#harding walked in such a perfect straight line and then

[ruehyte]

it's more fun this way

[chleem]

Mr & Mrs Starkey

One shot: husband drew x wife yn 

Summary: In which your 5 year-old son catches you kissing santa claus, oblivious to the fact that it's just drew under the costume.

Genre: fluff, smut (shower sex )

⋆.˚ please dont copy or translate my work!

♡⸝⸝ merry xmas! | mistletoe | halloween

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You lean against the doorframe of the shared bedroom, watching ‘Santa Claus’ place wrapped gifts under the Christmas tree. 

Drew’s movements are very sloppy, due to the big red suit he’s wearing. 

“Seems like Santa needs to lose some weight,” you tease, not even trying to hide how funny you find his situation. 

Recently, your son, Ben learned about Santa Claus and how he brings presents to kids, and like any curious five-year-old, he's completely captivated by the idea of ‘catching’ Santa. The details of his plan are a little hazy to you—he mentioned it about a month ago, but you forgot the specifics.

You told Drew that no costume was necessary; just eat the cookies on the table and put the presents in place. But Drew insisted. And now, here he is, awkwardly fumbling around in a full Santa suit. 

Placing the last gift under the tree, he turns around, his white beard and hat threatening to slip off. His blue eyes meets yours with annoyance, lips pressed in a thin line. “Well, usually my elves do this.”

You giggle, finding Drew’s dedication to the part funny and cute. “Okay, Mr Claus,” you walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, “take a break and have some cookies, huh?”

The annoyance in his eyes fade away, his shoulders relaxing under your touch. “You could’ve been my elf,” he murmurs, hands wrapping around your waist. 

“But I’m Mrs Claus, remember? I stay home, do dishes, yadayada,” you joke, rolling your eyes dramatically. “leave the heavy work- important work to you.”

Drew parts his mouth, looking down at you with a knowing look. 

“I did wrap the presents, didn’t I?” You continue to say. “Doesn’t that count for being an elf? I picked out the gifts, payed for it, set the tree up with Ben-“

Drew’s lips aggressively thrusts itself into yours; tongue fighting for access. You gasp into his mouth; taken aback by the abrupt action. That allows the slip of his tongue, tangling in with yours. 

The cheap fake beard makes it hard to concentrate though; the rough hairs getting in between. 

You pull away from him; eyes hooding with a soft smile on your lips. “Rude.”

“You talk too much sometimes,” he murmurs, a hand going up to cup your face. 

“Isn’t that why you married me-“

He plants his lips on yours again, and you giggle against his lips. 

Drew laughs too; the warmth between you two palpable, the quiet intimacy of the moment almost too perfect. Drew’s hand, still cupping your face, gently tugs you closer, his thumb brushing over your cheek in that way that always makes you melt. The kiss deepens, slow and soft, as if he’s savoring every second of it. 

When you finally pull away, both of you breathless, you find yourself caught in his gaze. It’s that look—the one that makes your heart race, the one that feels like he’s seeing straight into you. You smile, your heart fluttering a little more than it should.

“Maybe I do talk too much,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smirks, his fingers tracing along the line of your jaw. “You can talk as much as you want... as long as it’s with me.”

The attempt to sound sweet and lovely is ruined by your incapability of staying serious; because how could you, when Drew’s fake beard is crooked and he’s got this silly red suit with the big belly on? 

“What now?” Drew murmurs, eyeing the silly grin on your face.

“I’m kissing Santa Claus,” you chuckle, reaching up to give his beard a playful tug.

He pauses for a moment, his eyes looking at you with a mischievous glint to them. 

“You naughty girl,” masked with a chuckle, a seductive tone is laced in his words, matching the smirk that’s hidden beneath the white beard. Drew leans in again, catching you in another kiss. 

This time, however, his hands start to roam around your body, feeling the material of your thick hoodie. 

His lips travel down your neck, kissing wherever is exposed. 

You let soft moans escape your mouth; the erotic feeling building in your lower stomach. With a hitched and breathless voice, you ask, “hey Drew?”

He lazily hums against your skin, hands resting just above your ass. 

“Wanna help me shower?” you whisper seductively into his ear, tugging the Santa hat off his head.

Drew pulls back slightly, an amused smile tugging at his lips as he looks down at you. “Y’know you don’t need to ask…”

You plant a kiss on his jaw, soft but deliberate, before moving away, your hand tugging at his sleeve as you make your way toward the bathroom. But Drew doesn’t follow, a thoughtful look painted all over him. 

“Stockings…” he murmurs, looking over his head at the fireplace, with the stockings that he needs to fill as ‘Santa Claus’.

You sigh, knowing exactly where this is going. After all, both of you are suckers for your son, always willing to put everything aside just to see his smile. You glance at Drew, trying to look annoyed, but the soft smile on your face betrays the affection you feel for him—and the family you’ve built together.

“Fine. I’ll shower alone,” you start, readjusting the fake beard he has on. “And I’ll leave Santa to his duties.”

“Thank you,” he sourly replies, his frown evident though the thick beard. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, your lips matching the expression he has. You pat his shoulder, before turning around, making your way to the bathroom. 

You make sure to add an extra sway to your hips, a lame attempt to convince Drew to ditch his costume and join you. 

But nope. Not even when you start stripping, leaving the door open for him to peek. 

——

The bathroom was thick with steam, the fog clouding the mirror as the water poured from the shower head.

You stand underneath the spray; getting ready to wash your body next. 

When you reach for the soap, a much larger hand takes hold of yours, stopping you. You glance over your shoulder, and sure enough, Drew, who presses his body close. 

“Hi,” you flirtatiously start, which comes out more hitched. 

Feeling the soft press of his tip against your back, the breathing gets much harder to steady. 

The temperature in here is definitely rising- not because of the shower. 

“You mad?” Drew’s voice comes out low, a soft smile on his lips as he turns you around to face him. 

You don’t miss the quick glance down to your tits; his gaze lingering longer there than it should be. 

You cock your head to the side, pretending to think it over, but the teasing glint in your eyes gives you away. His hands move to your waist, rubbing circles over your skin, his blue eyes searching yours for an answer.

Your lack of response serves as an invitation for Drew to start planting kisses along your neck, lingering longer on your sweet-spots. 

“Drew…” you softly moan, the thoughts forgotten as he starts sucking the skin on your neck. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, bringing him closer than he already is. His hands find themselves traveling down your body, squeezing your waist, ass, thighs, anywhere he likes. 

“I like this,” he murmurs against your skin, as his hand squeezes your ass again. 

“Mhm,” you lazily hum, running your hands through his wet hair, feeling his aroused dick brushing against your pussy. Shit.

His hands hook under your thighs; lifting you up effortlessly. And because of all the times you've done this, you instinctively wrap your legs tightly around his waist, pinning you against the tiled wall. 

This position causes his dick to brush against your inner thigh; your tits brushing his chest. 

“I like….”

Leaning against the wall, your gaze locks with his hooded blue eyes, feeling the weight of his stare on your lips. “…the way you take me in.”

You chuckle at Drew’s attempt at talk dirty, something you’ll always find amusing throughout your marriage with him. Okay, you liked it, but who were you if you didn’t play along with it? “Well, show me how much you like it.”

A dorky grin Drew fails to suppress shows on his lips, his hands’ gripping tightly on your flesh. His eyes flash down look at the closed proximity you both are in; before quickly flickering back up. 

That makes the blood rush to your cheeks, a flush creeping over your skin. 

“Gonna-“ he leans in and catches your lips in a messy kiss, his teeth pulling on your bottom lip. “-fuck your brains out.”

You breathlessly giggle at that too, your eyes softly focused on Drew, a smitten look in them. 

Without another comment, Drew adjusts his hips, and you feel his cock slowly entering you. Glancing down, your breath hitches as he thrusts in; deeply nested inside. 

