t notice when it all started to drain you. So much so that you decided to sneak away for a moment in the upstairs bathroom.

You just needed a little time alone, splashing cold water on your neck, playing a game on your phone for five minutes while sitting on the closed toilet seat. That’s all you needed.

Your bathroom had a window, usually left open. The room was on the second floor, so there was no chance anyone could be watching. You never worried about it. The window overlooked the yard of one of your neighbors, whom you didn’t even know. As you returned, you stood with your hands on the cool sink, your eyes half-closed from exhaustion but feeling a sense of relief.

Midnight was in fifteen minutes. The year was ending in fifteen minutes.

A lot has happened over the past twelve months. The most important, of course, was joining the BAU. A huge achievement for someone so young, always commented on with a surprised raise of the eyebrows, so much so that it still hadn’t fully sunk in for you. A fair amount, but still not enough, of cases solved, unsub caught, lives saved.

Apart from the professional achievements, there was also something you couldn’t add to your CV or your dating profile. Memories. The big ones, and the ones often overlooked. The countless smiles exchanged over office desks, the amused nudges of elbows, the hours spent in simple laughter. The nights, the ones spent dancing in clubs or at house parties, the ones in your friends' homes with bottles of wine passed from hand to hand and gossip flowing from your lips, one after the other, in a constant stream of surprised exclamations and sighs. There were also those spent in sad motels during business trips. Many of them, but it was the shabby ones that stuck with you the most. Narrow beds shared with Reid, because of his fear of the dark, which worsened in such places. Sometimes silly conversations and arguments, but also the more serious ones. Comforting. And, of course, you had to include the people around you, those you met this year, and those who have been with you for a long time. All the moments when you were happy, and all the ones when you cried. The books and movies. Those that disappointed you so much that you cursed them for days. Those that made you laugh until you choked, but also the ones that nailed you to the theater seat, your gaze vacant and your mind drifting somewhere on the waves of an existential crisis.

You thought about it all with a small smile on your lips

Unfortunately, when you focused on reflecting on the passing year, another memory hit you—one of those decidedly unpleasant ones. The one where, under the guise of normality, you found yourself in the middle of a robbery, becoming a hostage. And as you watched one body after another drop motionless to the floor, blood pooling around them.

The sink you were leaning against grew warm. Your hands were hot, sweating. You shook your head, trying to push away the uncomfortable memory. Why dwell on it? It was over, long over...

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a flash in your neighbor's yard. A bright spot rising into the air, even though it wasn't even midnight yet. What kind of idiot sets off fireworks before the New Year? What was the point of that?

You straightened up, an irrational sense of danger taking hold of you. As if that fired projectile was about to crash through your window, causing an explosion in the room. Absurd, you knew that. But then the sound hit. A blast, almost like a gunshot. A gunshot coming from an unknown direction, fading lights around you, and screams. You took a breath as another shot rang out. Fireworks lit up the night sky, a green glow spilling into your bathroom, painting your face. You stayed frozen, breath held, with your chest tight.

You knew you should move, shake off the state that the experience had put you in, but… you couldn’t. Although physically unharmed, in your own home, fear took control, robbing you of your agency. Your heartbeat quickened to an unnatural pace, a sickly rhythm. It paralyzed your limbs, one by one, while images kept flashing before your eyes, intensifying with each approaching shot.

Since your actions and most of your awareness remained beyond your control, you soon realized that you were sitting on the floor. And, worst of all, a silhouette cast its shadow over you. You flinched, expecting to see a pair of leather boots and a gun pointed at you.

“It’s just me,” came a quiet, familiar voice, somehow cutting through the wall that separated you from the world. “Me, Spencer. Sorry I came in, but you didn’t respond when I knocked... okay, that doesn’t really matter right now.”

He sighed and crouched down right in front of you, his forehead furrowed in concern. Hesitantly, he reached for your shoulder, lightly touching it, but you flinched the moment his hand moved.

“No touching, it’s okay. I understand, I get it. I understand... what you’re going through.” He spoke quietly and calmly, but you could see a hint of panic crossing his face as he carefully observed yours, choosing his words. He swallowed hard. “You’re really scared, your hands are shaking, you can’t... you can’t breathe. It’s a panic attack, you know what that means. And... it’s temporary. The important thing is to just breathe. I know it’s hard... but just try…”

The surrounding air seemed thick, like some dense gas filling your nostrils and painfully entering your lungs. You shook your head in refusal, not wanting to do it again.

"Slowly, they don’t have to be deep breaths. Just try to make them steady, okay? Please," he continued, settling down closer to you on the floor. He was also breathing the way he described, trying to demonstrate for you. Focusing on the rise and fall of his chest, you made another attempt. It went... better.

"Exactly like that. We're at a party now, remember? At your house. We baked cakes specially for the occasion. It's New Year's Eve and people are shooting fireworks... those are fireworks, just regular fireworks..."

The green glow crept in again through the window, covering and retreating from your two huddled forms on the floor like a tide. You focused on what he was saying, alternately keeping your eyes tightly shut and wide open. You preferred them closed—it was easier to listen to him that way. But when you closed them, it felt like he was so far away. You reached out with trembling hands, trying to touch him, to make sure he was really there in front of you. And before you realized it, you fell into his embrace, your hands clutching his back in panic with every new shot outside.

You could close your eyes; his presence and scent were with you. You could close your eyes, pretend it wasn’t happening, that you weren’t there.

But it didn’t stop. Reid whispered that it was midnight, and the next round of fireworks shot into the sky, sending those trembling sounds that rattled you. A part of your mind knew why this was happening, so why did your body still react this way?

You buried yourself deeper into his arms, feeling some weight on the top of your head—he must have rested his chin there. You kept trying to breathe, and by accident, you inhaled the scent of his neck, which, surprisingly, helped. One breath after another. In and out. His skin. Another shot outside. In and out.

It must have been many minutes before it finally stopped. You both ended up leaning against the wall, side by side. Your knees were pulled to your chest, his legs stretched out. From downstairs, through the floor, came the muffled sound of music, and that’s what you focused on. On that, and on counting the tiles on the neighboring wall, on the hands of Reid’s watch moving forward. On the details, helping you ground yourself.

"How do you feel now?" he broke the silence that had lasted for several minutes with a quiet question.

You pressed the back of your head to the wall behind you, closing your eyes for a moment.

"Better," you said after a moment. The sound from your throat was raspy, and you swallowed, pausing for a second. "Isn't it... isn't it a strange twist of fate that we're always there for each other when something bad happens to the other person?"

You kept your gaze fixed ahead, and from the corner of your eye, you saw him looking at you. Slowly, he shrugged.

"Isn't that what friendship is about?" he asked.

Then, you shrugged.

"Friendship," you repeated, turning the word around on your tongue. You shook your head slightly. "I guess so. I mean, I guess that's what it's about." For a moment, you paused, lightly licking your lips. Your mind was still clouded, and you struggled to form coherent sentences. "I completely forgot what I was talking about a moment ago. What was it about again?"

Reid smiled gently at the look on your face, the expression confused but calm. And then... his hand slowly dropped to the top of your head, gently stroking it and sliding down along your cheek, where it stopped.

"Friendship," he repeated slowly.

Suddenly, as if realizing something, he turned his head slightly, as if to pull his hand away, but you stopped him. You grabbed it, and even though it had moved away from your face, your cheek, you enclosed it in a gentle grasp with both of your hands, the way a shell embraces a pearl.

You noticed the time on his watch.

"It’s already past midnight," you remarked. "Do you think everyone’s too drunk to look for us, or do they just honestly not care what we've been doing in the bathroom for the past hour?"

He chuckled at your words, amused by your suggestive tone.

"Don’t want to go back?" he asked, making sure.

You immediately shook your head.

"Not yet. I like it here. And I guess I’m not ready," you said, the last part tinged with a slight embarrassment. He nodded understandingly, signaling that it was okay. You didn’t have to leave yet.

You sighed, probably for the hundredth time.

"Honestly, I’ve completely lost my party mood. We could’ve played those board games instead. When I think about the bottles I’ll have to clean up tomorrow, I just feel like I might puke."

"We'll be here. Me. And Garcia," he reminded you. "You thought we were just going to disappear together, expecting you to clean up all this mess by yourself?"

"It's not really your responsibility," you replied with a slight shrug. However, a small, grateful smile tugged at your lips. "It would have been enough if you helped me set it all up. Even if it meant the entire kitchen glittering with sparkles before the party even started."

"New Year’s Eve decorations."

"Right," you scoffed. "That I’ll never get rid of. It will always look like a place where My Little Pony ponies had an alcoholic binge."

As you continued to stare at his hand, lying limp on your lap, and at his watch, you realized something else. A thought that made you tilt your head back with a sigh.

"I missed midnight again," you groaned suddenly. "Third year in a row. Where am I supposed to find three people to kiss next year, when I couldn't even find two this time?"

"You did manage," Reid pointed out, frowning slightly. "Penelope. And if you're counting your backup option, that would be me too."

"Would you?" you asked, surprised.

Pleasantly surprised. This subject had slipped by so quickly that you were sure his final answer would have been a no. You glanced fleetingly at his lips. They were slightly parted, probably in the same way they would have been if everything had gone according to plan. If you had found yourselves facing each other under the full, colorful-blinking night sky.

He nodded slightly in response, his upper and lower lips meeting. You tore your gaze away from them and refocused on the rest of his face.

"Sure," he replied aloud. He was close, the words escaping him with a slight breath of his air. "I mean... I'd also like to have a good year. So far, it’s started well. Anyway... yeah. I don't mind if you extend my backup option subscription for next year too."

The way he phrased it amused you. you lowered your gaze for a moment with a smile. Then you nodded, turning your head back toward him.

"So I guess I have my lineup for next New Year's," you said, letting go of his hand to start counting on your fingers. Both of you only realized then that you had been holding it at all. "First, of course, my husband..."

"Husband?" he interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

"I’m being very ambitious this year, Reid," you assured him, with mock seriousness. "Then Garcia, if she agrees again. But she probably will. Unless Derek gets in the way. Oh well, I’ll just send him to the tropics again. And then, number three, you."

"Your husband won’t mind if you kiss me?"

Something changed in his expression, and it was becoming harder for you to maintain eye contact. Your gaze kept dropping, as if it were searching for something against your will. Plus, the whole bathroom suddenly felt incredibly small, your movements slow, like in slow motion. You forced yourself to wave it off dismissively.

"He’ll understand," you said, forcing yourself to take a breath. You had forgotten again, but this time, it wasn’t panic. It was more about his face, so close to yours, the side of your head against the wall, your bodies nearly touching. "Well, he won’t have a choice. If he wants our marriage to last happily and forever, he’ll have to let me make up for all those lost years, those three missed kisses. Sorry... if I’m talking nonsense right now, just tell me, I don’t know what’s happening with me..."

When he kissed you, for a moment, you couldn’t find yourself. Even though everything had been leading to this, with your faces so close for the last twenty minutes, gazes repeatedly falling on each other's lips, it still surprised you. You sucked in a breath through your nose as his lips pressed into yours.

Only when his hand, the same one you had been playing with for so long, the one that had earlier caressed your cheek, fell back into the same place, carelessly resting and brushing the tips of his fingers against a small part of your ear, did you truly feel it. You squeezed your eyelids shut, placing your hand on the back of his neck, pulling him closer. It wasn’t the kind of kiss you usually associated with New Year’s Eve, one you’d forget the next day or mention with a fleeting smile. Every thought of it was meant to bring overwhelming loneliness to your lips, to make you imagine it still lasting. It alternated between tasting you slowly and carefully and consuming you with the anticipation held captive between you.

You sighed softly against his lips, and he mirrored it when you briefly pulled away. Your breaths mingled, your faces still close, foreheads gently touching.

“I almost forgot,” you whispered, barely lifting your eyelids. “Happy New Year.”

He smiled, his lips brushing yours once more for a fleeting moment.

“May your wishes come true...or something like that.”

“Or something like that.” you whispered, completely distracted, before pulling him back to you again.

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony

@heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch @trulymadlydarling

[inazuman]

love, pancakes & robots

sae x reader fluff (suggestive) for @pixelcafe-network 's challenge friday!

excerpt: "You," you stab him in the chest with a finger. "Are a robot whisperer."

"I read the instructions on the box like a normal person."

"I did too!"

"Oh really? You can read? That's surprising." He grips your wrist before you can smack him again, eyeing you playfully like he's just daring you to try, pulling you in until his arms are wrapped around you.

“What are you doing?”

Looking for you the moment he's up is rare for Sae. It's the weekend, you love to sleep in, and he's usually heavy enough to keep you tucked into him even if you rise first.

“I was trying to make pancakes." There's a set of ingredients to your left, a plate of half-baked and burnt ones to your right…

"Doesn't look like it's working."

He says the comment off-handedly, but you catch that almost-grin of his before he manages to turn away and you shove him, your hand meeting the hard muscle of his chest. He barely budges, but he presses a hand to himself like you knocked the wind out of him, eyes wide with faux-pain that finally has you out of your pancake-making stoop and laughing.

"It's a fancy pancake maker! The one we got gifted, remember? They're meant to pop out perfectly every time."

"Y'know, there's nothing wrong with making them the old fashioned way." He grabs the box to the side, casually flipping it in his hands.

"This is new tech, Sae! New tech! It's supposed to just spit a pancake out at you like a robot!"

"Like that dumpling maker that doesn't actually roll a dumpling together no matter how you put it in?"

You wave your hand. "That's just proof that dumplings need to be folded with hands and made with love."

"Hmm," Sae puts the box down, pours the pancake mix in along with some chocolate chips.

It pops out perfectly.

"You," you stab him in the chest with a finger. "Are a robot whisperer."

"I read the instructions on the box like a normal person."

"I did too!"

"Oh really? You can read? That's surprising." He grips your wrist before you can smack him again, eyeing you playfully like he's just daring you to try, pulling you in until his arms are wrapped around you.

He dips his head to speak softly in your ear. "Maybe the robot just likes me better."

You pull away from him, tapping your hands on his cheeks. "Then the robot is misogynistic."

"A robot with skewed moral values? Governments might start using it for politics."

He spins you around in his arms so you're both facing the pancake maker, where he pours it in again and watches as it chucks out yet another perfect piece. The pure shock on your face has him chuckling into your shoulder, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

"It's alright. I love you enough for both me and the robot."

He squeezes your waist, and you miss his warmth immediately as he moves towards the doorway.

"Hey! Come back here and do the rest, magic robot man!"

"Mm," he makes an act of considering it, tilting his head. "What do I get in return?"

"Outside of chocolate pancakes?"

"You know I don't care about pancakes." He swoops towards you fast and lifts you up by your thighs, placing you on the countertop, hands on either side of you as he leans in. "So?"

"Well," you wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him in even closer, "what do you want?"

He grips the back of your calves, tipping you until you're lying flat on the counter, looming above you.

"I think it's clear," he tells you in a low tone, "what I want."

"Sae," Heat rushes through you, hyperaware of everything -- how warm his hands are, the cool countertop underneath you, the way his stature is the only thing that makes a position like this even possible.

"Pancakes first, you try to tell him, your heart beating fast in your chest, "or we'll never eat today."

"You sure?" He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then one higher up, and it has you gripping at his hand.

"We eat at this table."

"Who says that's not what I'm about to do?"

"You're cruel."

this is my first time doing a challenge!! the prompt i was given was: “What are you doing?” “I was trying to make pancakes but it didn’t exactly work” i hope i've done it justice!!

[eva-does-its-best]

Their lips attacked one another as snakes curling and coiling in an infinite raging sea, their eyes were closed, for as much as they wanted to see each other what they felt right now, what they tried to capture, was beyond all physical senses.

Breaths taking turns to fade in and out of existence, muffled noises inbetween, the bedsheets shaped like mountains created by the earthquake that was their primal dance.

But when the shirt touched the floor, the room fell silent. Even the dim light of the night became a quiet murmur. His vision returned, but his eyes felt distant.

-Hey, it's ok.

But his words could not bring him back, all he could see were the shapes of his lovers body, where the physical scars began so did the memories transporting him to their inception.

-It's not ok.

-I thought we had left that behind.

-I did this to you.

-It's in the past.

-Were it in the past I wouldn't be seeing its ghost right in front of me.

-Ghosts are memories, but we are here, we are here...

-Yeah, ghosts are memories, but look at my hands... they are real, you can see them, they can hold yours, touch and sense everything that you are. The same hands that did this.

-Even if these hands are the same, the person who used them to harm is long gone.

-How can you be sure of that...? How... can WE be sure of that?!

-Because!... Because these hands now are used to hold me close, to hold me safe... would the person who did this to me... would his hands ever caress me so gently? Would his embrace feel this warm and tender?

-I... I don't-

Before he could finish his words, the doubt was taken from his lips with the softest kiss. His tears that he held back like a flood now flowed peaceful like a small river at the beginning of spring, down his cheeks dropping into his lover's naked body.

-Would both his passion and his guilt be this real?

-Have I the right to love what my hate had once broken?

-That is not up to you to decide. And in the end, it doesn't even matter. What is true right now. What is true right now is that I love you, I love you and I want your love, I want you and I want your to be your want.

-So... you think I can be forgiven?

-Dammit, that's not what all this is about!! This is not forgivance, this is not ammendment, this is not penitence! Do you think that is what I want to be?! How do you think that makes me feel?!!

Now he was the one crying, with a taste of frustration, his eyes looking up in the space between sadness and anger that hunger occupies. He knew this was the moment in which all could end, he was scared, but didn't even know if he was showing it. His love had straightened his back and opened his eyes wide at the sound of such powerful words.

Now feeling guilt himself for yelling at him, he tried to touch his side to tell him to get off, he wanted to get up and then... well he didn't know, he just felt like he had to leave. But his hand was stopped, his wrist was grabbed, he looked up but had no time to see before his lover delivered a kiss that could fuse souls together, he then put their foreheads together solemnly.

-You're right. You're so right. When did I become such a fool, that I almost let the past destroy my present and my future? I don't want to lose you, not because of my redemption, not because I am afraid of creating even more marks on you... But because I am simply scared of losing the one person I truly want.

-You want me?

-I want you, I desire you, I love you, I spend my days thinking about you, and me with you, and in my thoughts the light is radiant without scorching, the grass that is green and the flowers that are vibrant hide no poison, the rain washes off my dread, but the thirsts that I long to quench... I fear only you can satiate.

-Will those doubts go away?

-Perhaps, deep claws remain clinging to my flesh and removing them does not disuade nor calm the beast. But with you in my heart and mind the fierce tiger becomes but a house cat most of the time.

-Those words speak more truth than any of the pathetic empty excuses I've heard my whole life...

-So long as you want me by your side, and even long after you don't, I will fight these ghosts that haunt me.

-Thank you. Thank you for reaching the conclussion that keeps us together, I love you so much... I was also scared of losing you, but now my trust is unarmored and unarmed, and your feelings reach me from wherever they are born. Could you please embrace me this night? Could we please become as one?

-As many times as our eyes meet. For as long as our hearts keep beating. And our breaths whisper emotions with no words.

Enemies to lovers "who did this to you?" about scars? Great, of course. However, I raise you this: "I did this to you."

[sugawhaaa]

SKZ HEADCANONS

The type of women they like in bed...

Warnings//genre:: SMUT, shower sex (Hyunjin), cowgirl (Changbin, Felix), BDSM (minho) Collar (Minho) creampie (Chan)

Pairing:: ot8!Skz x fem!reader

A/N:: so I started with ateez and now I'm done skz should I do...a txt version 🤨 or maybe piwon 🤭

Skz masterlist:: 🍒

Taglist:: @weallneednamjesus @strykdsstanot8

Emotional, a girl who will let him take care of her in many ways

Chan has many different sides to him in bed but no matter what, he loves to cherish his partner. He wants to be able to treat her like a princess or a slut or just his girlfriend.

"You're so pretty like this," Bangchan groans before leaning down to kiss your neck, his hips never losing their pace. You can't even reply because you're so focused on the sensation of his fat cock stretching you wide open. "How you feeling baby?" He tucks a strand of your hair back. You let out a choked moan as you try to form words.

"Good," You claw at his back as you struggle to speak. "Faster please," You whine and Chan smiles shyly.

"Already?" He asks in a teasing and genuine way.

"Yes please! Fuck, I can take it," You assure him and he grins before snapping his hips against yours. The room fills with a symphony of screams of pleasure and the clap skin on skin. As Bangchan pounds into you he leans back, holding your hips, to admire your body. The way you squirm and twitch, the way you pant and moan and reddened face, the way tears of raw desire build in your eyes, and it's all because of him.

Obedient, a woman that'll listen to him and enjoy it

Minho loves to be in control during sex but he doesn't want his partner thinking their opinions aren't valid. He needs his woman to understand that this is his way of showing love and that he just wants to love on her...hard.

"C'mon, look at me baby," Minho says as he lifts your chin up to look at him, however the vibrator pressed against your core drew your attention more. "You need to keep being good for me alright?" He tugs on your collar slightly to draw your attention. You nod with a little whine and Minho smirks, his power over you shining through.

"C-Can I cum yet?" You ask between heavy breaths, the band in your stomach tightening its knot.

"Soon baby, hold on as long as you can," He then leans into your ear, his breath ghosting over your ear. "The longer you last the greater your reward babygirl," Minho smiles before bringing a hand up to your breast, cupping it in the soft lingerie. "shh, you've been doing so good," He says before smirking. His opposite hand creeps down to your vibrator, ticking it up a few setting, the vibrations now more intense than ever. You squeal and arch your back, your head falling back as well. Minho chuckles darkly at your reaction. "So cute~"

Comfortable, a girl who will make him feel safe and relaxed

Changbin has rough appearance and exterior but everyone knows he's very vulnerable inside. He needs to find someone who will keep that vulnerability safe, especially when indulging in something like sex.

It was moments like these you really cherished with Changbin. Your bodies nearly bare and pressed up against each other, your tongues intertwined as your hands frantically search for a place to rest. Changbin holds the back of your head, his fingers sorting through your hair, as he hungrily kisses your lips.

"I need you," You pull back to announce and Changbin smiles shyly, looking down.

"Whatever you need," He kisses your cheek as his hands trail down to your ass, picking you up and lifting you higher up his lap. His mouth finds yours again as he messily helps you take off your panties but you're too impatient to let him take off his underwear, instead you grind against his boner. He moans quietly, his brows furrowed at the new sensation. "Wow that feels..." His hands fall to your sides, relaxingly resting on your hips. "Keep doing that baby and I might cum in my clothes," He chuckles as he tosses his head back.

Gentle, a woman that will put care into every touch

Hyunjin has a frail heart and he can be a little sensitive to such intense feelings such as lust. He needs someone to calm him and occasionally steer him during sex.

"Yes fuck, are you slipping baby?" Hyunjin grunts as he slows his hips, making sure the wet surface wasn't causing you any risks.

"No, I'm okay, keep going," You pant softly and rest your head against the shower wall again. Each one of his thrusts was deep and passionate, the pace was slow but the strength was there. You bounce against the wall with each pound and Hyunjin comes around to hug you, pulling you off the wall like a starfish.

"Is...Is this position okay?" He asks shyly as his wet hair clings to your shoulders, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"God yes," You moan and throw your head back. He begins to thrust into you again, hitting up deep in that one spot that makes you scream. Hyunjin focuses hard as he watches your body from over your shoulder. "Yes right there, keep going," You moan, subtly praises him. Hyunjin has to hide his smile as he fucks you faster, hoping to receive more praise later.

Passionate, a woman who will bask in his presence

Felix has a bit of a clingy side, but it's not as much physical as it is emotional. He needs that person release on especially when it's his love.

"Yeah, yeah, just like that baby," Felix encourages in his thick Aussie accent but a hint of something else lingers in his voice; perhaps lust, hunger or love? His hands stay fastened to your hips as you hop on his lap, his cock slipping in and out of your warmth. Felix rests his head in the crook of your neck as he pants heavily, his hot breath ghosting over your damply sweaty skin. He lets out a low growl before tossing his head back. "Oh yeah, harder baby, c'mon bounce on me," He smirks softly at the lewdness of his words.

"I can't," You breathe out softly and Felix sits up again, holding your hips with more strength.

"You can babygirl," He kisses your jaw before assisting in lifting your body up then back down on him. His cock hit imaginably deep very hard, making you moan loudly, eyes wide. "That's it, feels good doesn't it?"

Needy, a girl who will match his constant need for relief

Han is undoubtedly clingy and loves the feeling of hands and attention on him. Jisung needs a girl who won't mind his constant need and ache for her. This fact transfers into the bed as well, he gets aroused easily, especially with physical stimulation, and he needs a partner will understand and care for his needs.

"Baby..." Han whispers as you peacefully sleep. He gently shakes your shoulder and you startle awake, forcing your eyes open. "I'm sorry," Jisung instantly regrets waking you and hides his face in the plush white sheets.

"What's wrong?" You ask groggily as you prop yourself up with your elbows. As your eyes adjust to the lighting you notice Han looks quite distressed; his eyebrows are curled upward, his lips swollen and red, his eyes glossy and his face and hair damp from presumably sweat. "Is everything okay?" You sit up, alerted by his appearance.

"Yeah but I um..." He blushes and looks away, ashamed of his behavior. "I had a wet dream and I've been trying to get off but..." He bites his lip before looking at you. He lets the plump skin between his teeth go with a sigh. "I need your help," He whines and your heart melts at his puffy cheeks and doe eyes.

"Of course, what do you need?" You watch as he sits up beside you, the blanket falling to reveal his broad chest.

"Anything...your hands, your touch, your voice, just be here with me," He whines as he extends a shaking hand toward you. "I need you," He caresses your jaw before pulling you into a deep kiss.

Patient, a girl who can wait for and understand him

Seungmin feels a little conflicted about his sex life. There's times when he's really into it and other times he can't find the lust to indulge in. He needs a girl who will respect his boundaries and understand his conflicting emotions.

Seungmin lays back on the bed after a long day with hands tucked behind his head, a thoughtful look on his face. As you put away your laundry you notice his stern expression. "You look scary when you're thinking," You smile, your voice light hearted. "What's got you thinking so hard?" You ask sincerely, assuming he's stressing about work. You set aside your laundry and sit next to him. Seungmin tenses as you come closer.

"Not sure...I feel," He looks away, pausing for a moment. "I feel like I wanna have sex but I'm so tired. My body feels weak from working," He groans as he props his head back, his arms now limp at his sides.

"That's okay," You smile, trying to assure him that he's feeling normal.

"It's annoying," He grumbles with a little pout. He shifts his hips and a blush creeps up his neck. "Could you...help me?" Seungmin asks hesitantly before making eye contact.

"Of course, lay down," You push his chest down softly, encouraging him to relax. As you do so you notice the throbbing tent in his jeans; you tilt your head in curiosity. "Is this what's been bothering you?" You smirk softly and he looks away from you with a slight pout.

Daring, a girl who will take the lead and follow his lead

Jeongin has a switch in his sexuality. Sometimes he wants to be on top, be mean, be hard, be in control and other times he wants to be hurt, broken and rebuilt as someone else's. He needs a lady who will be able to do both: fold for him and fold him.

"What's it gonna be tonight?" Jeongin says as he kicks his feet up on the bed, his elbows propped up to hold his jaw. He watches as you walk around the bedroom, doing chores, while he patiently waits for you to finish and indulge in some lust. "Maybe you'll let me bend you over the bed or desk?" He says with a devilish smirk before rolling onto his back, his legs now crossed. "then let me fuck you into the wall of the shower for round two," He tilts his head as he watches you get flustered by his words, your focus fading as you brush your hair. "Or would you rather pull out the sex toys and use me until I cry?" Jeongin just kept egging you on until you reply.

"Bending over sounds nice," You smile with red cheeks as you sit beside him on the bed. He instantly pulls you closer by your hips, setting you in his lap. He nuzzles his face into the back of your neck, inhaling your scent.

"I was hoping you'd let me fuck you tonight," He flicks his tongue out to snake around your ear, making your body shiver with excitement.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi hii!

New follower here!

Love your writings, I love how you write for each of the TF141 my men 😌.

Just wanted to hop in and ask how would you think each of the men would react if they found out their SO has a MAGNIFICENT singing voice. 😊

Oki that’s it haha. 😅

Hi! Hello! At the time of you sending this in, you were a new follower, but it has been a MINUTE! (And by minute I mean several months; y'all I am very backlogged on imagines requests). So, welcome! Hello! Happy you're here!

I adore this ask. It's so CUTE. Love the idea of reader not revealing that they can sing and just surprising them in either very odd or normal ways. Like, reader doesn't think it's a big deal but the guys do!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, swearing, brief suggestive themes, undercover, tf141!reader (Soap's), nondescript nudity, fluff, karaoke, alcohol

Word Count: 1.2k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series masterlist

John Price

John settles against the booth, his gaze roaming over the crowd. Cigar smoke lingers in the air, and the only light comes from tiny candles at each of the tables. His target is here, sitting at a table at the front of the room next to the stage.

You are somewhere behind the scenes—somewhere backstage. It annoys John that you volunteered to do this, to put yourself on display, and it irritates him further that he cares at all. Whatever interest he feels needs to be set aside. You are his coworker—a teammate. It can’t be more than that when the two of you are in the field. It doesn’t matter that it’s his name you moan in the dark.

But you’re the bait—the pretty thing that will catch the target’s interest and reel him in, and that makes John’s blood fucking boil.

The announcer appears on stage, dropping your fake name. The crowd politely claps and John steels himself.

As the curtain opens, John expects you to be clad in something revealing, to parade around and undress further. This club is known for that, but instead, you twinkle like starlight. The dress itself might appear to be nothing but air with the appearance of sheerness, but there is nothing revealed to the naked eye.

No. You’re covered. And you take nothing off.

A live band starts to play. You open your mouth, and beauty emerges, enveloping John like a snug hug.

Every note is magnificent. Gorgeous. You are angelic and seductive in equal measure. A siren on stage luring all in attendance to their end.

How did he not know you could sing like this?

John’s mouth falls open, the whiskey in front of him forgotten.

“Are you hearing this, captain?” Soap’s voice crackles through the earpiece.

“Yeah,” he coughs. “I hear it.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

It’s all quiet on base. Most are down for the night; the only ones awake are on guard at the gates or on routine patrol.

Johnny is freshly showered and ready to go home. All he needs is to check in on you.

With towel hanging loosely on his hips, Johnny discreetly enters the women’s communal showers. He’d never do this, but he knows you’re alone. What he doesn’t expect is to hear your voice. You’re not speaking to yourself—or anyone. The place is completely empty.

You’re…singing.

Actually, singing. And not that weird off-key shit one might do in the shower. This is true singing. Your voice is goddamn gorgeous—angelic.

Johnny stands in silence for a moment, simply listening, allowing the steam from your shower to curl around him just like your voice. His feet begin to move across the floor and then he’s right there in front of the curtain. He yanks it open.

You turn, eyes widening, the song you’re singing becoming a surprised squawk. “Johnny!”

Without looking away, Johnny removes the towel and hangs it up. Stepping inside, he shuts the curtain, trapping you between him and the tile wall.