“Fuck,” you moan out, tilting your head to rest against the wall.

The showering water that flows down might as well serve as lubricant- yet your walls still feel tight.

Your eyes close for a moment; and you feel Drew’s lips on your neck again- kissing hard enough to leave hickeys. He eventually trails down, lips coming in contact with your breasts. 

He groans as your hands travel down his neck, before tightening around his shoulders. Your nails dig in, averting the pressure there. 

“Drew…” you whine, hoping he starts moving, your eyes flustering open. 

He pulls away, his mouth opened slightly with the same smitten look in his eyes. “…looking at you like this-“ he delivers a thrust to your core; the shock of it causing a loud moan to escape your lips. He chuckles at that, before finishing his words, “makes me wanna put another baby in you.”

“Shit,” you breathe out, as his hips start to roughly slam into yours; one of his hands coming up to play with your tits. The sensation of his thick cock thrusting into you is enough to blur out his words. 

Your body bounces with each rough push his hips drill into your pussy- matching the moans escaping your mouth. He grunts, the sound matching the rising heat in the room, each exhale thick with the intensity building between you.

“F-feels so good,” you mumble.

“Feels good, yeah?” He chuckles lowly, repeating your words. You watch as a grin tugs itself at the corner of his lips, his blue eyes staring lustfully into yours. “Buried with my cock- you look pretty, babe.”

His words, the fast pace, his hands roaming all over sends an alarm to your core, your orgasm building and threatening to explode. 

“Fuck,” you moan, your walls clenching around him as he readjusts you; allowing his dick to thrust into the familiarity of your g-spot. “I’m, c-close”

“Yeah?” Drew kisses the corner of your lips, his moves never stopping. “Right on my cock, baby.”

His lips catches yours again, kissing you clumsily and swallowing the soft sounds you produced. 

The knot in your stomach goes undone- and you feel the warm liquid erupting out of you, over Drew’s cock. You clench around him again, as he continues his pace to chase out his own high. 

His moves become sloppier, his lips pulling away as his dick twitches inside of you, his cream painting your walls white. 

“Shit,” he chuckles, slowly pulling out to leave the tip inside you, just to push fully back in again. 

You chuckle tiredly at that, as he shoves his cum deep into your cunt. “Oh, Drew…” your tone comes out almost like a whine, your throat going hoarse. 

You don’t even try to hide how limp your body is, muscles giving out on holding onto Drew. 

“My beautiful wife,” he almost purrs, blue eyes staring into yours in a smitten way that makes the butterflies in your stomach to fly widely loose. He sets you down on the floor slowly, helping you regain your balance. 

You let his warm hands brush away the hair sticking to the side of your face, the shower head pouring warm water over both of you.

You stand in silence, staring into each other's eyes, both trying to regain your composure from the intensity of the sex. 

“Love it when you talk dirty to me,” you suddenly say, your tone a mix of teasing and heat, a sly smile playing on your lips.

Drew catches onto that; his lips curving into a smirk. His hands slips back to your waist, settling there as if it belongs. “I’k what my girl likes.”

“Geez, what a man,” you tease, your breath catching as his fingers trace over your skin. “Knows what his girl wants.”

You lean in and kiss him briefly, yet pouring your emotions into it. He returns it; bringing one hand up to cup your face, angling it to allow access to his tongue. 

Fuck.

After six years of marriage, he can still easily turn you on like a switch—effortlessly, every damn time. 

You pull away, catching the fucked-out look in Drew’s eyes, the blue beaming down at you. “I’m sleepy,” you murmur, which was your meaning of ‘fuck me in bed, I’m tired’.

“‘Kay,” he murmurs, rubbing circles along your jaw, “let me, give you the princess treatment first, yeah?”

You snort at his words, as he reaches behind you to grab the soap. You don’t miss his low chuckle, even finding his own words funny. 

You relax, and let Drew give you the luxurious ‘princess treatment’, cleaning you up and ready for bed. 

——

Christmas morning

“Ben’s acting weird…”

You whisper to Drew, as you place the dishes into the sink. You spare subtle glances over at your son, sitting on the couch. 

His attention is fixed on the TV, his new toy in hand—opened first, his excitement obvious.

Drew leans against the counter, sipping on the third cup of coffee he made this morning. Last night, well, both of you didn’t get much sleep. He furrowed his eyebrows at you, before shrugging. “No?”

“Um, not to you,” you keep your voice low, standing next to Drew as you both watch the living room.

During breakfast, Ben had been shy, avoiding your gaze and giving short answers to your questions. But he seemed perfectly fine when you tucked him into bed yesterday. “Did I do something last night?”

Drew snickers, and when you glance at him, he casually unzips his jacket. With a smug grin, he reveals the hickeys you’d left on his neck last night. 

Shit. This man is a dad, and he can’t seem to be serious at all during times like this.

His grin escalates into laughter when you roll your eyes at him, pushing his shoulder lightly. “I’m serious. Ask him for me, will you?”

“Alright, alr- I’ll do it.”

Drew doesn’t move, taking another sip of his coffee. 

You send him a glare, along with aggressively zipping his jacket back up. 

“You mean now, got it,” he chuckles, putting the cup down. You shake your head at him, a smile reappearing on your lips as he walks away. 

You busy yourself by scrolling through your Insta, liking posts you don’t care about. The soft whispers you hear are barely audible, drowned out by the TV and the occasional rumble of Ben’s toy.

It’s about two minutes in when you hear Drew’s throaty laugh through the house, Ben hurriedly yelling, “daddy! Quiet!”

“You got anything to support that?” Drew’s voice comes through, his attempt at keeping quiet failing miserably.

You glance up just in time to see Ben jump off Drew’s lap, rushing toward his room.

Meeting Drew’s gaze, you raise an eyebrow, skeptical. You walk over and sit down beside him, waiting for an explanation.

“You’ll see. It’s hilarious,” Drew says with a grin, clearly trying to hold back a laugh. You give him a sideways glance, not buying it for a second. 

Ben runs back, his familiar blue eyes meeting yours for a split second before he quickly looks away.

“Wanna show Mommy what’s in your hand?” you chirp, your gaze landing on the toy camera you bought him a few months ago, now clutched tightly in his small hands.

He ignores you; walking straight into Drew’s arms. 

“Well that’s rude,” you murmur, but both father and son remain oblivious, their attention now fully on the toy camera.

As you try to sneak a peek, Drew leans away with a mischievous grin, clearly enjoying whatever he’s looking at. Ben, on the other hand, glances at it nervously, his small brow furrowing in worry. 

Your curiosity grows by the minute, heightening when Ben says, “is mommy in trouble?”

His big, doe blue eyes meets yours again, and he looks like a sad puppy (much like his dad sometimes). It melts your heart; again proving you could never be mad at this kid. 

His dad, on the other hand, you might choke him to death if he doesn’t explain what’s going on right now. 

“Why don’t you tell mommy?” Drew teases, his hand rubbing Ben’s stomach in an assuring way. 

You can see the thought process on Ben’s face, the pout deepening as he concentrates. His small brows furrow, eyes narrowing in serious contemplation.

Finally, Ben points his little finger at you, his voice loud and clear. “Mommy kissed Santa Claus!”

Your mouth drops open in shock as your mind races through the events of last night. Shit. You kissed Drew, who was dressed as Santa. Then the shower together- But how did Ben catch you? Was he out of bed? Did he—

Drew flips the small toy camera’s screen toward you, revealing a paused video. There’s no mistaking it: it's you, mid-kiss, with Drew in his Santa costume.

Oh. So this was his great plan of catching Santa Claus. A hidden camera.

Your face flushes as you look back at Drew, who’s struggling to suppress his laugh. You quickly cover your mouth, trying to hide the matching smile creeping onto your lips.