“You never told me you could sing.”

“You never asked?” you reply, arms covering your breasts.

It’s cute that you’d hide from him like this. He’s seen it all anyway.

Smirking, Johnny places one hand against the wall. Leaning in, he lowers his voice into a gentle coo. “What else are you hiding from me?”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“He’s cute, Johnny.”

Soap beams. Simon has never seen him so happy. “Takes after his mum.”

“Thank fuck for that,” chuckles Simon. “You’re an ugly bloke.” He lightly nudges Johnny’s arm with his elbow. Somehow, the man’s smile widens.

On the sofa, you sit next to Johnny’s wife. She’s transferring their son into your arms. He fusses a bit, tiny fits waving around, face pinched in annoyance.

“Hello,” you coo, your smile so sweet and soft it twists something deep in Simon’s stomach. The infant stretches and makes an irritated gurgle, his face growing red as a tantrum bubbles up. “Oh. None of that now,” you murmur.

There is no panic on your face. Instead of handing him back to his mother, you hold him close, and start to sing. It’s a light melody, a gentle song that even soothes Simon as he listens. The infant hiccups, eyes widening slightly in surprise, and then promptly calms. Those gorgeously blue eyes are focused on your face, completely enthralled.

Simon knows so much about you, but how did he not know this? Johnny’s smile even faulters, his own surprise apparent.

He leans in, whispering in Simon’s direction. “Did you know she could sing like that?”

“No,” replies Simon, his attention locked in on your serenade.

As you continue, the child’s eyelids grow heavy, eventually closing altogether. When your song comes to a close, you glance up at Simon, smiling.

Johnny chuckles, and Simon shoots him a look. “What?”

“Think you’re next.”

Simon frowns. “Next what, Johnny?” That shit-eating grin is back on Soap’s face. “Next what?!”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick (can be read gn!reader)

Price reclines against the vinyl, eyes closed, arms crossed, and legs spread. Simon sits off to his left, awake and alert but clearly not wanting to be there. Kyle observes it all from his spot on the L-shaped couch.

You and Soap stand next to the karaoke machine, the two of you whispering and giggling as you sift through all the options. The two of you picked this place—a karaoke lounge full of private rooms for groups of all sizes. Payment is by the hour.

The massive flatscreen television on the wall rolls through different local advertisements as well as what’s on the menu. The prices for a single beverage are fucking outrageous.

“Pick something yet?” grumbles Simon.

Price doesn’t even budge. He might be out cold.

Kyle grins, basking in your joy. This is the first time the team is meeting you in person and not hearing about you secondhand. Soap flips Simon off and you press a hand over your mouth, glancing at Kyle for reassurance.

Soap holds out a microphone to you and you take it, the two of you standing on either side of the couch, and turned toward the television. The screen shifts, and then the opening notes of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” start playing. The original music video appears, and over it is the opening words.

“You’re fucking joking, mate,” groans Simon, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees.

Soap is off-key. It’s honestly some of the worst singing Kyle has ever heard. But you? You’re fucking killing it. Hitting every note, making up for Soap’s terrible tune, and still smiling through it all. Kyle has been with you for several months now, and he had no idea you could sing like this.

You and Johnny start moving around the room, dancing and pointing and having the time of your lives. Kyle can’t help but smile, to enjoy the experience of simply watching you having fun with the people he not only considers his teammates but his friends.

As the song wraps up, Simon pushes off from the couch and snags the microphone right out of Soap’s hands.

“You’re done, Johnny.”

taglist:

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[bewitchabyss]

— THE LOVE & DEEPSPACE MLS' NSFW HEADCANONS

PAIRING(S): rafayel + sylus + xavier + zayne x afab! reader

TAGS: bathroom sex + bondage + exhibitionism + fingering + marking + mirror sex + missionary sex + oral sex (cunnilingus) + riding + rough sex + sensory play + spanking + voice play

NOTES: the new set of cards is insane and you bet i'll be whipping out oneshots for them once they drop ;) anyway the grip that these cards have on me is insane, i'm on my knees frfr 🧎‍♀️

— RAFAYEL | QI YU

oh sure, he will play nice at the beginning and let you have your way — he will let you do anything you want to him. that is, until you push him to a point where he's too riled up to sit back and pretend it does not affect him at all. that's when he will uno reverse you and put you in your place.

on some occasions, he likes holding your arms over your head and watch you squirm as he thrusts into you, completely at his mercy. other times, he enjoys the sensation of your nails scratching his back, leaving red marks across his shoulder blades. after all, it's proof that he made you feel good, right?

he lives to serve you and puts your needs first before his. he could eat you out and his dick could be throbbing and call it a night.

i assume ebb day works similar to a rut cycle, so he would get especially needy during this period. he would be rubbing himself all over you and would, quite literally, take you right there and then at his doorway the moment you walk into his studio. (have you had sex on his couch before? multiple times.)

he would always check in on you to make sure he didn't hurt you in any way. he could be biting you and leaving a whole trail of hickies down your neck, but once the high is over, he will look at your neck wide-eyed, run his fingers gently down your skin, and ask, "sorry cutie, did it hurt a lot?"

— SYLUS | QIN CHE

he is big on sensory play and particularly enjoys blindfolding you during sex. he claims it's because your senses are heightened when you are deprived of sight, but mayhaps it fuels his innate desires seeing you so helpless without being able to see. ("who's the hunter now, kitten?" he purrs as he licks your neck, eliciting a choked gasp from you.)

he particularly enjoys eating you out this way. he enjoys hearing the sounds you make when he goes down on you like this and he swears you're a lot more vocal when your sight is impaired.

when you take charge, he can be an absolute brat and enjoys teasing you to push you (and himself) to the limit. you can tie him up or spank him and he would still cock an eyebrow up, as if challenging you, "oh, was that it? we both know you can do more than that, sweetie."

there have been multiple occasions where an innocent (or is it?) shower together leads to bathroom sex. he will hoist you up with his arms and lean you against the shower wall, then push his dick inside you as you wrap your limbs around him and ask him to start moving.

he is very open to any ideas you have in the bedroom, but will draw the line at exhibitionism, because, in his words, "i'm a selfish man; i want to be the only one who sees you in that state."

— XAVIER | SHEN XINGHUI

he would 100% be into mirror sex. he would take you from the back while standing in front of a full length mirror, hand cupping your jaw and guiding your head to look at your reflection in the mirror, making you watch how you come completely undone under his touch.

he is also lowkey a freak and would be into exhibitionism, but he doesn't want to get caught (or does he?). he would fuck you with your chest pressed against the glass for the whole of linkon to see (a hundred floors up), hot breaths fanning across your ears, "do you want the whole city to see you unravel under me, hm?"

he enjoys marking you up, no matter who is in power. he enjoys leaving marks in places that are subtly visible so that 1) it's within your view when you look in the mirror and hopefully it reminds you of just how much of a space you have in his heart and 2) any good-for-nothing guy who tries making a move on you will see the mark and know that you already belong to someone else.

if you're inexperienced, he will guide your hands to the places that make him feel good. he will gently lead your hand towards his lower abdomen and whisper, "try here, honey."

he likes you being rough with him. you could be aggressively biting down on him and that would probably turn him on. ("harder, my love, i can take it," he says as you push a second digit into his twitching hole.)

— ZAYNE | LI SHEN

he is not very kinky per se, but simply enjoys being close to you. he wants his hands on you at all times, and in such moments, his lips. he wants you to know what effect you have on him and how much he needs you.

he enjoys missionary a lot. zayne is a traditional lover and wants to see your face during intimate moments like these. he wants to see your every reaction to every move he makes and wants to memorise the things that make you feel good. he is very diligent and dedicated like that.

he may or may not be into roleplay, and it doesn't matter who's in charge. he enjoys it either way, and all in all wants it to be an experience that both of you enjoy. however, he does let you initiate things first because he's afraid he might overstep some (unsaid) boundaries that you might have.

we all know he enjoys having you on his lap, riding him. there have been many a time where he has had you bounce on his dick late at night at the hospital when he has late night shifts (with the doors safely locked at zayne's behest, of course). you guys also have a rocking chair in the living room for the said riding purpose.

no matter the dynamic, he would always speak in that low, breathy voice of his (very similar to a boyfriend asmr, if you will) and it always makes you weak in the knees

© BEWITCHABYSS. all rights reserved. please do not copy, modify, repost, or translate my works on any platform.

[patricia-taxxon]

hi. first of all, sending you love and support against all those creepy men. second of all, i’m reaching out bc im having a bit of a mental crisis about fetishes. i keep being turned on by fiction about things that i find abhorrent in real life, and i keep distressing over whether this makes me a bad person to fetishize things that are done to harm real people. i’m asking you because you seem really comfortable being into fauxcest, and i want to understand (and frankly i envy) how you’re able to accept the taboo without feeling guilt by association (because i’m over here drowning in guilt). thank you

Okay, well, first off, just because I've found joy in openly embracing this side of me doesn't mean it's good for everybody! In fact, doing it early on without any mental health work done in other areas was actively destructive for me & you're seeing me after a lotttt of trial and error retraumatizing incidents. For trauma survivors it can be dissociative in nature, and you can end up projecting shit onto kink partners if you don't rigorously maintain a normal relationship outside of the dynamic.

However, no matter what path you go down, punishing yourself is not the answer. Think of it like fitness, the first step to changing is loving who you are right now. Your need to police your own thoughts is actually it's own separate thing, probably, and if you solve it for one particular issue without learning to apply those lessons elsewhere it'll just keep coming back. This isn't about Fauxcest at all, really, it's about learned shame and punishment. Stay safe!

[husbandhoshi]

title: royally screwed [m]

pairing: joshua x f!reader

wc: 30.8k in total; part 1: 15.4k, part 2: 15.4k summary: between remembering last night’s party and pleasing your unrelenting family, you think being a princess is hard enough. then you’re thrust into an arranged marriage to royal darling joshua hong—straight-laced, infuriatingly obedient, and everything you’re not. pretending to be the perfect couple? impossible.   notes: romcom + smut (part 2), modern royalty!au in which yn is the princess of cotria/joshua the prince of acros (both fictional), enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, quarterlife crisis/coming of age, very very slow burn. lots of swearing, lots of alcohol, lots of feelings. very special thanks to @meiozis for all their help with worldbuilding and @wuahae for bearing with me through the endless drafts, scene changes, second guessing, horrible word choices, etc. you are the only reason this got done, and i love you to the moon and back <3 [read part 2 here!]

Here, in the dark, there is just you. 

The strobe lights press into your skin with all the brilliance of the sun, there's half a Modelo running down your leg, and you think you kissed the stranger behind you last week, but if you close your eyes, it's just you. No rules, no five second curtseys, no talk about the throne or whoever's ass happens to be keeping it warm at the moment. 

Here, you're nobody, and it's perfect. 

"I'm getting more champagne," Somi says, her voice careening over the music. "You sure Jihoon doesn't want any?" 

You glance back at him. He's flattened up against the back wall, holding your purse, like a raccoon caught going through the trash. This is one of the many trials he's forced to endure for your entertainment, but it's his job–not as your closest friend, but as your legally employed bodyguard. 

"No, he's on duty." 

"Right," she slurs. "Sometimes I forget you're a literal princess." 

If only it were that easy. Five drinks in and you think you can still feel your mother's vice grip on your arm and all the little white crescents of her french manicure. 

You love this song–at least, you think you do. You're too drunk to tell, but it doesn't matter. The dance floor is muggy, sardine-packed with one warm body after another, and it's heaven. The crowd moves, and you move with them. Shakira waits for no one. 

Somi must have secured another bottle of Cristal already. Soonyoung, your other partner-in-crime, hands you a flute and you take it, the glittery foam already bubbling over the lip. 

"Cheers." Out of his too-drunk mouth, it sounds like a new word altogether, but you bring your glass to his anyway. 

Tomorrow, you have a meeting with your parents. This, unlike all of your other involvements, is actually important, they said, and their voices had wound around you like a snare. 

When it gets late, Jihoon will sling your arm over his shoulders and haul you back to the palace, still tipsy and holding your stilettos to your chest like a shield. Tomorrow will come, and it's then when you'll have to try to be good. It's a useless, stupid affair, but you'll go through the motions anyway. 

But tonight, there is you and the music and the wonderful laughter of your friends, and you don't have to be anything at all. 

"Cheers," you tell Soonyoung, and you drink. 

--

There are four large topiaries in the palace garden: all lions. They stand tall in their planters, majestic and hairy with French lavender. Today you notice that the rightmost one's nose has been pruned off by accident, and he stands, snoutless, staring at his green brothers and sisters. 

You know this because this is the view from the study, and it has never changed. There is only one study in the east wing, and it is small and useless and the perfect room for your parents to sit you down and remind you that you do not, in fact, own a single thing about your own life. 

There is nothing new about this ritual. Even as a child, when you were more desperate to please, you could never be the right kind of daughter to your parents or princess to your country. Again and again, you landed yourself here, in trouble once more. 

So you stopped trying–you would find these four walls anyway, no matter what you did. Why not enjoy your Fridays instead?

By now, you’ve memorized the carvings on the armrest of the chair you’re in (a knobby column, then underneath, the whorl of a seashell). There are thirty-four terracotta stones on the way to the fountain, all spaced perfectly apart, sanded down to the millimeter. 

The scene remains unchanged. Your mother now stares down at you over the bridge of her nose, with that tight-lipped frown you've gotten so used to. Your father paces near the window, either wondering why you can't be softer, more pliable, like your older brother Jeonghan, or, alternatively, why one of the lions is missing a nose. Maybe both.

"Enjoy yourself yesterday?" your mother asks. 

"Yes," you reply, out of other answers.

"Wonderful. Then our early morning briefing with PR was good for something. You should be grateful last night's pictures won't make it out of the darkroom." 

Her voice, bitter and incisive, makes the hangover bubble up in your stomach. You and the tabloids weren't exactly on good terms, but it wasn't your fault so many people seemed to care about what you were wearing or who you were out with. 

"What did you want to meet about?" you ask, hoping to change the subject. 

You can't put your finger on it, but there's a cloying, heavy energy hanging on you. You feel as though you're on the precipice of something, although that could just be the consequences of all that Cristal ready to reintroduce themselves to your digestive system. 

Your mother clears her throat. 

"We have arranged for you to marry someone." 

And all at once, it seems as though all the air has been sucked out of the room. There's a sharp pain lodged somewhere between your chest, your stomach, and your unhappy liver. The larks sing emptily in the garden. 

"What?" Your voice sounds like it's unraveling somewhere in your throat. Quickly, frantically, you grasp at the faraway possibility that it can't possibly mean what you think it does. Marry? You can’t even remember the last time you thought of going on a second date with someone. Now you might actually throw up. 

"Prince Joshua, of the Hong family. The crown prince of–" 

"Acros. I know," you interrupt, the words jumping out of you in shock and anger. 

Of course you know who Joshua Hong is–Acros is a tiny, unremarkable country nestled into the border of your much bigger one, and Joshua their crown jewel. If you were the nation's problem, he was their darling. A bland thing to coo at when life got boring, the walking embodiment of a media training session. Smile and nod, smile and nod. He might as well be AI generated.

You wouldn't last a day with him. Not with your impatience, your opinions, or that loud mouth your parents always scold you for. Your mind swims with the mental image of the two of you on a gaudy parade float, doing that stupidly slow wave everyone seemed to insist on.

"Wonderful. So you'll pack a bag? The Hong family will be thrilled to meet you tomorrow," says your father.

"Why?" you ask. Your voice wobbles, treading over that childlike waver you never learned to control. "Is this to punish me?" 