“Oh, Ben, honey,” you start, your voice sweet but a little flustered. His eyes glance up at you, eagerly awaiting your response. Relax, he’s only a five-year old kid. “Santa needed help with the presents…and mommy helped him.”

You flash a small smile, hoping he’ll understand. Ben looks up at you with a puzzled face, clearly not buying it. 

Dammit, five-year olds are getting too smart these days. 

“Don’t worry; mommy’s on the good girls’ list,” Drew adds on, clearly enjoying this. 

You shoot him a glare - really? “Ben, mommy would never kiss Santa,” you say firmly. “I was hugging him- see?”

“But you kiss daddy like that all the time,” Ben loudly comments, fidgeting nervously. 

A soft laugh leaves Drew’s mouth, absolutely no help to his situation. Great, just another reminder to yourself to maybe keep the affectionate touches to a minimum around Ben in the future.

“Okay,” you start, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “Yes, Mommy and Daddy kiss sometimes, but Santa—he's just, well, he’s just here to deliver the gifts. That’s all.”

You glance at Drew, who’s still trying (and failing) to hide his grin. “Right, Drew?” you add, shooting him a look that says get it together.

“Right, right,” Drew says quickly, trying to sound serious. 

“So, Ben,” you turn your gaze back to your son, holding his tiny hand. Gosh, he’s adorable. “Santa's just doing his job to make Christmas magical. Okay?”

Ben nods slowly, his tiny face scrunching as he seems to take it all in. “Okay, mommy.”

You smile fondly at him, reaching your arms out.

He lets out a laugh that’s eerily similar to Drew’s, a lighter sound as he buries into your embrace. The sound of his laughter fills the room, bringing a sense of joy to your heart.

Somehow, with all its goofiness, it’s moments like this that make everything feel so right.

You press a kiss to the top of his head, as he snuggles against you, you can’t help but think—god, he’s basically a mini version of Joseph Andrew Starkey.

“Mommy loves you,” you say, as Ben pulls away. 

“I love you too, Mommy,” he mumbles, his voice soft but genuine. Like every kid, though, his attention span is short. His eyes drift over to the Christmas tree, where a few presents remain under the glittering lights. “Can I open the rest?”

You nod at him, and Ben takes off immediately, racing towards the Christmas tree. You can't help but smile as you watch him grab the first big present in front of him, tearing it apart. 

Although, your smile falters as your eyes drift back to Drew. He’s lounging on the couch, a lazy smile on his lips as he watches Ben, clearly amused.

Without thinking, you slap his stomach a bit roughly, causing him to flinch in his seat.

"Hey!" Drew protests quietly, his eyes widening in surprise as he looks at you. "What was that for?”

“Really? ‘Good girls’ list’?” you shoot back, raising an eyebrow at him.

He scoots himself closer to you, his smirk deepening, “you definitely took it like a good girl last night.”

Fuck. 

You freeze, his words hanging in the air, sending a shockwave through your chest.

"God, you're impossible,” you groan, slapping his hand away, the one trying to slip under your cardigan. 

Drew’s throaty laugh escapes again, wanting to further tease you when Ben interrupts the short conversation. 

He proudly shows off the present he got from ‘Santa’; a toy truck that he’s been begging for since forever. His small hands grip the toy truck, eyes wide with excitement.

The warmth of the moment radiates off you, and everything else fades away. Ben’s joy fills the room, and for a moment, it’s as if time stands still. 

The Christmas tree lights flicker softly in the background, casting a gentle glow, and the world outside feels distant, as if nothing else matters.

What a jolly merry Christmas. 

-------------------------------

word count: 3.6k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: i want drew's kids. and i hate kids. but i want his.

be honest...this was shit writing, and im sorry about that. im in a writers block lately, my brain is officially on vacation mode. but merry christmas, and i hope you enjoyed this! ignore any mistakes, and read mistletoe if you havent ! (much better imo)

[swampjawn]

Dungeon Meshi Episode 7 was super interesting from an adaptation standpoint - this'll be a little different from what I usually write about (though I do still talk about the animation in the full video).

Studio Trigger have never done a straight-up manga adaptation before - and led by Yoshihiro Miyajima, a big fan of the manga who pushed hard for the adaptation to get made, and who has never directed a full series before, it was unclear if they'd be able to find the right balance between a simple panel-for-panel recreation and making something that's completely different.

And in the first few episodes, you could really feel the tension between the influence of a cautious young creative with great respect for the source material, and a studio with a unique established visual style. It kinda seemed like they were ping-ponging willy-nillily between the two sides of that spectrum.

But this episode showed that Miyajima (and series writer Kimiko Ueno) can take 3 chapters, slice them up and rearrange them into a cohesive-feeling episode while taking into account the differences between screen and page, and using them to their advantage.

Starting with the way the water looks. This line from the manga describes a faint magical glow to the water in this lake and you can see that the cavern fades into darkness above, but Kui's illustration style doesn't really define lighting and shadows very much compared to the cel-drawing style of animation. So the animators took the opportunity to use the water as the light source, and make a whole episode that's lit almost entirely from below. It really gives an otherworldly feeling to this area.

Particularly when the Kelpie shows up, that under-lighting works wonders to define its anatomy within the relatively simple line art.

What do you do when you can't show the immense fuck-off scale of a monster with a beautiful full-page spread like this?

Well you use what you do have: the ability to move the camera instead. This is such a great way to communicate the scale of this thing, AND such a great way to show some of Senshi's anime-original butt-cheeks!

This is one of my favorite shots from this episode - this whole sequence is super hectic, cutting quickly from character to character, but they use tricks like this to keep you from getting confused. This is framed much like it is in the manga, but with the moving image, they're able to use the trajectory of the fish head in the background to lead your eye directly from Chilchuck, right to the point where Senshi pops up in the foreground and transition seamlessly from one character to another!

Now, it's not all good - I am a bit disappointed that they removed Marcille's own Senshi-style soap-making montage, which was the perfect visual representation of the culmination of the character development and understanding built between Senshi and Marcille.

It's a shame to see it go.

I get more into that, what else was cut, and much more in this video where I broke down the entire episode!

Check it out if you feel like it. If you don't, jump in a ditch, cover yourself in leaves and jump out at people as they walk by.

Thanks for reading!

[theostrophywife]

focus on me.

pairing: mattheo riddle x reader request: I NEED MATHEO OR THEODORE X FEM READER AND SHE JUST LOVES HIS HANDS AND ARM VIENS AND SHE WALKS INTO HIS DORM AND IS GOBSMAKED TO SEE HIS ABS AND SHE WANTS TO RIDE THEM AND SHES JUST SO OBSESSED AND THINKS HES THE HOTTEST MAN IN THE PLANET- AND SHE FOLDS LIKE A PRETZEL WHEN HE GIVES HER THOSE EYES- JESUS IM A CATHOLIC BUT THEO AND MATTHEO COULD BE MY NEW RELIGION- author's note: big thanks to @writingsbychlo for listening to me rant about this man in her inbox. posting this now so she can wake up to her mans. the way that i would fold for mattheo so fast (theo look away). anyways, enjoy this purely smutty fic 😮‍💨

You were supposed to be studying. 

When you came into his dorm, you specifically told Mattheo not to interrupt you under any circumstances. Usually, you preferred the library but some prat had accidentally set off a dung bomb, which meant closure until further notice. 

You tried studying in your dorm, but your fellow housemates decided that there was no better time to throw a back to school bash in the common room than the night before your Ancient Runes exam. Harry and Ron, who shared the same class, appeared completely unbothered as they chugged firewhisky straight from the bottle. 

Your roommate Hermione was long gone. Probably holed up somewhere in the dungeons with Draco. You followed your friend’s cue and snuck into your boyfriend’s dorm, narrowly avoiding Filch. It never seemed fair that the Slytherins got individual rooms, but tonight you had never been more thankful for it. 

Mattheo had set up a whole battle station for you on his desk. There were fresh ink pots, newly sharpened quills, and blank parchment waiting for you when you arrived. After kissing your sweet and considerate boyfriend, you went straight to work. 

By the time midnight struck, the parchment was filled with glowing runes, making your ink stained hands cramp from drawing out the symbols over and over again. To Mattheo’s credit, he kept to himself and read quietly on his bed while you studied. 

You were so engrossed in the material that you barely registered him kissing you on the cheek before leaving to take a shower. That little mistake cost you because as soon as he walked back into his dorm with nothing but a towel on, you nearly spilled fresh ink all over yourself. 

Water trickled down Mattheo’s chest, the little droplets snaking through his perfectly chiseled abs only to disappear beyond his v lines, which pointed like an arrow to what you knew was hiding underneath that towel. 

The fabric hung dangerously low on his hips as he walked over to his dresser to pick out something to wear. You watched with rapt attention as he braced himself against the wood, those delicious, juicy veins protruding from his forearms and nearly making you dizzy with desire. 

Finally, Mattheo turned. The silence had caught his attention and he smirked when he saw you ogling him. 

“See something you like, pretty girl?”

You flushed. “Just got a little distracted.”

Mattheo’s grin grew. He sauntered over to you, leaning over so that he had you caged against the desk. 

“Oh?” he asked, his voice low and husky and absolutely fucking sexy. “Maybe it’s time for a break then. You’ve been such a good girl studying so hard all night. I think you deserve a reward, my love.” 

Your breath hitched as Mattheo’s lips grazed yours. He tilted your chin up, giving you a perfect view of those brown eyes. Then he gave you the look and you knew you were done for. 

It was a look that said he wanted to devour every inch of you until you couldn’t even recall your own name. You gave in. Of course you gave in. How could you not?

“Maybe for a second…”

Mattheo took the opening. One arm snaked around your waist, bringing you up with him as he pressed you against the desk. His other arm crept up your back until he reached the nape of your neck, fisting your hair through his fingers as he kissed you roughly. 

“Do you even know how fucking sexy you are, princess? My smart schoolgirl in her tiny little skirt.” 

Mattheo carefully moved your studying materials aside before picking you up and setting you down on the table. He gripped the top of your thighs and brought you to the edge while sliding his tongue against yours. You whimpered as he grinded against you, showing you exactly how hard he was underneath the towel.

“Been thinking about bending you over this table all night,” Mattheo whispered in your ear. His hand climbed higher up your thigh and you felt your body instantly respond to his touch. “Bet you’re soaking wet for me already, aren’t you angel?”

You moaned as he toyed with the waistband of your panties. “Matty, please.” 

Your boyfriend smiled at your nickname for him, knowing that he had you right where he wanted you. “What is it that you want, darling?”

“Touch me. Please.” 

Mattheo smirked as he tugged your panties off. His lust filled gaze drank you in as he dragged two fingers through your slick folds. 

“Fuck. You’re so wet. Is this all for me, princess?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled, nipping at his neck. “It’s not fair. You play dirty, Matty. You can’t just walk in here with nothing but a towel on.” 

“Why not, angel?”

You sighed, tracing the hard planes of his chest. His muscles flexed under your fingertips as you gently raked your nails against his six pack. “Because you’re sexy and I can’t help myself.” 

Mattheo chuckled darkly, plunging two fingers in your pussy. You bucked against his hand, watching in stunned silence as he withdrew it only to stick his middle and pointer finger into his mouth. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he tasted you on him. 

“This is exactly what I mean,” you whined. “For Godric’s fucking sake, how am I supposed to concentrate after that?”

“Maybe we can compromise, angel.” He shuffled through your parchments and stuck one to the wall. “I’m going to trace the runes inside of you and if you get them all right, then I’ll give you your reward.”

You swallowed thickly and nodded. Mattheo grinned before giving you a quick peck. “Pay attention, sweetheart.” 

His fingers dipped through your folds once more and you gripped his arm, fighting the moan from escaping your lips. Mattheo curled his fingers inside of you, drawing a familiar shape. 

“Urus,” you said in a breathy voice. “It means strength.”

“That’s right, angel.” He shifted as you ran your hands down his arms. You could feel his veins throbbing underneath your palm as he fingered you. “Don’t get distracted now. I know how much you love my hands. I promise they’ll be wrapped around your throat by the end of the night if you get all these right. Now focus.”

You nodded, eyes fluttering close as he traced another rune. “Algiz,” you answered. “For protection.” 

“Hot and smart,” Mattheo announced proudly. “How’d I get so lucky?”

His lips grazed yours and you willingly parted for him, fluttering around his fingers as his tongue slid into your mouth. He pumped his digits inside of you, teasing and taunting. 

“Let’s try something harder, princess.” 

Mattheo’s skillful fingers prodded against your walls, sketching a complicated shape. You closed your eyes and focused. It was a tricky one, but you remembered the cris cross pattern. 

“Inguz,” you said decidedly. “Fertility.” 

“That’s right,” Mattheo said with a smile. “You're doing so well, sweetheart. One more and you can have anything you want.” 

“Anything?” you asked with a small smile.

“Whatever that devious little mind of yours desires, my love.” 

“Okay,” you replied. “I’m ready, then.”

Your boyfriend nodded, staring right into your eyes as he marked the last and final rune. It was an effort not to get lost in those warm, brown eyes. But you steeled yourself, determined to claim your prize.

“Rerth. For luck.”

“Good girl,” Mattheo said with a smirk. “Fitting since you’re getting lucky tonight, angel. Where should we start?” 

You bit your lip, cocking your head at him. It was nearly an impossible choice. You wanted to kiss him. Bite him. Lick him. All of the above and more. 

But there was one thing that stood out from all the other deliciously sinful choices. You pressed your palm against his abs and grinned. 

“I want to ride your abs.”

Mattheo’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected it, but fuck he was so down. He would’ve given you anything with the way you were looking at him right now. 

“You never fail to surprise me,” he said fondly. “Well come on then, let’s make your filthy little fantasy a reality.” 

In one smooth move, he lifted you off the table and deposited you on top of his bed. Mattheo reclined against the headboard and watched with hungry eyes as you straddled his stomach. He smiled as you slipped the tie off your neck and looped it around him. 

It was a simple move, but so fucking sexy and possessive at the same time. You were claiming him. Mattheo was yours and you were his. You belonged to one another—mind, body, and soul. 

Mattheo trailed kisses down your neck and throat, leaving marks on your skin as his deft fingers made quick work of the first few buttons on your blouse. He leaned back and admired his work, his hands gripping your hips while you grinded your soaking wet sex against his muscles. 

He didn’t think it would feel this good. There was something about you using his body to get yourself off that fucking turned him on like no other. Mattheo lifted your skirt up, fisting the fabric in his hands and watching as you coated him with your arousal. 

The little whimpers you were making sounded like music to his ears. “My good little slut,” he said, squeezing your tits as you rode him with reckless abandon. “You’re so fucking filthy, baby. Using me to get yourself off. I’m just your fuck toy aren’t I princess?”

“So good,” you murmured. “You feel so good, Matty.”

The desperation in your voice set him off. He gripped your hips hard enough to bruise and bucked forward, smirking in satisfaction when you moaned. The ridges of his abs rubbed against your clit, providing the perfect amount of pressure to the sensitive area. 

“Keep riding me,” he said in a low, rough voice. “Just like that, angel. Such a good girl for me.”

You closed your eyes, lost to the waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Mattheo gripped your chin, his voice rough around the edges as he spoke. “Open your eyes, darling. I want to watch you cum.”