"My dear, your brother will be ascending to the throne soon," your mother answers, looking you dead in the eyes. "It’s his face that needs to be on the front page, not you in another abomination of a swimsuit. The Hongs will keep enough of an eye on you.” 

She's right. She's always been right. Maybe not about the swimsuit, but you haven’t exactly been the PR princess your family needed you to be. If anything, you would think it made Jeonghan look better by comparison, but you know that your parents would prefer you to make appearances in something other than Deuxmoi’s Sunday Spotted. But the royal charade never fit you well either; it clings and sticks and bunches up at the seams like a cheap Halloween costume. 

"The Hongs thought their country would benefit from our money. It was an easy decision, really," your mother finishes, as if that makes you feel any less like a silly, bikini-clad pawn in a game of chess you never asked to play. 

"Does Jeonghan know?" 

"He sees its purpose,” your father says simply, like that was all that mattered. “You will too, in due time.”

He nods solemnly, which is how he closes every conversation–just another turn of the silent knife. As your parents turn to leave, their silken garbs trail behind them like ink in still water. Business as always, especially with you. 

"Your brother will be coming home from his press tour this week," your mother says on her way out. "You mustn't ruin this for him. The car leaves for Acros in the morning." 

There's a mean, barbed feeling in your heart. You don't know whether to scream or to cry, so you do what your mother taught you to do. You sit, stilled by a feeling of hopelessness, and let yourself be emptied. 

--

When you were thirteen, you learned how to ride a horse. 

Not the impractical, side-saddle way drilled into you when you were a little girl, with your skirt billowing over the fender and catching in the stirrups, but how to really ride a horse. 

It was on a night much like tonight–indigo and starless. Your brother had climbed up the marble trellis, his teenage, noodle body a perfect fit for scaling the lattice, and threw a stone at your window, just like you had seen in the movies. Jeonghan was still young, then, rebellious and unchanged by the throne. 

It was him who laced up your riding boots, hoisted you on your first horse, and pressed the reins into your palms. You remember the unforgiving hold of the leather saddle, not yet broken in. You were so sore the next day, you were bed-bound–truly a punishment worse than death, if not for another reminder that everything you do ends up hurting you a little. 

"It's great," Jeonghan had told you, breathless and haloed by the moonlight. "You can just ride. nowhere to go and no one to answer to." 

You had spent the summer this way. Every night, you learned the sound of the forest at twilight, chasing Jeonghan's mud-splattered palomino. In the mornings, breakfast consisted of rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and whispering about whatever misadventure you had found yourselves tangled in the night before. 

That was before he had come of age. Before your father gave him the Throne Talk, and before he was whisked away into endless meetings and etiquette lessons and parliaments. Your inside jokes became foul, overripe in his newly coached mouth. He even learned to play golf, and he hated golf. 

Past August, you don't think you ever got your brother back.

You slide the oaken doors of the stables open, feeling your arms squeeze underneath your riding shirt. Here, it’s always quiet after sundown.

It hasn't changed since the day you first snuck in with Jeonghan. You let the green scent of the hay fill your lungs, the sleep-stir of the horses like music to your ears. Dokyeom has left the tack room open by "accident" once more, likely to avoid catching you picking the lock with a bobby pin like he had a few months ago. 

"Hey, you," you whisper, coming to the stall of your own horse. Astrid, a bay thoroughbred, was Jeonghan's gift to you on your 18th birthday, a wistful reminder of a summer now past its prime. "No surprise here, but I had a really, really bad day." 

Astrid, oblivious, noses at your palm in search of a nonexistent sugar cube. Somehow, this brings the anxious chatter of your mind to a crescendo—would Astrid come with you to Acros? When would that happen? More importantly, when were you moving? You think of a too-warm summer morning, the ridiculous, oversized brim of one of your mother's sunhats, and a moving truck. That, and a country ready to delete you from its ranks. 

It's now, with the bridle in your fists, that you hear the wheedling groan of the stable door as it slides open. Without thinking, you quickly push out the first excuse you have. "I apologize, I was—" 

"It's me." 

Jihoon. 

You would tease him about his fear of ponies—perhaps it's because he is quite literally the same size as them—but you think hearing another person tell you off would officially push you over the edge. You don't want to be dramatic, but you don't even know if Acros even had horses. 

That, and somehow he's both the first and the last person you want to see. The guilt feels a bit heavier when you know his life is about to change too, in no small part due to your own failings.

"Jihoon, I…" you start. There’s an apology that’s been sitting on your tongue, one you haven’t quite learned to spit up yet. You don’t know who it’s for—yourself, or everyone else—but Jihoon interrupts you before you can finish your thought. 

"You forgot your jacket," Jihoon replies. 

For once, you can't read him. You wonder if he's thinking about if he'd get along with the other bodyguards, but, more likely, he's probably pitying you. You're the last person in the world that should be in an arranged marriage, and even someone who kills people for a living could tell. 

"I'll be in the foyer." 

You don't exchange any more words. Jihoon knows that there is nothing he can say that will erase what's about to happen, and like always, he is right.

After you saddle up, Astrid takes you to the forest like usual. Honestly, you've lost count of the times you've come out here to cry, usually about a boy you don’t even like, or, worse, Jeonghan declining your weekly Facetime session again. But now, you think you both know this time is very different. 

"Astrid," you groan. "Joshua looks like a Ken doll from hell. He probably pronounces tomato like tomahto and has a closet dedicated to his tweed collection. I can't marry him." 

Astrid is none the wiser. You wish she was human for a moment so you could show her the crater-sized hole that "prince joshua google images" left in your browser history. 

"Do you think he only listens to classical music? I think a Kim Petras song would kill him instantaneously." 

The mental image of Joshua Hong being struck down by the first ten seconds of Throat Goat makes you laugh, but you still don't feel far away enough from the truth.

You remember your 21st birthday, a balmy spring Friday. Jeonghan had been helping out at the local youth theater, and the opening night of their production was coincidentally the same day. Jeonghan had never been one for theater (last time, he had fallen asleep during Mamma Mia, of all musicals). You knew the press turnout was expected to be huge, but the whole thing felt like one big charade to you. 

So you had planned your big birthday bash—you only get one 21st, after all—that day. The paparazzi fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. Unsurprisingly, drunk, hot girls made for a better story than Greek theater. 

You remember the raw, stinging look Jeonghan had in his eyes the next morning. He didn't even have to say anything, but you knew. The memory carves out an abyss in your chest. You knew you should have done better for your brother, but he didn’t even feel like your brother anymore. 

Still, actions have consequences, and this was a hell of a consequence. Even out here, the inconvenient reality of it seems closer than ever. but you're out of time. The night fades fast, especially ones like these. 

So you press your heart to Astrid's mane, the pale moon high over the both of you, and you ride. 

--

Late spring is kind to Acros. 

The tulips push their bright heads out of the dirt, winking and blazing in the daylight, and the green fields stretch so far they look like water. 

You had spent the car ride with your nose pressed to the window, watching all the sun-bleached buildings zip by. You mustn't ruin this for Jeonghan. It spins around in your head like an old pair of shoes in a washing machine. 

Now you stand in the grand foyer, your parents on either side of you. Jihoon hovers behind, holding the overstuffed duffel bag you had rushed to pack this morning. 

A hushed arrival such as this was unbecoming of your family, but it was necessary. your parents had stressed that the arranged part of the deal was not meant to be public knowledge because it was bad for optics. To you, the arrangement was actually the entire deal. That, and you and optics never exactly got along. 

Waiting for Joshua and his parents gives you a moment to observe what could be your new home, although you’re still waiting for the miraculous plot twist that will save you from your fate. 

That being said: you’ve set foot in plenty of nice places, but if HGTV ran segments for castles, this would certainly be the blueprint. It’s smaller than the palace in Cotria, but you like that—it’s cozier, less cold-seeming. 

The filigreed ceilings vault dizzyingly high, and the chandelier above the muraled walls is set afire with the noontime sun. the blushing azaleas cascade from their pots, and they line the hallways with joyous pops of white and pink. breaking the spell is the distant staccato of several sets of footsteps on marble, and you straighten your back, as if by divine command. 

Three figures approach you: Joshua and his parents. Even from a distance, you can see the trained walk of royalty, their shoulders straight enough to hold water. You’ll give credit where credit is due—they look even less thrilled to meet you than you are to meet them.

Unfortunately, up close, Joshua is more handsome than the cameras would betray. He's taller than you had imagined, too. without trying, it looks like he jumped out of a shitty Disney movie, one where the prince says two words and still gets the girl. More than that, you notice how his face is like glass—unwavering, cruelly still. One wrong move, and you'd break him. 

"Your highnesses," you say, lowering your head in a pronounced curtesy. 

Joshua bows in response, like clockwork. He reaches for your hand, then brings it to his lips to kiss the back of it. 

At once, you feel your hackles jump up, even though many a man has done far nastier to you. You can’t tell what pisses you off more: a, the fact that he smells like a hotel lobby, or b, that he managed to get his mouth on you in less than five seconds. 

"I'm elated we have the privilege of welcoming your daughter into our home," Joshua's mother says. Like him, she is staggeringly elegant and even harder to read. "She's beautiful." 

Fortunately, she has picked the one compliment that your parents can agree on without lying through their teeth. You watch them laugh and titter amongst themselves, and it's now that you notice Joshua has been looking at you this whole time.

You think look is too kind of a word, though. It's something colder than that, more clinical, and you really don't like it. Your stylist had spent upwards of two hours today in front of your vanity this morning, mostly in a losing battle with a pair of fake lashes, and you wonder if one of them is crooked. That, or Joshua is similarly wondering just how he will endure a life wedded to you. 

"Joshua, please," his mother chides, and you watch him almost immediately pivot towards her, like he’s on wheels. "Where are your manners? You should show the princess around. Get to know each other a bit before press tomorrow." 

Press. Of course. Your least favorite word. You vaguely remember your parents mentioning it in the car this morning, but it must have gotten lost among all the other terrible things they'd told you. 

Your head starts to hurt. Joshua keeps smiling at you, empty, doll-like.

"Yes, I'd love that," you say, feeling like a deflating balloon. You were hoping his company will be better than watching four grown adults fall all over each other, but you're starting to doubt that. 

Joshua offers you his arm, and you take it anyway. 

"We'll be off then," he chirps before bowing once more. His freakishly shiny shoe nudges yours to remind you to do the same. Begrudgingly, you listen, watching your shellacked, angry expression in the patina of his loafers. 

Not a good start, but what did you expect?

You tamp down your irritation and let him lead you into the Great Hall. It's a shiny, golden tunnel, studded with glossy oil paintings of his parents, his grandparents, then the next set of old people before them. Their eyes stare at you, pools of hazy paint in their moon faces. You briefly imagine your painting up there, with Joshua's hand hovering meekly over your waist, unused to being more than two feet away from a woman his age.

"It's nice to finally meet you," Joshua says. "I think I've only seen you in pictures." 

He's referencing the one of many “encounters” you've had with the paparazzi, a la yesterday night. They take trashy photos, overexposed and grainy from the camera flash, with your ass most likely in the frame. 

You choose to let it slide—you have no choice, really. At least you have an ass. 

"The pleasure is mine," you reply. "I believe you were at the cricket championships a few months ago, right?" 

"Correct. Do you watch? I don't believe I saw you." 

"No, but my brother was there." Your footsteps echo against the marbled walls. "Just trying to think of your last public appearance," you offer unhelpfully, since you and he both know those are few and far between. 

"That's right. He mentioned you were busy," Joshua replies. "Glastonbury was that weekend, was it not?" 

He's right. It was, but you don't like the insinuation he's making. You weren't at Glastonbury anyway—your parents wouldn't let you attend, and Jihoon was unwilling to come up with a cover story for you. Because you would rather watch paint dry than attend another cricket game, you instead spent it with takeout and reruns of Rupaul's Drag Race. 

"Can't recall," you answer. "Doesn't matter. I'm not one for cricket, anyway."

"Didn't know you had a choice."

You watch Joshua halfheartedly gesture to the Great Hall. The seemingly mile-long dinner table is empty now, save for a gratuitously piled fruit bowl. 

Your country frequently hosts guests, but the Hongs are notoriously insular. You imagine the four of you, crammed together at one end of the table, making horrendous small talk every morning over wilted danishes and raspberry preserves. Somehow, your mood worsens even more than you thought possible.

"Can I see the library?" you ask in an attempt to pivot. 

"Of course. Do you enjoy reading?" 

"A normal amount." You pass by another set of windows and take note of the rose garden outside, verdant with the May sunshine. Astrid has a bit of a penchant for eating roses, which would definitely complicate your plan to smuggle her in. No matter—you’ve done worse. "I studied political science at university, so I got a healthy dose of it." 

"Didn't we all?" Joshua chuckles.

He pushes the door open to the library, which is just as lavish as the rest of the palace. You wonder how well-worn it is, how many spines have creases in them, how many dedications were speckled with a funny annotation or two. But judging by first impressions, you wouldn't be surprised if all the books still had their dust jacket on. 

"I mean, I read an insane amount of Dan Brown," you reply. "Not many of us can say we've solved the Davinci code, you know." 

You hoped this would crack a laugh out of him, but his grin is thinner than an eyebrow from the 2000s. Truthfully, you would compare this conversation to a death by a thousand papercuts, but somehow that feels preferable to the guillotine of discussing the terms and conditions of your rapidly impending marriage. You feel as though that would be violating some rule you aren't yet aware of, and you're unwilling to endure the patent leather consequences of another faux pas. 

"I've heard of it," says Joshua after much thought. "My parents were shuttling me between meetings and private lessons, so, unlike some, I was quite busy during university." 

You're not about to explain that you were equally as busy as him. Something tells you that he'd be too prideful to believe you anyway. 

"How difficult. Surely you were able to have some fun," you say, your voice betraying your distaste. "Or were you too good for that?" 

Too far. 

"I did what my position allowed," is Joshua's terse reply, and you know you've crossed a line. Still, it dazes you that the man standing next to you may have never done anything for himself in his life. Even Jeonghan did, before your parents really tightened the reins. 

The air buzzes with a silence sharp enough to make you bleed. You wish literally anyone else was standing next to you, but you realize there are no more horses or emergency cabs or Jihoons to rescue you from this one. 

"How about I take you to our room? I hope you'll find it comfortable." 

You glance to your right to catch a glimpse of Joshua. He smiles, a dutiful press of the lips, and you watch it ripple.

--

"Jihoon, it is so much worse than I thought." 

You sit on the plush carpeting of your bedroom floor, amongst your small disaster of things. Jihoon examines you, one eyebrow raised, as he leans against the bedroom door. 

"He's not around, right?" 

Jihoon shakes his head.

"I don't get it," you sigh. "I go out. I get drunk. I have a little fun on the weekends. I don't see how any of this makes me a bad person." 

"You know how traditional your families are." Jihoon bends down to pick up a hair bow that jumped ship from the vanity. "It's just how it is." 

"He treats me like some high school delinquent. I tried, but he has no sense of humor. No joi de vivre. I think he would actually explode if he knew I went out two days ago." 

"Give it time," Jihoon supplies unhelpfully. "I don't know French, but he can't be that bad. You just met him." 

“Yeah. Usually that’s a good thing. I’ve fucked people i know less about.” 

Jihoon shakes his head and laughs, one of those little cackly ones he reserves for your company. 

"Well, you have been with worse," he tuts. "Definitely worse." 

"Jihoon, be serious. This is the rest of my life we're talking about." 

“I know." He draws his lips into a line, likely searching for the right thing to say. "This sucks. I wouldn't be good at this either." 

"You're talking to me. I don't think there's a single royal thing I can do right."

He's out of words, so he bends down to awkwardly pat you on the head, which, in all your years of knowing him, is the most affection he can muster. This is why you prefer horses to Jihoon for therapy, although you appreciate the effort. 

"I'd stay, but they want me to go to some meeting," he says, jerking his thumb towards the door. "I'll see you tomorrow." 

So he leaves you, desolate and linen-covered. Back to square one. 

The room seems to echo with how empty it feels. The bare walls are painted champagne, a rich, indifferent color. They soar to an arched ceiling lined with baroque crown moulding. There's a large window facing the garden, framed by deep green velvet. Atop the vanity cradled to the wall, the ivy of the wrought mirror curls at the edges, as if escaping. The chandelier hangs low, fat and pear-shaped, and its crystals douse the room in gauzy lamplight.

At least the canopy bed looks comfortable. It's the one thing keeping you from calling this place a veritable jail cell, which still seems like an understatement. For once, you miss your own bedroom. Granted, it didn’t look much different on the surface. but despite all the paneling and the heavy velvet, you still like to think it had some personality. You still keep your pillow pet on your bed (a horse named Robert). The back wall is chipped from a Gossip Girl poster your mom made you take down.  

Before you’re able to get too sentimental, the unwelcome sight of your future husband steals you from your thoughts. 

"Evening," Joshua says, stepping into the room. He's so quiet, it takes you aback. "Still unpacking?" 

"Sorry." You gesture around you. "I underestimated my ability to overpack."

"You should have told the staff," he says, surveying the damage. "Do you need help?" 

"No," you insist. Somehow the prospect of him getting on the ground to sort out all of your things upsets you, even more than him touching all of your unmentionables. "No. Please. Just ignore me."

"Alright." 

Joshua seems to take no issue with that, gratefully. He takes a seat on the chaise at the foot of the bed. He's got a copy of Anna Karenina under his arm, probably to weigh the pros and cons of cheating on you. You don't blame him—in fact, maybe it would make your doomed marriage exciting enough to be tolerable. 

"PR event tomorrow," you start, folding up a nightdress. "Bet you're excited for that." 

“As excited as one can be before announcing their arranged marriage," he replies dryly. "But surely you have enough experience with the press for the both of us." 

So that’s how he wanted to play. Fine. You wouldn’t let him walk all over you a second time. 

"Well, I'd hope all those classes you took would be good for something."

"That's rich, coming from the case study on bad media training." 

"Oh, please," you snap. "At least I know how to have a good time." 

"I was having a great time before I was informed this was happening." 

"Forgive me. I had no idea you were so invested in my personal life." You huff as you heave an oversized armful of clothes to the closet. “Think TMZ has any job openings?” 

"Very funny," he retorts. Joshua holds up a skimpy black dress that's fallen from your pile, one well acquainted with the midnight grease of one too many nightclubs. "You dropped this, by the way. I don't really think the nightlife here will be quite to your taste, though." 

"Oh right, because this is where happiness goes to die, huh?" You snatch it back from him, feeling the knot of anger in your gut flare. 

The room seems to pulse with an uncomfortable silence, red-hot with unsaid words. You recognize the all too familiar way Joshua sets his jaw back, and you're transported all the way to the study in the east wing, snoutless lion, terracotta steps, and all. He’s not any different from anyone else, so you’re not sure why you expected anything else. 

You do the only thing you can do—bite your tongue. 

"Look," you finally say, gathering the wherewithal to call for a truce. "I know that we didn't ask for this." 

Joshua laughs. Actually, it's the first time you've heard it since you've met, and it would be an otherwise tolerable, even nice, sound if it wasn't directed right at you.

"Right, because who doesn't want to have to babysit someone for the rest of their life?" 

You take a hard swallow.  You've both done enough damage for tonight, although you'd love to see his expression when you call him the live-action version of Frollo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Maybe another time. 

Instead you think of Jeonghan, stuck in his meetings and sunk into this new, starched form of himself that you find difficult to recognize. Still, he's your brother, and you'd hate to see him suffer for it. 

"Stop. I'll be good," you say. "I promise. I know there's a lot at stake for the both of us." 

You can hear Joshua's long, drawn exhale. The furrow dug between his brows flattens out, and he seems to be reminded of everything they taught you both in Conflict Resolution 101. 

"I apologize. I got out of line," he says. You watch the cogs turn on that unfortunately pretty face of his. You hope he finally reveals that he has a much better, kinder personality that he was waiting to debut, but he doesn't. Instead he picks up yet another fallen item from your stash and hands it to you (this time, a much more presentable blouse). 

"I know we don't like each other—" You hold up a hand to interrupt him from lying to you. “—but we can do our best for the cameras. Because that matters. Hate me all you want in private." 

"Okay." He gives you a defeated look, which is all you suppose you'll get out of him today. "Deal." 

That night, there are no more backhanded compliments, quips, or mean-spirited attempts at sarcasm. 

You sink into your side of the bed, a damask-woven vat of quicksand, and watch the spears of light dance on the ceiling. If you had known your last outing was the one a few days ago, maybe you would have drank a little more, stayed out later. Maybe you wouldn't have even gone home. 

Joshua has been reading on the other side of the bed, which seems like oceans apart. The metronomic turn of his pages would have put you to sleep if it wasn't for this new fear, a black, trembling one, that's now taken residence in your chest. It feels like you are further from yourself than you've ever been, and you don't know how to get back. 

"Is it too bright for you?" Joshua's voice, now tempered by the stillness of the evening, pulls you out of your thoughts. "I can turn the lamp off." 

"It's ok," you groan. "Can't really sleep. Don't worry about it." 

He doesn't say anything. Instead you hear the oiled pull of the bedside nightstand before he places something on the bed beside you.

It's a book. Specifically, one of those trashy romances that they only sell at the airport because no one would be brave enough to read them anywhere else.

"It's no Dan Brown," he says. "Hopefully still to your liking." 

You sit up against the headboard and flip through the pages. The prince of Acros owning a book with the words "juicy", "mewling", and "best friend's brother" in the first fifty pages are enough to tide you over for the night. Probably the next week, to be honest.

"Yes, indeed, your highness. Of the raunchy summer fling." 

Joshua smiles, and this time, you think it's a real one. 

--

You hate mornings. 

You thought this one would be different, probably due to the fact that you would soon be standing in front of a few too many cameras to announce your tragic fate to the entire world. Unfortunately, it's like all your other mornings—rushed, nauseous, and now with all the added anxiety of a semi-non consensual public appearance. 

"Five minutes!" you holler as best you can, a hair pin wiggling in the corner of your mouth. Rule number one of a hard launch: don't be caught looking complacent. Even if the other half of the launch would rather be with anyone other than you. 

Joshua's in the attached bathroom doing his hair. Like everything else he does, it is painfully calculated. He might be the only person in the world who takes "pea-sized" seriously as a measurement tool. 

But even as he so carefully measures his pomade, pump by pump, you don't miss the way his eyes skim over your figure as you lean over the vanity chair to apply your lipstick. Maybe it's because your ass is practically vacuum sealed into your sundress, or maybe he's just looking for another fight to pick. Either way, there's a small part of you that takes pride in this, even if just a little. 

"Ready?" Joshua asks, switching off the bathroom light. You hate to admit it, but he looks good in a sports jacket. You remind yourself that you had to literally rock-paper-scissors this morning to use the vanity mirror because you fogged the bathroom up after your shower. "It's not a pageant." 

"Shush. You are so rude. Never interrupt a girl when she's getting ready." 

In the mirror, you watch Joshua huff behind you. Then he procures a little black box from his pocket, and a crazy sort of feeling washes over you before you remind yourself to be normal. Ten-year-old you would have cried and threatened arson if she knew this is how you would eventually be proposed to, but you have no choice. 

You're sure Joshua feels the same. He was probably hoping for something classic with all the works, and instead he's got a pissed-off Jihoon and you, internationally renowned harlot. Funny how things turn out.

"Any minute now," bitches Jihoon from the other side of the door. 

You close your compact and turn around to face Joshua, who's still fumbling with the box.

"I'm sure this is not what you anticipated," he says, finally cracking it open. “But—" 

"No speech. Just put it on." You stick your left hand out, still glittery from last week’s manicure. "Not like it means much anyway." 

"Yeah."

And just like that, it is done. You feel the shock of Joshua's huge hands over yours, then the unceremonious bite of the cold band. He doesn't linger. 

You hold your newly engaged hand in front of you. The ring must have looked better in the box—on you, it seems out of place, gaudy, yet another thing you can't quite fit into. It squeezes your finger a bit, but it'll do. 

"Ready?" he asks. 

"Let's get this over with."

If romance wasn’t already dead, then it died here, today, in your prison cell bedroom. 

You have no time to lament this, as Joshua’s already half out the door. Quickly, he seems to shed his foul, argumentative inside personality and slip into a second-skin, one that is more poised, gracious, and luminous.

Today's objective is supposed to be simple: friendly, premarital pictures to accompany a written statement to the public announcing your engagement. No paparazzi, no journalists. Still, you're starting to see why your parents decided it was a good idea to stick you with this guy. 

In the foyer, your families await you. It's as if their gaze can slow time—at least four people approved your outfit, and still, the weight of their eyes on you, ever appraising, is crushing. Immediately, your mother starts rearranging the strands of hair on the top of your head and fiddling with the sleeves of your dress, like you're some sort of doll. 

"Come, come," a member of the PR team urges. "Everything is set up. We'll be quick." 

There's a frenetic, tense energy over the palace. It's clear that this marriage is a gambit no one is happy with, and today would make it very, very real. 

Outside, there is a lone photographer. The sun, morning-ripe, reflects off his camera lens like a third eye. The lawn, freakishly green, sprawls out around you, and the blue spruce frames the scene, perfect by design. 

"I just need you to stand next to each other and smile," he says. "That's all, right?" he directs this towards your PR team, about seven too many for a task like this. One of them whispers something in his ear. Your parents watch from the shaded doorstep like wax figures in a museum. 

You and Joshua stand shoulder to shoulder, yearbook photo style. 

"Bit closer," the photographer calls out, and you smush yourself against his arm, close enough that you can appreciate he's got some muscle on him. "Alright. Hold still." 

Click. You've always hated the flash, but you root yourself obediently to the concrete. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Click. 

Your mother interrupts her conversation with a staff member—likely haggling over the minutia of the statement—and says, "Look happier," as if you're in some dystopian advertisement for a new car. 

"She's talking to you," Joshua says through the grit of his fake, pink smile. 

"Right, because you're such a peach." 

You just want to go back inside and have breakfast. 

You place a tentative hand on Joshua's bicep and turn to him, beaming like you would at a hot bartender when there are five other people waiting for a drink. 

There's a glimmer of surprise in his expression before he matches you. You can see why people dote on him so much—his cheeks get round, and his eyes magically gain the sparkles that people pay for on Facetune. God really seems to have wasted a perfect face on him. 

"Move your hand up so we can see the ring." You obey, feeling the firm cord of his arm underneath you, and you wonder where the gym is in the palace. Joshua was certainly gatekeeping it from you. "Perfect." 

You stand there, living your America's Next Top Model nightmare, before the photographer hits you with, "A kiss for the camera, yeah?" 

All the blood drains from your face. You think you actually say Huh? aloud. Joshua opts to turn to his parents to intervene, which would be funny in literally any other scenario except this one. 

"You heard him," his father replies. "Act like you're actually engaged." 

Honestly, it was a fair request. No one wanted to take any chances. Plausible rumors of an arranged marriage would backfire spectacularly. Jeonghan wouldn't see the front cover of anything ever again, and the entirety of Acros would wonder just how deep in the shitter they were that Joshua was forced to marry you. 

Your parents were already so far into the conspiracy, you overheard them talking about using unpublished paparazzi pictures and rebranding them as times you snuck off to see your unfortunate lover. Point taken. 

"Okay, okay," you laugh nervously. "Of course." 

You face Joshua, steeling yourself, and lean in. The world seems to fall away, but not how you like—it feels as though you've been sucked out of your own body and dropped into a new one that doesn't know what a kiss is or how to do it. 

He's just like anyone else, you tell yourself. You're at the club. They're playing Everytime We Touch by Cascada. 

Soon all you know is the heat of your cheeks, the shaking flat of your palm over Joshua's shoulder, and the wet pressure of what feels like a pair of lips, soft but also very unwilling. 

Click. Click. Then it's over. Everyone huddles around the camera, like animals to a watering hole. Shame, hot and heavy, seems to drape itself over you. 

"Can we get one more?" the photographer asks.

Fuck. Your stomach drops. You can't even glare at Joshua. 

"Sure thing," Joshua says easily, unaware he was the reason it went so badly in the first place. 

You take a deep breath. You imagine a good Kylie Minogue song and a tall stranger with pecs that could fit into a bra, and your eyes flutter shut. 

You decide to go for it this time. Unfortunately, you and your inept partner are on entirely opposite pages again, and you almost miss each other by a mile. When you do get it right, it's messy, two teenagers fumbling in a closet with the lights off. 

Once everyone sees this massacre, it seems they resign themselves to the same conclusion you had long ago. Someone throws a thumbs up above their head, and everyone clears out so fast, it's like nothing ever happened. 

Soon, it's just you, Joshua, and your mother with a red pen and the manuscript. Your heart is still buzzing in your chest, even though you and Joshua are now standing at a distance that makes you believe in the cheese touch again. 

"Now that wasn’t so bad," she says, before escorting the two of you back inside. Perhaps lying cushions the blow of a bad decision, but you're already in too deep. The script, the cameras, even your mother's glossy words—your life is starting to feel like a permanent movie set, and you don't know how to clock out. 

The first thing you do is take off the ring. It's starting to look more and more like costume jewelry on your untrained, bumbling hand. Even still, you can still feel its ghost on your finger, see the glare of the camera flash in the laser-cut facets. 

Worse, you watch Joshua shrug off his sport jacket, likely wondering how exactly that went so wrong, and you can feel that same sensation, still warm, right over your lips.

--

"Save me, red wine, save me." 

Home, sweet home. You're back in Cotria for the rest of the week. This morning's stint was the only thing you had on the schedule, and you told Joshua you had some business to attend to at home. 

Said business was a Niçoise salad and half a bottle of wine, but no one had to know that part. Your struggle meals were your own business, and you think you will actually disintegrate on the spot if you have to sit through another conversation about World War II with Joshua's dad. The one you had at dinner last night was plenty. 

The restaurant you’re at is a familiar haunt, but not too familiar. The ass-kissers and the groupies have gotten good at keeping their heads on a swivel, and you’re not exactly planning on another encounter with a camera. But here, the crowd is quiet enough, the food good enough, the service fast enough. It’s enough, which you’ve come to prefer. 

That's the other thing about Cotria—there’s an overabundance of everything. Department stores, parlors, dog cafes, polished bars with overpriced cocktails. It’s almost a rarity to find a place like this, quiet enough to actually talk. 

"You must be in the fucking trenches," Somi says, shaking her head. "When's the press release getting published?"

"Next week," you groan. "The good news is that they want us to go to the derby afterward."

"Okay, miss horse girl," Somi says, clinking her wine glass against yours. "You betting this year?" 

"No, I shouldn't." You shovel another forkful of leaves into your mouth. "But I really hope I get to watch it instead of pretending to like a guy the whole time." 

"I didn't see you pretending in uni," Somi says, cocking an eyebrow up at you. "And those guys are ugly. This guy isn't." 

"Okay, wait," you protest. "Ugly cute. Don't get it twisted. And they don't act like sentient wet paint. This guy sucks." 

You're reminded of the moment before you left the palace this morning. Joshua saw that same black dress that he used against you make its way into your bag, and he gave you the dirtiest stink eye you'd ever seen. 

I'm not above tattling. They were the first words he'd said to you after The Incident. 