His rich brown eyes pinned you in place, drinking in every detail. That sexy smirk curved against his lips as he hooked his arms behind his head, admiring the view of his girl riding him. 

“Look at you, baby. You’re making such a fucking mess. Such an innocent face, but you turn into a filthy whore when you’re with me.” 

“Only for you, Mattheo.” 

“Damn fucking right,” he said, sliding his hands under your skirt to rub at your clit. 

You bucked against him, riding out the high. Heat exploded in your core and seeped into your veins. Mattheo kissed you roughly, staking his claim on you as he devoured your moans. 

“That’s it, princess. Cum for me, pretty girl.”

The orgasm felt like a lightning strike. It hit you all at once, making your walls spasm as you came all over Mattheo’s abs. He cursed when he felt you soaking him through, utterly turned on by the mess that you’ve made. Mattheo had never been harder in his life. 

Your boyfriend peppered kisses on your face, pulling you taut to him as you came down from the high. Mattheo brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, tilting your chin up so he could press his lips against yours. He groaned and held your hips down, grinding his boner against your ass. 

“I’m not done making you cum, princess. You’ve got one more in you, don’t you angel?” 

As sensitive as you were, your pussy throbbed at his words. When it came to Mattheo, you could never really get enough. 

“I thought I only got one reward. You’re spoiling me, Matty.” 

“There’s no question about it. You’re my spoiled rotten little princess. But this reward isn’t for you, it’s for me.” He smacked your ass, gesturing for you to get up. “Now come on, angel. I was serious about that desk.” 

He smirked as he walked you back to his desk, his hands disappearing underneath your skirt as he massaged your ass. Mattheo kissed you roughly before he flipped you over, bending you on the desk so you were face down and ass up. He flipped your skirt up, hissing when he found you soaking wet again.

“You just can’t help yourself can you, princess?” He pumped himself in his hand before sliding the tip of his cock along your folds. “Gods, you’re fucking wet. Are you ready, baby?” 

You whimpered, rocking your hips against him for more friction. Mattheo held you in place, fisting your hair in his hands. 

“Use your words, darling. I want to hear you beg like the good little slut that you are.” 

“Please, Matty,” you whined. “I need you so badly that it hurts.” 

He kissed the base of your spine, grinning as he eased his length inside of you. Still sensitive from your last orgasm, you gripped the edges of the table as Mattheo buried his cock within your walls. Your legs felt like they were going to give out any minute, but he kept you upright, cursing when he felt how wet and tight you were. 

“Fuck,” he grunted as he thrust into you slowly. Mattheo gripped you from behind, picking up the pace. Your pussy clenched around him like a vice. “Gods, pussy’s so good baby. You’re doing so well. Taking all of me like my perfect little whore.” 

Mattheo fucking adored the way you blushed at his filthy words. He leaned over, capturing your lips in a sloppy kiss as he fucked you into the table. He thought he was going to pass the fuck out when you grinded back into him, meeting his movements to take more and more of him. Mattheo leaned over and shielded your head from the wall, making sure you were protected as the table shook underneath you. 

The sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with your breathy little moans was enough to send him over the edge, but he wanted to make good on his promise. Mattheo always put his girl first. The boys were right. He might be just a little bit pussy whipped. 

Even without the sex, you could’ve asked Mattheo to kill for you and he would’ve done so without question. 

“I fucking love you, darling. I’d kill for you. I’d die for you,” he said, every word laced with conviction. “Forever and always.” 

“I love you too, Matty. Forever and always.” 

He kissed your cheek, the action surprisingly soft compared to how rough the sex was. You felt like you could’ve melted onto the floor. 

“Cum with me, my love.” 

Mattheo wrapped his arms around you as that familiar heat spread burned in your core. He held you as the orgasm rocked through your body, sharing in the euphoric high while the two of you finished together. His grip around you only tightened, hugging you from behind while he slowly pulled out. You were barely keeping upright as it was, your legs threatening to give out under you. 

Without a word, your boyfriend scooped you into his arms and brought you back to bed. He cradled you against him, whispering praises and encouragement while stroking your hair. 

“You did so well, baby. I’m so proud of you for remembering all those runes. You’re gonna ace your exam tomorrow.” 

“You really think so, Matty?” You snuggled against him, burying your head in the crook of his neck. Mattheo stroked your back and placed a kiss on your temple. 

“I know so, darling. You have no idea how proud I am for having such a smart girlfriend. I love bragging about you to our friends.” 

You flushed. “Well, I couldn’t have done it all on my own. I had some help from my smart, sweet, and sexy study partner.

Mattheo grinned and kissed you gently. “Glad to be of service, my love.” 

taglist: @annaisabookworm @marina468

please let me know if you'd like to be added.

[ikeuki]

mama a riki behind you ! / 니키

+ syn. riki is so over today—picture day. he encounters someone who he thinks will only make it worse, but surprisingly makes it better?

✷ pairing. nishimura riki x fem!reader ; grumpy x sunshine 🤳 tw. none ! && 811wc. — fluff ★ author’s notes: fake emo alert ‼️ we all saw you giggling through the mirror…

#1 — haiii this is my first post teehee ; i will post a proper introduction later on !!

picture day.

the most useless day, riki liked to call it. he would’ve ditched today but his friends agreed to just take the pictures in the morning and skip afterwards. now he was stuck, standing in this stupidly long line for a two second picture that would be going nowhere except the yearbook. if only he could prevent that from happening too.

riki just slouched against the gym wall, counting the minutes in his head before the period was over. the gym was filled with mindless chatter and camera shutters from every corner.

with common last names, all his friends texted him that they finished hours ago. they had already jumped the school fences and we’re hanging out, leaving riki to be stuck in this humid gym alone.

alas, he closed his eyes in an attempt to at least catch a couple minutes of sleep in these boring moments.

click. clack. click.

his eyes shot open. ‘what the hell is that sound?’ he thought to himself and searched for the maker of the sound.

he looked straight ahead to see you continuously tapping your shoe while holding a compact mirror. you applied a thin layer of lip gloss while trying to arrange your delicate curls in the perfect formation.

riki watched from behind as you panicked when a single strand went the other way. you then pulled out a comb and started fixing your part in a hurry as if this line wasn’t going to take another two hours.

then you began practicing smiles—a toothy grin, no teeth, eye smile, and so on! riki couldn’t help but laugh a little when he saw how seriously you were taking this.

he could tell you worked extra hard this morning to look your absolute best. even though he didn’t really know why you would for a school picture?

he had spotted you around school before, your sweet vanilla scent catching his attention when you walked past him. your curls bounced when you practically skipped to class, clutching your pastel notebooks to your chest and that charming smile you always had when talking and laughing to your friends.

wait. why did riki know that? he shouldn’t didn’t care about some random girl in his grade that smelled like sweet syrup!

nope! it’s just the sleep deprivation.

while posing into your small mirror, you caught the glare of riki, locking eyes through the compact. embarrassed, you shut the mirror and shoved it into your pocket. you refused to look behind you and kept your eyes on some random girl’s head in front of you.

you knew riki. more like you knew of him.

he always hung out with such a questionable collection of people—lee heeseung, park jongseong, park sunghoon, and sim jaeyun. always getting caught ditching class or smoking behind the bleachers. you knew better to steer clear of any of their ways. they weren’t even at school half of the time. spending it all in detentions if they decided to come once in a while.

but weirdly enough, you had a soft spot for riki.

only because you remembered him in elementary school, when he was a smaller, sweeter kid who was known as a ‘dance prodigy.’ your friend had attended the same dance studio as him, so you would always see him when visiting to watch your friend.

you had admired his skill and confidence back then, even developing a small crush on the boy.

but your dreams were soon crushed when you overheard him liking some girl in his dance class. therefore, you hadn’t interacted with him since, only a few lingering glances of acknowledging each others’ presences but avoiding anything more.

you think it may because you’re the only person that remembers him from childhood and who he truly is.

but you could just be thinking too much into it.

luckily, your name was called the next second and you quickly walk away from that awkward interaction. you sighed, fixing your hair for one last time and trying a couple more smiles.