Good thing you won't have to, you replied. He didn't even see you out because no one was standing around to clap him on the back for being a good fake fiancé. 

"Whatever." Somi picks a tomato off your plate in exchange for some of her fries. "I wouldn't mind it, is what I'm saying." 

"You slept with the bouncer to get into Annabel’s." 

"Fuck off. He was actually really good. Club entry was just a bonus," she laughs. "That reminds me—you're coming to my birthday, right? Or do you have wifely duties now?" 

"Of course I'm coming!" you insist, feeling the word duty hit like an actual bullet to your chest. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." 

"Just making sure! You know I gotta have my people around." 

You had known Somi since you were in diapers. She's the cousin twice removed of a baron, or a count, or maybe even a viscount–you never were good at keeping track of those kinds of things. Even though you had seen her at countless brunches, coronations, and garden parties, you don't think you actually became friends until you ran into her at a college party in Mykonos. She sidled up to you, smelling like strawberries and the bleachy sting of hair dye, and handed you a cucumber margarita. 

The beer here sucks, she had whisper-shouted to you, right over the shell of your ear. Wanna dance? You were inseparable ever since. 

"It's going to be huge. There are, like, 200 people on the guest list right now. Soonyoung rented a villa, There's gonna be a champagne tower, and the music won't suck. Guaranteed." 

"That sounds perfect," you sigh. "Please tell me there's gonna be a pool. I need to show off my new swimsuit." 

"Duh." Somi rolls her eyes, glittery under her extensions. "The perfect opportunity to show the world that their hottest bachelorette is a bachelorette no longer. Also, we invited Pitbull.” 

“Shut the fuck up. Wait, is he actually coming?” 

”Dunno. Wouldn’t be very Mr. Worldwide of him to flake, though.” 

Pitbull or not, you think of the heat of the strobe lights, the electric trill of the too-loud speakers. You're dancing in a dress that looks like a chunk of the moon, with the little neon ties of your bikini top peeking out the sides. There's a peach highball in your hands and no one is telling you what to do, how to do it, or that you're doing it wrong. 

Then you think of Joshua. Maybe he'd loosen up after a few drinks. Maybe he'd dance with you, put those hands to use on your hips and kiss you like he should have earlier today. Maybe he'd even be good at it. The thought makes your cheeks sting.

“Should I invite Joshua?” Somi says, wrinkling her nose at how you immediately grimace. “What if he’s actually a blast?” 

"No! No. Absolutely not." 

“What if he’s—” Then she drops her singsong voice to a whisper. “Hung? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen those pictures of him in the Galapagos.” 

Unfortunately, you have. A lurid, glassy image of your soon-to-be-husband in a sleazy pair of swim trunks comes into vision. You push past the smile, the unfair pecs, and remind yourself of that horrible, self-righteous twist of the lips that he always has. 

Yes, that’s right. That’s the Joshua you know. 

You grab the wine from her and drink it right from the bottle. 

–

Of course it had to be the one time you’re not late to an event that you forget you had swapped everything in all your purses around. You double check your bag—empty. 

You’re already down by half of your worldly possessions (still at home, your real home), and you probably left the other half on Joshua’s bathroom counter. Yesterday, you got derailed mid-task by Joshua lighting the grossest candle ever. You never thought you’d ever fight over candles of all things, but you couldn’t let him walk away from that conversation thinking wet dirt was a normal, socially acceptable, scent for a bedroom. (—It said moss on the label! —So, dirt. —Moss is not dirt. Maybe you need to go back to school.) 

You fling open the bathroom door, still checking the pockets of your handbag, before you collide into a big, sopping wet wall. 

“What the—?” You look up. The wall is not a wall. No, in fact, it is your fiancé, bare fucking naked. 

Your heart jumps up to your throat. It feels like you walked right into a porno, and you can hear Somi’s self-satisfied, witch cackle right in your ear. His dark hair seems to fall into his eyes just right, a nice change from how he normally gels it up, and you watch the beads of water from the shower, torturously glittery, run down his jaw, the hollow of his neck, right onto his chest. 

Men should not be allowed to have bigger boobs than you, at least, not dowdy Joshua Hong, who normally has the sex appeal of an eraser. And God forbid your eyes travel downward and confirm Somi’s sick and twisted hypothesis, past the washboard abs, the v-line, the trail down his— 

“Sorry, did you need something?” You blink again and Joshua suddenly has a towel wrapped around his waist. And he’s eyeing you like you ate a million cloves of garlic and then proceeded to spit on him. “Or are you just going to stand here and ogle me?” 

“I wasn't—no!” You start snatching things off the counter, anything really, and throwing them into your bag. “I just needed to grab stuff for my… my thing. You’re in the way.” 

“Right, because you need four q-tips and my razor to read a children’s book,” Joshua replies, plucking the offending items out of your purse. “It's almost 12:30, by the way.” 

“Shit. Fuck,” you stammer. You can’t glare at him anymore because you know where your eyes will end up and it is not on his face. “Stop distracting me. Whatever.” 

“Have fun,” is the last thing Joshua tells you before you close the bathroom door, that portal to hell, right back up. 

What you can’t do is return the image of what you saw back to where it came from, the wicked, glistening form of Joshua and his B cup tits. He looked so good, it makes you angry. 

Later, on the walk to the library, you reach for your lip gloss. Instead, you pull out q-tip number five and get mad all over again. 

–

The car ride to the derby feels like your own personal Saw trap, if Jigsaw wore a ridiculous hat and was actually your mother. 

Your engagement was announced to the public just a few days ago. It came with no fanfare, no warning. You were sitting on your bed, making your way through the smut Joshua called a novel, when the news app on your phone kindly notified you that you were now a taken woman. 

To some degree, the media uproar fascinated you. The idea that people with actual journalism degrees were writing headcanons about your honeymoon when you hadn’t even seen Joshua since The Bathroom Incident was surely entertaining, to say the least. But, like everything, the unsaid pressure of being a perfect princess, now part of an even more perfect couple, hangs heavy over you. 

You remind yourself this is supposed to be fun. A real couple would be pawing at each other in the backseat, perhaps pregaming with champagne or fan-casting their pick for Spirit the horse. Instead, you’re stuck rehearsing your pitch to the reporters when they inevitably ask you about how the hell this happened. You wish you could tell them you’re not quite sure either. 

Silently, you look at Joshua. Joshua looks out the window. The world rumbles under you. 

[10:15 am, race 1]

The air seizes, swirls with clay-colored dust in the morning sun. The clubhouse is already heady with the low buzz of conversation—you watch the freckled sunhats and oily toupees bob up and down in the swell of the crowd, deep in the morning’s small talk. You wonder how many of them are talking about you, given how recently the news hit. You’re used to people ignoring your media appearances, not celebrating them. 

Someone, tipping their head down to greet you, hands you a program. Joshua elects to tuck his in his back pocket. People don’t come to the derby to watch the races. Instead, it’s an excuse to gossip, day drink, and gamble, which would ordinarily be a good time for you if you weren’t overly invested in the racing circuit. 

All the way from the entrance to your seats, you were met with a tidal wave of camera flashes, all hungry for a glimpse of your first public appearance as a couple. Alongside this, a decidedly worse flurry of congratulations paired with an overly familiar touch to the shoulder or a limp handshake. Joshua is quick to respond with either a smile or some trite platitude. Your least favorite: We couldn’t be happier. Now he’s just lying for sport. 

“We should find the reporters doing interviews,” Joshua says the second his ass touches the chair, unfazed by the onslaught of perhaps a million different people. “The Sun probably wants to talk to us.” 

You’re not listening—you can’t let on that this whole ordeal is mildly terrifying for you. He has enough reasons to dislike you, and stage fright wouldn’t exactly be a good addition to the list. 

The racehorses have lined up at the track, their manes catching the daylight like holy fire. You like the one on the end. He looks like Peanut, Jeonghan’s stubborn palomino. 

Joshua says your name insistently, curdled with the annoyance that you’ve now become acquainted with, and you catch a stray camera flash from the stands. You have an audience, and the audience demands a show, even if they’re second-rate journalists like the scum from The Sun.  

“Darling,” you reply flatly. “Relax. Let's enjoy the races.” 

The horses stretch their long legs, anxious for the thunderclap of the starter’s pistol. Joshua raises a tired eyebrow before the same realization dawns on him. 

“Absolutely.” He clears his throat. “Darling.” 

You wrap a hand around his arm—somehow he makes hand-holding seem like third base—and watch his shoulders sink with a sigh, like you just popped him. 

Likewise, your highness. Likewise. 

A shot crackles through the air, and you’re off to the races. 

[12:43 pm, race 2.]

"I just have to know—how did you guys meet?" 

You know the duchess of Pemarlia to be beautiful and unashamedly nosy, and she has yet to prove you wrong on either account. 

The last time you saw her was on the beach at Lake Como last year, where she spent the entirety of your conversation asking if Jeonghan was single (and peeking into your bag to see what brand of lipstick you were wearing). Like everyone, she always seems to have a look of appraisal on her face. What makes her different is that she never really bothers to hide it; instead, she wears it like an en-vogue accessory. 

She eyes you with an intensity, sizing up your dress, your tawdry sunhat, your ring. You wonder if she’d agree that marriage didn’t look good on you, but any shorter of a dress, your mother would call you a stripper. And God forbid you leave the house hat-less. 

Now she’s no minotaur. This shouldn’t be much of a problem, save for one very small issue: you actually hadn’t planned your answer to this. You had quibbled over it briefly in the car, but you were too focused on your interview pitch to worry about minor gossip. 

"Well," Joshua starts. Through his smile, you can hear the warning edge of his voice. “It was quite ordinary.” 

"Actually," you cut him off. Not only would his version of this story be boring, it would also be horribly out-of-character for you. You did not come this far for your cover to be blown by Joshua’s lack of imagination. "Josh's parents hosted a—" 

"Brunch," Joshua finishes. Whether his teeth are gritted because he's grinning or frustrated is none of your business. “It was Easter brunch, wasn’t it, sweet pea? Four years ago?” 

The pet name makes you want to puke. Now he’s just trying to piss you off, but you know this is his attempt to play along. He's annoying, not dumb. 

"Yes, we sat across from each other.” You playfully dig your elbow into Joshua’s rock-hard side. “He was giving me the eyes the whole time.” 

You watch your hapless victim giggle, her spidery lashes wide with intrigue. Joshua is a little less pleased. 

“If you could call it that,” he replies. “I think you had chocolate on your nose.”

“Which you so kindly wiped off for me, dear.” You try to peek around the flaxen billows of the duchess’s blowout to watch the horses behind her, but to no avail. “After a morning of staring, we had to do an Easter egg hunt, planned by Joshie himself. I had no idea he loved silly little games like that.” 

“It's because people like the princess get so competitive,” Joshua says, with his laser beam grin boring into your eye sockets. “I believe I found you rummaging through the trash for eggs, like some kind of animal.” 

“Oh my goodness,” the duchess laughs. “How...charming.”  

You feel your eyebrow twitch. Only you’re allowed to ruin your own reputation, but you suppose that’s just another thing your horrible fake fiance gets to take from you. 

“Not as embarrassing as seeing Joshua leer at me from behind the corner,” you retort. “He was so enamored that when I invited him to join me, he got right down on his knees to look through the trash together.” 

“Well, did you find anything?” 

“Yes—”

“No—”

“Well—”

Fuck. Luckily, the duchess is either stupid or wildly entertained by the clown show playing out before her. Maybe both. 

“Cute,” she coos. “You must have been too smitten to notice.” 

“Absolutely,” Joshua says, as if there is a gun held to his pretty head. “Among all the garbage and the girl next to me, I suppose nothing else really mattered.” 

“If that isn’t love, what is?” she asks blithely. 

If only she knew. 

[3:45 pm, race 3]

The sun descends on the stadium, swollen and yellow with the afternoon. 

Last year, you and your friends had a betting ring set up during the racing circuit. Obviously, you had won—not too hard when your competition included Soonyoung, who only bet on horses named after food (sadly, it was not Tater Tot’s year). Somi was no better, and your brother thought every horse deserved a participation award.

This time around, things aren’t so simple. But you’d hate to say that you spent a whole day at the track and didn’t bet on a single race. Life could afford you at least one win for today. 

Again, the horses take their positions at the starting line, wound up like a line of rubber bands. The air heaves with bated breath. 

“Joshua,” you say, folding your hands in your lap as you find your target. “I'd like to propose a bet.” 

“You must be a glutton for punishment.” 

You bite back a laugh as you watch your favorite horse, the palomino, ripple in place. Fans would call her a charity case, but you know better. 

“Pick a horse. Mine is number Three, in the blue.” 

“And if mine wins? What’s in it for me?” he asks. Still, he leans forward, corded forearms on his thighs. You watch him squint as he surveys the field with renewed interest. 

“You pick,” you reply. “Choose wisely. I personally cannot wait to call in a favor from you.” 

“The chestnut one. Number Nine.” So he is competitive. “And likewise. Perhaps I'll hold it over your head until the wedding.” 

Before you can reply, you hear the starting pistol rip clean into the air. The racehorses surge forward, as if a silken ribbon through air. 

“Nine makes sense for you,” you say, eyes fixed before you. “He's flashy, the crowd favorite. Spotless pedigree.” 

“I'm picking your punishment already.” 

“I didn't say he would win.” You feel the lilt of your voice rocking upward, the tremulous beat of your heart against your ribs. “You see, Three’s had a rough season. There she is, passing Four right now.” 

“Nine is still first, though.” 

“It’s not about that,” you reply. “She does this, she starts all the way out back and then flies up. No one suspects anything—it’s like she likes proving people wrong. The first couple races of the season, she was just stretching her legs; they were small, small fry. It’s this one that matters.” 

The saddles are just blurs on the track now. To the march of the hoofbeats, Three lunges past Five, Six. The crowd roars. 

“This will be her first win. I'm counting on it. She’s come really close before.” 

Joshua doesn’t reply. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his gaze has shifted. You feel it land somewhere near you, but you’re too engrossed in the race to investigate further. Perhaps he’s admitted defeat preemptively, wisely so. 

“You know your stuff,” he murmurs, the clamor of the audience almost burying him. 

“How can I not?” Three coasts past One and Ten like she’s flying, until it’s just her and unlucky number Nine. “Oh my god. Go, go, go!” 

You and Joshua rise to your feet, as if drawn by a string, now wholly invested in the race. 

“Still beating you, you know.” 

“Not for long! Come on!” 

You watch your darling number Three, against all odds, pull past Joshua’s number Nine, burning a trail past the inevitable finish line. 

From somewhere inside you emerges a joy that you hadn’t felt since this whole ordeal started. You turn to Joshua and clasp his hands between yours, somehow less wooden now, and so, so human. The crowd cheers; they come alive. 

[4:50 pm, races 4 and 5. mainly, the reporter from the sun.] 

The smaller races take place shortly after the headliner, for better or for worse. This forces you to finally face the music—the music being a dull-eyed, greasy journalist ready to sink his teeth into the public’s new favorite topic. 

Joshua is a good sport about it, or at least, he’s good at pretending to be one. 

“It was great,” is his answer to a question you didn’t hear. You’re busy going over the parts of the script that you remember. Your media team spent the better part of the morning repeating it back to you, which was helpful until it wasn’t. You weren’t sure how to tell them you’ve actually never been good at speaking to the press, since you had spent the better half of your life doing the exact opposite. 

“And what did the princess think? It’s not often we catch you for an interview, you know.” 

The eye of the camera seems to pierce through you. You can see your shellacked figure, long and distorted, in the reflection. 

“I—um,” you swallow hard. God. Pull it together. You can already hear the lecture you’re going to get on the way home today. “Yeah, big day today.”

“She’s had to really rein in her excitement, you know,” Joshua adds, chuckling. 

Briefly, you feel his hand brush against yours. Ordinarily, you’d pass it off as a fluke, but you feel the steady, insistent warmth of his palm again, first, to the inside of your wrist, then lower still. Before you’re able to really process what’s happening, he then takes your hand in his all at once, as if to say, I’ve got this. I’ve got you. 

You figure he’s cashing in his favor early–he’d much rather leave you out to dry, let you flounder a bit so you learn to read the PR memorandums the night before. I told you so, he’d say. That’s what everyone else would say, anyway. 

“The races are sure exciting, but I'm sure you’re even more excited about your upcoming wedding.” The reporter grins at you, as if he smells your fear. His hair looks like it’s glued to the top of his shiny head. “If I'm going to be honest, you were one of the last people we’d expect to tie the knot this year. We are all dying to hear more.” 

What? You force yourself to breathe, feel the air fill your lungs, to avoid making an expression you’ll regret. 

“Well, yeah, I'm sure it looks like it all happened quickly,” you answer, feeling your tongue trip over the words. Mostly because it did, in fact, happen quickly, but you can’t let them know that. “But Josh and I feel strongly about, uh, this whole thing, and—”

“Please, don’t spare us the details.” 

Telepathically, Joshua squeezes your hand. This, you understand. He’s telling you to lean on him, and you trust that. 

“Hold your horses,” he cuts in, almost too quickly, which makes the corners of your mouth twitch upward. He was definitely looking for an opening, but you, bizarrely, don’t mind at all. He turns to you and smiles. “What's the fun without a little mystery? It's been a wild ride, but I'm loving every second of it.” 

It’s this one, the lamest and most embarrassing dad joke of them all, that gets you. 

You laugh: a real one, big, loud, and unafraid. It's here, caught in the glare of the camera flash, where you find yourself hoping, even just a little, that this wasn’t just a favor, that this was a sign you could actually survive this arrangement. 

You’re not asking for love—just a little bit of like. and, right now, you think you like Joshua Hong. 

—

In the evening, you find yourself in the oaken parlor nestled away in the back halls of the Acrosian palace. 

There's a piano there, gathering dust. It's a Steinway, spindly and chestnut, almost identical to the one you have at the palace in Cotria. 

You and Jihoon had been unpacking your hodgepodge of things (unsorted, since the act of sorting would have forced you to stomach the fact that you were actually moving), when he had found your old lesson books. 

You should break in that piano, he had said. Either that, or wait for your fiance to find you. He seemed ok at the derby today. 

I guess. 

What Jihoon hadn’t seen was all the photographs you had to take after your interview with The Sun, where Joshua decided to remind you that you were supposed to hate him. By that, you mean that he managed to make every single one unbearable. (A tap of the foot: Stand up straight. A careful brush of the elbow: Let’s link arms. A discerning, tactful glance at your chest: Pull up your dress. That, or he was no better than the average man.) 

You and he hadn’t talked much after that. Hopefully, he’s fled to your cold, dark dungeon of a room to read, so he can finally leave you alone.

“Remember when your parents invited all their friends over and asked you to play?” Jihoon says, perched on the loveseat while he sorts through an old jewelry box. 

“Yeah, and I literally forgot everything?” you laugh. “Freaking Jeonghan had to check on me because I locked myself in my room for 24 hours straight. And then he had the nerve to laugh at me.” 

You thumb through the fattest book of the pile. The binding is soft; the pages now yellow and fuzzed over by time. 

On page 5, Chopin's Waltz in A-flat major. three four time or whatever, you had scrawled in defiant red ink. Page 37, a thick black line through Debussy's name on Arabesque No. 1. This is because you would always laugh at it during lessons, and you wanted to save yourself the trouble. 

“Do you want to keep this?” Jihoon holds up a choker that resembles a jock strap. “When did you even wear this? It looks like a cat toy.” 

You ignore him and start to play. You were never excellent—competent would be a better word. Still, it was enough for you. Soonyoung would ask you to play during drunk karaoke, and you could still keep up with Jeonghan when he played one of his overcomplicated duets. 

Your hands remember the velvet thud of the keys, the glide of the pedal. When you turn the page, there’s a scrawled in BITCH! next to a heavily circled allegro. Piano was one of the only things that your parents forced you to do that you actually liked. The kicker was that it didn’t even do you any good. You weren’t as talented as your parents would like you to be, meaning that, to them, you weren’t talented at all. 

It’s then that your fingers slip, and you miss a chord. In your defense, you have a fresh manicure. Always blame the nails. Your mom hated when you kept them long, even more than your hardass tutor.  

“The prince is helping with the theater production this year, right?” Jihoon holds a single earring up to the light. You think you lost the other one in Ibiza last year. “You gonna help out again?” 

“Maybe.” Another wrong note. You’re losing steam trying to read all the ledger lines and your smeared, illegible writing next to them. “I don't know. He probably won’t even want me to. I'm choosing a different piece, by the way. Bored of this one.” 

The truth about your 21st birthday was that you did actually intend to spend it at the youth theater. It was your idea before it was Jeonghan’s idea, but, at the time, you both still were a package deal.

You were on piano; Jeonghan was on whatever else he pleased. He'd always been indecisive like that. At the bench, you’d hoist the little ones on your knee and regale them with the classical version of the opening song from paw patrol. Jeonghan stole prop masks from the back, mostly to hide behind the curtains and scare people, you included. You’d both stay up late, paint spackled on your palms, trying to Michelangelo a backdrop with the combined artistic talent of a TI-84. 

The production became your thing, just you and him, no cameras, no press releases, no parents. But like everything else, neither you, Jeonghan, nor anyone else was able to keep those inevitable truths apart. The set pieces were repainted in Italy, the finger-painted fields turned luminescent with varnish; the pins and needles in the costumes swapped with mother-of-pearl; and, finally, you, replaced by a classically trained pianist from Juilliard. At least he was hot. 

Everyone knows the rest of the story—the red carpet, the empty seats, and the puffy pink balloons outside the mansion in Saint Tropez. 

“Oh please,” Jihoon wheedles. “You and I both know he wanted you there.” 

“Then maybe he should have fought harder.” You flip to a random page, this one marked up in pink gel pen. You remember it bled through all the pages behind it, making it a pain to read but awfully funny during lessons. “It doesn't matter. There’s probably wedding stuff i gotta deal with.” 

Jihoon lets you play this next piece uninterrupted. It’s not that it’s a sensitive subject for you—there were plenty of other things that filled the wedge between you and your brother—but it certainly didn’t help. 

You let your fingers wander over the stubborn keys. It feels good to play, even if you’re almost unforgivably rusty. You reach for the page, when you hear Jihoon again: “You know, you’re allowed to come in, your highness.” 

Immediately, your hands freeze. Like a scolded child, you become aware of how your fingers teeter over the keys, the stumbling, awkward clacking of your nails, the one or two missed quarter notes from the last measure. 

You turn to face the door, where Joshua stands, leaning against the frame like a sleazy model from an Abercrombie catalog. He probably came from the gym. Seeing him dressed down is still very weird, mostly because you can’t decide if it’s because he looks good or if it’s because it reminds of seeing your teacher at the grocery store. 

“Anyone teach you manners?” you ask, unsure if your hackles should be raised. 

“No, I was raised in a barn, just like those horses you like so much,” he laughs. “I didn’t want to interrupt. You’re not bad, you know.” 

“Thanks.” You eye him skeptically. “Thought you were gonna comment on the nails.” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“Preferably not, but it’s not like you‘d listen to me anyway.” You look for Jihoon’s reaction, but he seems to have conveniently disappeared. “Let’s play a duet. I’m cashing in my favor.” 

“Sure,” Joshua replies. “I'm no good, though. Might be more of a punishment for you.” 

You slide over on the bench, and he sidles up next to you. He smells like Le Labo and sweat, the sting citrusy and bright, close enough to linger. 

“No good?” You pick up another fat book from the stack atop the lid: The Joy of Duets. “Me neither.” 

“You have no idea,” he chuckles. “And trust me, I tried.”  

“I’ll do top?” you announce. 

Joshua snickers, and you kick him under the bench (really, just a tap of your foot). 

You spend the next two minutes tripping over a Schubert piece. Terribly, this is endearing to you. You make somewhat of a couple—you, with your horrible form, and Joshua, now squinting at the key signature like it’ll make it easier to read.

“Buddy,” you exclaim. “Left hand goes here.” Laughing, you reposition his hand mid-chord to an octave below. You feel it tense beneath you before yielding to proper technique. 

“Aw, what?” he whines. “See, I told you I was no good. Give me a second.” 

You watch him puzzle over the next few lines, pretty brow furrowed. You conclude that Pajama Joshua is decidedly better than Prince Joshua. He’s funnier, kinder, warmer. Even his hands feel softer. 

“Also, about earlier today,” you start. The words are starting to dry up on your tongue, but you figure Pajama Joshua is an easier target than usual. “I didn't know they trained you in stand-up comedy.” 

“We laugh in this country too, you know.” When Joshua says this, he grins, bumping into your shoulder like you’d been friends for a long time. For once, it feels easy, natural. 

“Well, thanks anyway.” 

“I couldn't leave my fiancée out to dry.” The word must sound ridiculous even to him, because he laughs just the same as he did when he unloaded his ridiculous puns onto the unassuming world. “No really. We’re in this together, unfortunately. It’s my duty.” 

Duty, both the knife and the wound. You can’t say you’re surprised he’s only nice to you out of obligation. So is everyone else, and you don’t know why you thought it’d be any different, especially coming from him. It’s not like you’re wearing your ring now either; you suppose you’re just as guilty. 

“You cross over here,” you tell him, changing the topic. You slide your hand over his, and it bends to you. “Thumb under. Sorry, I couldn't help but notice.” 

“It's ok,” Joshua replies. “I only learned piano because I had to. When I stopped going to lessons, I forgot everything. Now I feel like I put this piano to shame.” 

“Really? Not to stroke your ego, but you strike me as the type to be good at everything.” 

“No,” he chuckles. “Only when I have to be. I actually wanted to learn how to play guitar.” 

“No way.” 

“Yes way. I wanted to have one of those woven guitar straps, get a little pick collection going, be able to play any song from the Beatles discography. All the cliche stuff.” 

“Well, why can’t you?” you ask. “Minus the Beatles thing. Pick better music.” 

“Back then, it never occurred to me. We all learn piano.” 

“That's silly,” you blurt out. “Who cares?” 

“That's a little rich coming from you.” 

You frown, feeling all the usual unpleasantries bubble up through your skin. 

“That's not really fair.” You absentmindedly play a few keys, all disjointed. “Taking guitar lessons doesn’t make you a problem child.” 

“It's not about that, though,” Joshua says. He's avoiding your eyes. “It's everything, together. I couldn't just pick up a guitar and be someone else.” 

“Someone else? You mean you? The real you?” 

“Yes,” Joshua presses. “That's the point. I can't just do whatever I want. Sometimes the real you is more trouble than it’s worth.” 

“Someone’s dramatic. If you do everything the same, nothing will change. Maybe getting into a little trouble isn’t such a bad thing.” 

“Forgive me,” he says, mid-chuckle. “You wouldn’t call this trouble?” 

He’s got you there. Childishly, all your pride hardens to a lump in your throat, one you’ve never learned to swallow. 

“Your family needed our help too, remember?” 

“Yeah, and you think I don’t think about that every day? How, maybe, if I had done something different, then we wouldn’t be here?” 

You feel stung. You don’t know how to tell him that you’ve been trying to figure out the same thing your whole life. If you were a better daughter, you’d have spared everyone the trouble. Unfortunately, you’d gotten it wrong so many times, you stopped trying.

What's worse is that he doesn’t even sound mad—you watch his fingertips ghost over the keys of a C-scale, rhythmically, methodically. Piano scales, this marriage, everything: just things to do on his never-ending list. 

A hesitant knock at the door interrupts any possibility of you coming up with anywhere close to the right thing to say. 

“Prince Joshua, the king and queen need to speak to you.” It’s an aide, probably sweating bullets deciding when and how they should intrude on this wonderful conversation of yours.

“Right,” says Joshua, and when he gets up from the bench, he doesn’t look back. 

—

“You ready to get stuffed?” 

Good fucking morning to you—Somi’s voice, fluorescent through your phone speakers, seems to be enough of an alarm clock for you. Joshua, in the doorway dual wielding a coffee cup and the morning paper, raises a tired eyebrow.

After the events of last night, you’d wondered if he would somehow disappear at nighttime in an effort to avoid his eventual fate (you). Instead, you found him on his usual side of the bed, drinking his usual mug of chamomile tea, in his usual silence. 

You've heard that couples shouldn’t go to bed angry, but no one said anything about indifferent. Then again, you and Joshua are hardly a couple. 

“Ew,” you laugh. “No. Maybe? Should I be scared?” 

“Absolutely. You’re eating your weight in food today because I need your opinion on catering.” 

Smushing your phone between your cheek and your shoulder, you watch the mirror as your wavering reflection puts on a layer of mascara. 

“For your party?” 

“Yeah, although on second thought, maybe it’s a bad idea to bring the girl who’s gonna puke everything up anyway.” 

“My IBS is none of your business. Besides, the real food critic is Jihoon,” you reply. “Sometimes I feel like that’s the only reason he still works here.” 

“You’re coming in an hour, right?” 

You check the clock. No, you are not. You’re only halfway through a full beat and if you don’t get any caffeine inside you within the hour, you will commit a crime. 

“Nope.” You pop open your compact. “I have to change, and I desperately need to locate a coffee. I will suck a fucking bean off if i need to.” 

“I'm hanging up on you,” Somi whines. “It's too early for you to be gross and late.”  

“As if you weren’t talking about getting stuffed.” 

“Whatever.” Click.

At this point, you feel like Somi’s party is both the proverbial and literal light at the end of the tunnel. No expectations, no rules, and no semi-arguments between you and your doomed fiance. 

Then you notice that Joshua’s disappeared from the room—he probably couldn’t stand listening to your end of the conversation. Briefly, you wonder where he is. Off running an errand for his dear parents, perhaps, or maybe at the gym you still haven’t discovered yet. Even from the hefty distance he keeps you at, you can still appreciate a man who looks like he’s touched a dumbbell. 

It's only when you’re halfway out the door, almost an hour later, juggling your purse and your phone and the distinct absence of a caffeinated beverage, that you find him. 

“Come to ruin my day?” you ask, maybe three-fourths joking. 

“Don’t give me any ideas,” he replies. Under the bluebird sky of late morning, lips upturned and eyes bright, Joshua may be a sight you could get used to. Someday. “Brought you a coffee. I can’t have you sucking off a bean—the reporters would go crazy.” 

Jihoon, hovering by the car, chokes on his water. 

“Oh!” The surprise knocks the sound out of you. “Thank you. Really.” 

“Gladly,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.

He holds all your stuff as you clamber into the car, before handing it back to close the door for you. You’ll admit it’s nice, but as Jihoon starts to drive, you feel a familiar twist in your chest.

“Interesting,” he remarks. “Didn’t know you were on a coffee order basis.” 

“We’re not,” you answer. You pop the lid open. It's a cappuccino, made the classic way, milk foam bubbling out the top. Not your favorite, but it’ll do. 

More than that, it’s an olive branch. Yesterday did get weird, but you’re getting the impression that it’ll always get weird. Undoubtedly, there is someone out there who’ll get Joshua. His schedules, his straight-backed obligation, the polished photo ops and the cappuccinos made to a perfect one to one to one ratio. You know this because this is the world you came from, one that should be home to you. 