“just smile like you always do.” riki whispered as he walked past you towards the exit.

your body tensed up as his shoulder brushed past yours and he turned slightly to look at you one last time before leaving the gym.

for a second, you thought you were imagining him saying anything but knew you were not hallucinating when he looked back. you stood there thinking of what he meant by ‘always do’ before the photographer snapped you out of your trance.

“ms. y/l/n, please sit in the chair.”

hurriedly, you sat on the little black stool and aligned your feet with the markers taped on the gym floor. you moved a couple strands to frame your face how you wanted it and looked straight at the camera.

“okay…now smile.”

and you did. like you always do.

[lomlhwa]

navillera (x.mh)

pairing: ballerina!reader x ballet teacher!minghao

preview: minghao can see your raw potential. you just need a little... incentive.

tags/warnings: fem reader, age gap (minghao is 35 and reader is 21), lots of flexible positions, kinda mean dom minghao, sir kink, fingering, oral (fem.receiving), degrading, monster cock minghao, dacryphilia, choking, marking, praise, pet names (slut, baby, pretty girl), unprotected penetration (wrap it before you tap it), creampie

trigger warnings: n/a

wc: 1.6k

song rec for this fic: all i got by baekhyun

a/n: sorry for scarce posting mls

training for the nutcracker has been more difficult than you had anticipated. your teacher has been so hard on everyone. his perfectionism was definitely showing. the constant cries of “straighten your leg!” or “point your toes!” have been ingrained in your brain. you’ve honestly become paranoid about messing up in front of him. currently, you’re just trying to perfect small things near the end of the show.

you and your dance partner dance carefully together, making sure your legs are straight and there’s not a flat foot in sight. your spun around and lifted effortlessly and you can almost feel a sense of pride filling your bones. but, as you’re put down, the hard box of your ballet slippers lands right on your dance partner’s foot, causing him to cry out.

suddenly, minghao cuts the music off and gestures for everyone to gather around him. “we have our first show next week, i cannot have this show looking this dogshit. we haven’t had a single run that didn’t have a mistake.” everyone around you looks defeated at his words. not a soul in the room isn’t out of breath from his vigorous training demands. “y/n.” he says your name and your eyes dart up to meet his. “do you even know how to do a pas de bourrée?” you gulp, looking down at the floor. “yes, i do, sir.” he scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “show me.” 

you hesitantly walk to the open space in front of him and get up en pointe. you perform the travelling movement, making sure to keep your legs straight and keep your body lines looking flowy. when you finish, you look over to see the most intimidating scowl on your teacher’s face. “i’m gonna need you to stay after class.” your face flushes bright red as you rush to disappear within the crowd of your classmates. 

the rest of the class is a blur. you can’t focus after your teacher embarrassed you like that in front of the whole class. finally, the class ends and you watch as your classmates rush to leave the studio. you and minghao stand on opposite sides of the room, staring at each other. “how long have you been doing ballet?” he asks, stretching arms over his chest. “um, 4 years.” he laughs, wandering over to you. “that’s like nothing compared to your classmates.” he looms over you, his shadow filling you with darkness.

“show me your pirouette.” he moves away from you, gesturing to the empty room. you lift yourself onto your toes and demonstrate a few spins, more than necessary. you stumble at the end and you can feel minghao’s blazing fury. “come here. put your hand on the bar.” you scurry over and do as instructed, your hand resting gently on the wooden bar attached to the wall. he leans down and grabs your ankle. he lifts it until your foot is above your head, your legs spread in a perfect split. “you’re very flexible and your moves are graceful, you just can’t follow through.” he runs his hand down your leg, his hand pausing to rest on your core. you jump, your legs fighting to hold their position.

minghao presses his palm against your core, electricity surging through your veins. you moan slightly before pressing your lips together in a thin line. he runs his finger over your slit through your tights. the thin fabric gives way to how wet you’re becoming at simple touches. “are these your performance tights?” minghao whispers. you shake your head, your legs beginning to ache. suddenly, the sound of fabric ripping fills the room. you gasp at the sudden cold feeling. your knee bends, your leg begging to be let back onto the floor. “keep your fucking leg up while i please you.” he demands as he pushes your panties to the side. 

you use your free hand to hold your foot, desperately trying to keep your leg up. minghao licks a wet stripe up your core, salivating at how wet you’d become. you shiver as he licks stripe after stripe up your cunt, savoring your taste as if he’d never tasted something so delicious. “if you can be a good girl and keep your leg up, i’ll let you cum,” he instructed. he dove into your core like he may never eat again. the sideways angle having him gripping every expanse of your ass and thighs he could get at. he rips your tights open more so he can feel your bare skin in his hands. 

his tongue jabs at your hole, barely dipping in to feel your dripping walls. his eyes roll back into his head at the way your body jerks whenever he sucks on your clit. your grip the bar on the wall so hard your knuckles turn white. your legs shake as they threaten to close against your will. “p-please sir,” you beg. you don’t even really know what you’re begging for at this point. his fingers find their way to your hole, replacing his tongue. he fingers you with such intensity that you’re worried he might break his hand. your whines and whimpers grow in volume quickly.

he chuckles against you, beginning to eat you with even more intensity. his fingers and his tongue move in sweet tandem. you start to piece together that he doesn’t intend to let you cum, he wants you to let your leg down. your whole body trembles as he licks and sucks on your wet heat until finally; your leg comes down. you stumble backwards and your ballet teacher looks at you with a sinister grin. “so sad, the poor baby doesn’t get to cum on my tongue.“

you look at him, defeated. your legs are so sore you can barely stay standing. minghao seemingly glides over to you before hooking his foot around you to force your knees to bend. you fall backwards and he lays you down on the floor. “can barely follow dance moves, let alone instructions while i’m eating you out. what a disobedient slut.” you whine, writing around on the cold dance practice floor. he slots himself between your legs, pressing his growing erection against your core. your cunt leaves a wet spot on his light colored tights. 

he looks down between your legs and sighs dramatically. “look at the fucking stain you’re leaving on my tights. so fucking pathetic,” he spreads your legs into a split again, grinding against your exposed core. your hands find their way to his forearms, digging your nails into his skin. “you’re so flexible and yet you can’t keep your legs straight when dancing. you’d think with a split like this, it would be effortless to you. do you use your split for sex more than dancing? is that it?” you whine at his disapproval. 

he separates from you to pull his tights down, a much more gentle gesture than the way he had torn yours open. your eyes widen, watching as he frees his cock. he catches your feverish eyes with his sinister ones. “you think you can take it, baby?” you shake your head slowly and he fakes a look of pity. “you can, and you’re going to.” he takes his place between your legs once again, his cock dragging against your slit. “hold your legs open.” you hook your hands around your thighs, doing your best to stay spread.

he guides himself into your desperate hole, the sting of the stretch filling your senses. your nails dig into the skin of the back of your thighs as you shake underneath minghao. he finally bottoms out and his jaw falls slack. he places his palms by your head, trapping you between his arms. he holds eye contact with you as he draws his hips back before thrusting back in slowly. you savor the feeling of every inch dragging along your walls. 

your forearms begin to ache from holding your legs open, your grip slipping. minghao rises to his knees and swats your hands away from your thighs. he replaces them with his own, folding you in half. his thrusts pick up in speed, drilling you full of his cock. “such a good fucking girl, taking my cock. you like when your teacher fills you up, huh?” you nod, your brain not even computing what he’s saying. “words, slut.” you pant desperately, trying to even muster a few words. “y-yes, sir.”

he lands a couple hard slaps to the soft skin of your thighs, leaving bright red hand print marks. you squeal, clenching around him. your senses go into overdrive when he wraps one hand around your throat, applying just enough pressure for your vision to go slightly fuzzy. tears spring to your eyes and flow down the side of your face. he stops holding you down and moves his other hand to your clit, rubbing over it quickly. “fuck, i’m so close, pretty girl. want you to cum for me, can you do that?” you nod to the best of your abilities and he smiles. 

your body spasms as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. you wrap both your hands around his wrist as he tightens his grip just a little more. “c-cumming,” you choke out. minghao lets out an animalistic groan as you clamp down on him. you wrap your legs around him to lock him into place, his last couple thrusts chasing his own orgasm. his hips stutter as his cum fills you to the brim, leaking out of you and onto the floor. he finally releases your throat and you suck in a few labored breaths. 

he pulls out of you and admires your spent body on the floor. “god, i think we should have more after class practices. do you agree?” you’re too tired to even respond but the way you shiver tells him everything he needs to know. he chuckles before reclothing himself. “there’s a pair of extra leggings in the closet. you might wanna put those on before you leave.” he grabs all of his things and walks away to the door. “see you tomorrow, y/n.”

© lomlhwa 2025

[leclercstars]

perfectly matched.

college!art donaldson x reader

Summary: You and Art swore to never speak of that drunken night again. But you found yourselves together at your college bar, tipsy, and almost unable to resist each other. Warnings: SMUT! 18! alcohol usage, drunk sex, cursing, biting, protected sex

It was one night.

One night, three months ago. Swept up in too many celebratory glasses of champagne. His messy blonde curls looked like a halo with your blurred vision. The traces of liquor on his upper lip seemed to be beckoning you in, begging you to find out if it was vodka or tequila. You left at the same time, he had offered to walk you home. Always a gentleman, always seemed to care about you. You both were stumbling, the drinks hitting the two of you all at once. You ended up outside your house, and then inside your house, up your stairs, in your bedroom. You’d seen his strong hands gripping the racket before but god they looked even better gripping your ass. Clothes thrown all over the room, not able to undress each other fast enough. His chiseled collarbones the perfect culprit for you to leave bite marks along. You woke up the next morning, head pounding, still naked. You felt him next to you, his tight abs pressed against your bare back, curls tickling the side of your neck. Fuck, how could you let that happen. He left in a haste, each of you promising to not discuss the events of the night prior ever again.

And now here you were. A few too many double vodka lemonades deep inside your shitty college bar. The whole team had decided to go out to celebrate the end of a stellar season and unfortunately, Art looked just as good as ever. His backwards Stanford cap and his loose Budweiser t-shirt made him look like some sort of shitty frat guy, which certainly wasn't unappealing to you since that tended to be your type. You tried to play it cool when he walked over to you. “Having fun?” he smirked, sidling up on the barstool next to yours. He leaned back against the bar, looking so perfectly relaxed. How do people end up this sexy?

“Could be having more fun,” you said casually, sipping your drink. Wait. What the fuck. Why did you just say that. You knew you had drank quite a bit but jesus christ isn’t it supposed to be liquid courage not liquid “ruin this friendship?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Art, looking genuinely confused. God sometimes his innocence was almost a little annoying, made you want him even more half the time.

“Sorry, geez I should not have said that,” you were slurring, the alcohol and your emotions making it hard to think straight.

He leaned in closer to you. You could smell the tequila on his breath, knowing that was his liquor of choice from the last time this happened. “I think I can make this night a whole lot more fun,” Art growled. 

You had never heard his voice sound like that before. Low and lusting, you knew you were not going to be able to resist. You locked eyes with him, and you could just feel how needy you probably looked. The two of you got up and left without saying goodbye.

Art was gentle. He was caring, a shoulder to cry on. Someone you could turn to if you were having a bad day and needed a hug. That side of him was not so apparent behind your bedroom door. He pinned you against the wall, muscles rippling in your face as he sucked on your neck. Your moans were soft, hands pulling on his curls, earning equally soft groans from him. You were obsessed, this didn’t happen often and you knew you had to take in every moment. Every inch of him that you could feel, taste, touch, it was completely overtaking you. His boxers were sitting low on his hips, exposing his v-line. Your lacy bralette had been tossed aside, leaving your nipples free to be caressed by his rough hands. His mouth roamed from your neck down to your tits, taking one in his mouth as he gazed up at you. Fuck, your head rolled back against the wall. His eyes were shut, tongue flicking so expertly across your nipple. You never wanted this image of him, looking so intoxicated with your body, to leave your mind.

He stood back up, leaving no room between your now naked bodies. Suddenly his features softened, a nervousness painting itself across his face. He scratched the back of his head, a tell-tale sign that something was on his mind. “Do you want to like-” he was basically whispering, cheeks flushed. It was astonishing how all his confidence had suddenly evaporated. “Fuck?” you filled in the blank, leaning closer to his lips, teasing him with the thought. That hadn’t happened last time you were together. He was too drunk, and well,  he just couldn’t quite get it up. “Yeah, fuck yes please.” he groaned. You laid down on your bed as he walked to his wallet, pulling out that little gold wrapper. He climbed up on top of you, using his thumb to gently brush the hair away from your face. He looked ecstatic, the drunken-ness painting a stupid grin across his face and making you just feel insanely horny. He slid the condom on over his already throbbing cock, positioning it just outside your entrance.

He slid just the tip in first, making you wince. You needed to get used to how big he was, learn how to take him. His hips rocked gently as he gave you more each time, slowly starting to fill you up.

“God I needed this,” you moaned breathlessly. “Yeah baby?” he cooed, giving you more of him as he pressed his lips against your tits, leaving marks along your cleavage. “Making sure you don’t forget this in the morning,” he smirked, his confidence returning. “Then fuck me like I won’t forget it,” you clapped back, basically saying you wanted all of him.

“Oh yeah?” He thrusted inside you, making you cry out in ecstasy. No dick had ever felt this good before, and maybe it was because you were drunk, but you could just tell he was hitting it like he fucking meant it. Your hands clawed into his back, legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper inside. He was pounding into you now, the sound of your bodies echoing throughout the room. You watched as he slid in and out. “You like watching huh baby? Like seeing how good you are at taking me?” 

You grabbed his hair in response, pulling his head into your neck and making him groan and fuck you harder. His tip found your g-spot, and the feeling was unlike any other. Watching his muscles ripple with each thrust, so far inside you he was nearly in your stomach. You squirted all around his cock, leaving his abs glistening. He bit his lip and looked at you, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “God that is so hot.” he wasted no time getting back to the rhythm of things.

This sex was truly unlike anything else. Watching the man you saw as a teammate, so vulnerable above you. Completely naked, so far inside you. And you were taking him so well, the sexual chemistry between the two of you just completely undeniable. You made great hitting partners on the court, and that relationship suddenly didn’t feel so different from this one. The way you both knew exactly what the other wanted. The perfect balance of teasing and support. “Fuck, fuck.” Art’s moans were primal, and you could feel how close he was getting, watching his arms tense up. “I’m gonna cum too,” you said breathlessly.

“Look at me,” he grabbed your jaw, making you lock eyes.

It was like an explosion, overtaking every inch of skin on your body. You cried out, feeling his cock throb inside your pussy as you came simultaneously. You fit perfectly together, feeling each other up as you rode out your orgasms. His hand was wrapped around your arm, yours clawed into his back. He collapsed onto your chest, looking up at you in awe.

“You are unbelievable.”

dividers by : @.cafekitsune

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Get Me Out of Here || Rook Hunt

You’re isekai’d into a trashy novel and stuck as a tragic side knight character. All you want is survival, but your boss is Rook Hunt—a poetic, eccentric duke.