Instead, you circle each other in an unsure, clumsy dance. You can’t quite get it right. It's all the same now. The bite of a horse saddle not made for your body, the glow of your heirloom ring, now cheapened by your graceless hand, Joshua’s lonely, reaching palm as he disappears in the rearview mirror. 

—

On your arrival home in the evening, you return with two things: a few extra kilos and an absolutely horrendous copy of the Daily Mail, courtesy of Somi, who saw it at the grocery. 

"Great showing from the couple of the year," you say, shucking your copy at Joshua. "It looks like we're in Shark Tale." 

Even from a distance, the cheap ink-spackled cover shows more than enough. LIP LOCK FLOP!, it reads, although you wouldn’t really call it a lip lock. 

It was at the derby—Quick, they’re looking at us, you had said. Then what you would call a nun’s version of a kiss: you, already halfway out the door, and him, lips hesitant and pursed, as if he was asked to smooch his withering, dusty great-grandmother. 

"I'm not even going to ask what you mean by that," Joshua answers, voice level. "It's not that bad." 

He puts his book down to pick the magazine up, holding it at a distance like the image will jump out of the page and bite him. You see his expression flicker, and that's all you need to confirm your suspicions. 

"Ok, it's a little bad." He places it on the nightstand next to him face-down. "It'll be alright. It's not like the wedding will be called off over one bad picture." 

"You know that's not the issue." You sit on your side of the bed, about a full meter away from him. You kind of want to look again just to see how bad it is, but you're sure it'll be inescapable by the morning. 

"Since when did you care what the press thought of you?" 

"Since it mattered." You stare at your lap, eyes fixed on the too-new, wiggly hem of your pajamas instead of him. You can tell he's still looking at you, though–you think those big, watery eyes have some sort of flashlights in them, and you don't like it. "It seems wrong if our mistakes take up space." 

You hear him make a small noise of agreement. Joshua still won't admit that you're right, but you suppose you like that a little. At least he'll be stubborn about something, even if it's about clearly not liking you. 

"What do you suggest?" he asks, putting his book down. “We didn't choose each other, so I'm not surprised there's no attraction." 

"Ouch." He's right, but you'd rather be the one saying it. "I'm a good kisser. You aren't." 

"I'm just not good at kissing you," he retorts. 

"Evidently." You shimmy towards his side of the bed, where the sheets are cooler under your thighs, the pillows still neatly arranged on the headboard. "What I'm saying is that we should at least try to look more realistic. Like–" 

"Are you saying we should practice?" Joshua looks at you over the frames of his glasses, incredulous. 

"Yeah," you say, now too far in it to back out. "Like exposure therapy. For unwilling couples." 

The room gets quiet, as if it wasn't unbearably so before. You watch Joshua pick up his book again. He puts the bookmark in, two-thirds from the spine of the book so as to not ruin the binding, and places it over the doomed tabloid. 

"Okay." To your surprise, he turns to face you. The lamplight catches the lens of his glasses and makes his eyes look warmer than they truly are. "How should we do this?" 

The way Joshua's gaze settles on you makes you feel like you're being evaluated. An exam in Kissing 101, except the test would rather not have anything to do with you at all. For the first time in your life, you let your eyes wander to his lips, rosy and full, and you feel the pit of anxiety in your belly grow wider. Somehow he's managed to take all the fun out of one of your favorite activities, but you'll be damned if he walks away from this thinking it's you who's the problem. 

"Just...let me lead," you say quietly, now leaning closer to him. You have to ease yourself into it. You let your body respond, feel the skip of your heart, a heady flush wash over your cheeks. He smells like spearmint and clover. 

You've kissed a lot of people. None of this should feel new to you. His eyelashes skim against your cheek, and you can hear the breath he takes, quivering, gentle.

Despite all this, the first kiss is no better than any of the other ones. his lips meet yours, hesitant before they start moving. He's shy, and it would almost endear him to you if he wasn't so annoying. But then the charade is over. His nose clocks yours and it startles you both enough to draw away, ever so slightly. 

"Not my fault," you murmur. You're so close, you can see your reflection in his pupils, glassy and dark. 

"Thought this was practice," responds Joshua, unfazed. 

So you lean in again, giving it another go. Two is better—sweet and succinct. a first date type of kiss. You can taste the berry of your lip balm on him. 

Then again, except this time it's him who goes in, chases your lips. 

The scary thing is that you thought this would be much harder. You had stood in the bathroom, looked yourself in the mirror, and psyched yourself up to do the impossible. 

But the moment you meet him, now so close there's no room to breathe, you feel an impenetrable, unshakable desire crawling up your bones. Your palm finds the flat of his chest. Even under the silk of his ridiculous pajama top, you feel the heat of his skin, the restless quick of his heartbeat, and your stomach flips. 

Four, five. You're losing count. Joshua's hand trails up your arm to cup your cheek, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel your breath catch in your chest. 

He's warm, so warm. When your other hand finds the back of his neck, he makes a small sound in his throat and you like it.

It's at this point you realize there is no point in pretending. Maybe you don't want to kiss Joshua at any other moment during any other day, but you do now. You really do. 

When your tongue meets the seam of his lips, it feels all too natural. At first, predictably, he buffers a bit. For a split second, you envision him pulling away and saying you've gotten more than a lifetime's worth of practice in. 

But he doesn't. Instead, an arm winds around your waist and that's all it takes for your body to stop listening to you altogether. Lips still connected, you lift yourself to straddle his lap, right over the folded up covers, and his hands, devastatingly strong, find your hips to keep you rooted there. 

You're starting to think he isn't such a bad kisser after all—maybe he really was holding out on you, but there's something weirdly rewarding about him waiting until he liked you just a little more. Whatever that means. 

You learn that his hair is soft, really soft, at the base of his neck. You learn that he likes when you bite his lips and you learn that his spearmint mouthwash does, in fact, taste as good as it smells. 

You also learn that you, paradoxically, might not know how to love Joshua Hong, but you sure do know how to kiss him. 

--end of part 1--

[part 2 -> ]

[sheeezu]

⋆ Shift - Energy conversion method ⋆

This method basically materialises your DR when you divert your precious mental and spiritual energy towards it.

It's a pretty easy method and the time period might vary for different people, I don't think it should go over an hour.

First, what is energy and how can you start consciously feeling the direction of your energy.

Energy and vibrations are practically the same thing. You must have heard about it if you've dwelled into astral projection or the gateways tape, where one of it involves imagining putting away your negative emotions/energy in an energy convertor box.

Although this method doesn't rely on visualising, what we're going to achieve is to take our energy, which is characterised by strong emotions, and put it towards our DR, WRs, kind of like a vending machine, you put a coin in to get your desired product.

Think of it, at all times we are putting emotional efforts into something, e.g your CR while going through your day, you feel at all times. If we talk about shifting, we have an attachment to the practice of shifting to our affirmations, towards hope of being in your DR, one day, tonight, etc. We all do this, but to shift, we need to throw this away. By following this principle of emotional involvement, and instead directing it directly towards your Dr, reality will shift for you.

Anyways, enough rambling, let me explain the method.

Basic concept of the method- in theory.

Energy, it exists in many other forms in us. But for this method we'll be taking our emotions, feelings. Feelings which are strongest in order of time, because the reality we're in and the ones we usually shift to involve the influence of time - past, present and future.

In order of the strongest feelings, we can form a direct connection to our Drs.

Past - Nostalgia.

There's nothing stronger than nostalgia, which leaves you feeling trapped in the nicest way possible, in the middle of your memories. I still remember it, my waiting room which i based off my grandparent's house, which always gives me a strange sense of comfort and nostalgia, the sharp subcontinental sunlight which fills me with warmth makes me feel familiarity which I can't describe.

In your DR and WR there must be something which causes you to be filled with nostalgia, it's perhap a memory from your childhood, or if you go into the specifics stuff like me, like how the light from the streetlights illuminate the fog on a winter day, or if you're shifting to your WR it's a special object, a place. Don't chicken out on this one, you're a living breathing person in your Dr, who has lived there their entire life.

Present - Desire, need, passion.

In the present, the strongest you could feel is having an impulse to act passionately, associating it with your DR. You're not a robot who's stuck up on affirming, you're someone who's already in your DR, so full of life.

Future - excitement.

Your plans in your Dr fuels you with excitement. Sure, you have already assumed you're already in your Dr, but that doesn't make it any less exciting to wake up and do what you love, to see the faces of your loved ones. You feel strongly regarding your foreseeable future in your Dr.

Basic concept of the method- in practice.

You could do this at anytime, but it's best to do this when you're relaxed. Your tiredness level doesn't matter, nor does your position while laying down, it's best to just not move, but if you're not comfortable with it, you can move around but try to not focus on it, focus on what's going on in your mind, because that's what shifts you.

Close your eyes, the best thing you could start off with is light daydreaming about your DR, for better or quicker result during the whole method it's best if you think of more decision/consequences based scenarios, afterwards, or during if you're going to affirm, I'd recommend visual affirmations (go around a specific place in your DR, see affs written around in any way you could think of).

We're checking into our DR. Now you're going to tell yourself that you are present in your DR fully, physically, mentally in your 4D, so you're supposed to remind yourself that 3D follows right afterwards.

Now, we're going to do a little on our own to attract results in 3D instantly by converting our energy, and expressing our DR in emotions.

All those emotions I've mentioned before, you're supposed to practice them in order of time, time does not exist anywhere else, just in your DR.

You could this by visualising scenarios where these feelings are induced naturally, for past, you can flash nostalgic images in your mind, or by listening to nostalgic voices relating to your DR as if listening to an old tape.

For present, if you're laying next to your S/O, do you feel desire to just roll over and just hug them? Other than that, you have a need to sustain yourself, your humanely need to stretch in bed, get up to eat, look out the window into the morning sky.

For future, if you work an engaging job, you could get excited about it. Other than that, hype up your future goals, aspiration.

If you've done this by adopting the nature and characteristics of your DR self, you can shift easily. You can add a wider variety of emotion. Importantly, don't fall into any doubts about you not being there, about you still being here, if you can't get over the gut feelings or if the shifting symptoms are intensifying periodically than you can keep repeating your scenarios/words/voices which induce these emotions for you.

...

Before I fall into a deep contemplation on how I could've improved this post and my explanation I am just going to go watch dead poets society because I miss it.

...

[doberbutts]

So I'm going to ask an honest question here and ask you please explain in layman's terms. Every trans person I know irl has no concept of the transandrophobia discourse but every time I see more of it online I'm...unsettled, and it takes a lot to power through all the terminology.

I initially was really receptive to transandrophobia because the rationale behind being against it sounded stupid and akin to label discourse in the queer community. I saw "being a man is not an axis of oppression therefore you don't get your Own Word" and thought that was pedantic nonsense, that language doesn't need to adhere to that rule, and that it's helpful to have a term designated towards transmasculine experiences so people can find those experiences easier. Not that trans women's experiences aren't also beneficial! But that, well, obviously no matter how similar the experience birds of a feather and that sense of comfort of sharing identity still matters. This is true for other issues of identity too, I find, weather that's a good thing or a bad thing idk, but it is human.

The thing is I follow a lot of transwomen and have been seeing some alarms being raised about the community being formed around this word. You blocked one of the most egregious offenders so I trust you (which is why I'm asking sorry) I've seen a lot of misogyny and essentialism from people using the term "transandrophobia" and more egregiously "transmisandry." Idk your opinion on the latter term (I haven't scrolled down far enough on your blog, sorry if you talked about this before) but to me it's unconscionable. I was taught that transandrophobia existed as a term specifically NOT to use that term, that elevating misandry to a legitimate issue was dangerous for obvious reasons and it was one of the reasons why I was so supportive of transandrophobia. To me, it seemed like an awareness that misogyny was the prevailing issue behind all issues of gender oppression, but when I actually look at the tag I...get uncomfortable.

Blogs I follow have repeatedly been upset at misogyny from this community, and have been using the term "transandrobro" to describe behavior they find akin to cis MRAs. I've truly seen horrible things with hundreds, sometimes thousands of notes to it that do, unfortunately, feel like women are being blamed for the plight of trans men. I've seen cis people say they were originally on MRA reddits and then came to tumblr to "confront the misandry directly" only to wholeheartedly adopt transandrophobia into their worldview. It's hard because I KNOW I shouldn't judge a community based on a few crazies but it truly does feel sometimes like "transandrophobia" gives misogynists a venue to air their woman-hating to an eager audience, kinda like how "Karen" has been co-opted beyond the og meaning of being for racist white woman to any woman being mildly rude.

So like, here it is: can transandrophobia exist without being co-opted by misogynists? Is there a threshold of proliferation for misogynists destroying this word until a new one needs to be made? Or will every word trying to identify the transmasculine experience be inevitably co-opted by misogynists because misogynists are just that powerful, so people should double down harder on the word and work to push misogynists out?

(Also am I going crazy, or did this word a year ago used to have a WAY better community than the one I see nowadays. Back then I could find your blog and really compassionate people easily, and now it's just...bad.)

It is a little hard to understand some of this post but I will do my best to answer what I think is being asked.

To put simply, I think the reason why it was better a year or two ago is because the majority of the people who were actually trying to further the conversation and not just circle jerk in the echo chamber got chased off. Transandrophobia, anti-transmasculinity, transandromisia, transmascphobia... the guys who coined these are largely either not posting at all anymore or post far far less than they used to. They were harassed and the constant exposure to transphobia made them shut down their blogs for their own mental health. Not all of them, but a lot of the so-called "big names" had this happen.

Even I stopped posting for a while and shuttered the doors for a bit outside of a long queue of dog photos because of how much it was affecting my mental health.

In their place remain people who are not committed to the same conversation. Perhaps they are younger, or less familiar with the building blocks of theory that really should be required reading, or are still stuck in their "everything sucks and it's YOUR fault" phase. Maybe they do come from different places, like 4chan or reddit, which are less prone to this sort of discussion. A lot of the original crowd had been on tumblr long enough to remember when we could still edit posts, and I keep seeing people who would have been in elementary school at that time posting to the tag nowadays.

I was discussing this problem on discord with a small group of friends and one of them- a trans fem- called it second wave transandrophobia discourse as a bitter joke. I think she is more right than wrong, regardless.

I'm not sure who you believe I've blocked- in general I don't air out who I block on this blog because at nearly 12k followers there are too many people who would love to dogpile someone for the sin of disagreeing with me and I do my best to prevent that. I don't want anyone to be harassed, after all. There's a lot of assumptions that have been made about my block and follow behavior that vary from "hilarious but untrue" to "outright offensive slander".

People are people, and some people are shitheads. Trans mascs and people who want to support trans mascs are not exempt from that. I say this all the time- Kayne West is objectively a shitty person but his existence doesn't prove the concept of antiblackness to be a myth. Caitlyn Jenner is objectively a shitty person but her existence doesn't prove the concept of transmisogyny to be a myth. So why do shitty trans mascs prove our own theory to be dangerous or nonexistent? Why hold us to a higher standard than any other marginalized group?

I could ask you the same question- there are posts on here with hundreds, sometimes thousands, of notes made by trans fems and cis women who blame their problems with transmisogyny on trans mascs. There are people coming from reddit, Twitter, 4chan who are being actively transphobic and misogynistic and claiming they're doing it for the good of transfeminism. There are posts filled with misogyny and bioessentialism and gender essentialism and even interphobia and racism and transphobia being left completely unchecked. Do you think it would be acceptable for me to ask if that means transmisogyny theory should be abandoned or if we should just accept that it will draw people with bad intentions?

Or do you think the better answer is to focus instead on finding those with a good head on their shoulders, and making sure it's them who has their voice heard? Do you think we should maybe not judge entire demographics because there exists some shitty people who claim the same identity?