Now you’re caught in his chaos and, worse, you kinda don’t mind.

Series Masterlist

You’re a completely normal person. You eat normal meals at normal times, sleep the normal amount of hours (give or take a few, who needs all eight anyway?), and hold down a regular, soul-crushingly normal job. It’s not glamorous, but it pays the bills and lets you indulge in your one true love: reading web novels for five hours straight like some kind of feral literature goblin.

Your current obsession? The Lady’s Tragic Love. It’s the sort of story that you can’t put down—not because it’s good, but because it’s so excruciatingly terrible that it loops back around into comedy. The heroine has all the personality of a wet tissue but somehow manages to ruin everyone’s lives with reckless abandon. It’s almost impressive.

You rub your temples as you skim yet another chapter. “Oh my God, this woman has the moral compass of a black hole,” you mutter.

The plot makes less sense the deeper you go: the heroine starts off as the daughter of a down-on-their-luck noble family. Her father racks up an unholy amount of debt, so she’s forced to marry a viscount who—get this—is actually a nice guy. Like, genuinely kind. He agrees to marry her in name only to protect her from debt collectors, even offering to fund her hobbies.

And what does she do? Poison him. Poison him!

"Okay, maybe she's misunderstood," you think, in the kind of delusional optimism only a web novel enthusiast can muster.

Nope. She poisons him because she "can’t stand looking at his face," which is only mildly unattractive and not the ogre-like monstrosity the text implies. Also, he was literally helping her stay alive.

“Oh, sure, let’s kill the only decent male character in this hellscape. Why not?” you hiss, scrolling furiously.

After committing literal murder, the heroine sets her sights on an archduke, who is tall, handsome, and very much engaged to the so-called villainess. The villainess is stunning, kind, intelligent, and inexplicably hated by everyone because—checks notes—she’s too perfect?

At this point, you're gripping your phone so hard that it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in half. “Why is the villainess the villain? This should be the heroine’s title! She’s practically speedrunning how to be the worst human being alive!”

But no, the heroine gets rewarded for her nonsense. The archduke doesn’t fall for her (because he has taste), but the crown prince does. The prince, apparently a sucker for chaos, marries her. Instead of being happy with her new title and riches, the heroine spends her days scheming to ruin the villainess’s life because, in her words, “How dare the archduke choose someone that isn’t me?”

You pause and reread that line. Then reread it again.

“WHAT?!” you yell so loudly that your downstairs neighbor bangs on the ceiling.

It’s a spiral of nonsense that drags you through emotional whiplash until you finish the last chapter with a migraine and a full-blown existential crisis. You stare at the screen. "Why...why did I do this to myself?"

You stumble out to your tiny balcony to clear your head, phone still in hand. The cool night air washes over you as you lean on the railing, your brain buzzing with rage and confusion.

“Why does she get a happy ending?” you grumble. “She’s a walking red flag factory! The villainess deserves to be queen, and the prince deserves a lobotomy for his taste in women!”

In your frustration, you kick the balcony railing. Unfortunately, your landlord hasn’t exactly been diligent about repairs. The rusted screws holding it in place give way with a terrifying screech.

“Oh, come on,” you say, deadpan, as the railing collapses beneath you.

You plummet ten stories down, bouncing off an awning like some kind of cartoon character before landing face-first in a suspiciously placed fruit cart.

As darkness creeps in, your final thought is not of regret, nor fear, but of pure, unfiltered pettiness:

“I hope my next life is more exciting… and I never have to read about this heroine again.”

With that, you pass out, blissfully unaware of the absurd fate that awaits you.

You wake up, groggy and disoriented, and immediately ask yourself the first logical question: Why the hell am I alive?

The last thing you remember is gravity betraying you and a suspiciously convenient fruit cart breaking your fall. But when you sit up and look around, it’s very clear you’re not in your crappy apartment anymore. For starters, this place is way too clean, smells faintly of vanilla, and—oh, is that sunlight streaming through those beautiful glass windows? Not the dim, depressing flicker of the streetlight outside your old place?

Something is very wrong.

You scramble out of the bed, which is definitely not your rickety twin-sized monstrosity held together with duct tape and misplaced hope, and start poking around. The furniture is elegant, the carpet is plush, and there’s an oil painting on the wall that practically screams, Welcome to Generic Medieval Europe™!

The realization slams into you with all the subtlety of a freight train: You’re in that garbage web novel.

You pause, frozen, your brain throwing up a million red flags at once. Your knees almost buckle. "Nope. No. Absolutely not. This is some kind of cosmic punishment," you whisper to yourself, clutching your temples.

You creep towards the ornate mirror on the other side of the room, your reflection getting clearer with every step. “Please,” you mutter, “if there’s a single merciful entity out there, don’t let me be the heroine. Or the villainess. Or, God forbid, one of the male leads.”

You finally reach the mirror, squeeze your eyes shut, then crack one open. And there you are: just some random face.

“Oh, thank God,” you exhale, slumping against the wall. You’re not the heroine. You’re not the villainess. You’re not one of the tragic walking disasters that make up the main cast. You're just… some person. A total nobody.

But just as you’re about to bust out your victory dance of mediocrity, something catches your eye. You lean closer, squinting.

Wait.

No.

NO.

You’re that nobody.

You’re the tragic commoner knight who gets blackmailed by the heroine, coerced into doing her dirty work, and ends up assassinating the villainess for her. The same commoner knight who dies in three chapters because the heroine throws them under the bus as soon as the villainess's fiancé finds out what happened.

You stagger back from the mirror like it’s cursed. “Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. I did not reincarnate into this medieval soap opera just to get unalived in the dumbest way possible,” you say, pacing the room like a lunatic.

Your character’s life flashes before your eyes: the abusive father, the crippling family loyalty, the gambling debts. This poor soul had it rough even before getting turned into the heroine’s personal murder minion. And you? You’re not about to pick up that torch.

So you grab some parchment and pen what might be the most passive-aggressive resignation letter of all time.

“To Her Highness, the Crown Princess,

Kindly do your own dirty work from now on. My father can gamble himself into oblivion. I’m out. Good luck with your reign or whatever.”

Satisfied, you sign it with an unnecessarily large flourish, slap it on the desk, and prepare to bounce.

You’re halfway down the hall when you almost walk face-first into him.

Rook Hunt, the walking embodiment of “this guy doesn’t belong in this novel but here he is anyway,” stands there with his golden hair and overly dramatic smile. He’s loud. He’s eccentric. He’s dressed like he’s about to break into a musical number about the beauty of life. Oh, and he’s also the duke whose household you served in as a knight before you quit.

“Mon ami!” he exclaims, throwing his arms wide like you’re long-lost lovers. “You’ve returned to me! What an exquisite twist of fate! Shall we celebrate the beauty of reunion?”

“No,” you say flatly. You attempt to sidestep him, but Rook doesn’t just let things go.

“You cannot leave me again! Do you not wish to resume your role as my loyal knight?”

“Absolutely not,” you snap on instinct, because why on earth would you willingly dive back into this mess? But then it hits you. Wait.

Rook isn’t part of the main plot. He’s not the crown prince, not the archduke, not the villain, and definitely not one of the doomed love interests. He’s just… there. A minor character. A colorful extra who pops up to sprinkle poetic nonsense into the plot and then wanders offstage.

Your brain kicks into overdrive. If you stick with him, you’ll be close enough to the action to keep tabs but far enough to avoid the heroine’s nonsense. Plus, salary. And minor characters like him rarely die!

Your decision solidifies. You plaster on a winning smile and nod. “Actually, on second thought, yeah. Let’s do that.”

“Magnifique!” Rook practically beams as he grabs your arm. “Come, let us bask in the splendor of returning home!”

You follow him, letting his endless stream of poetic babble wash over you. Is this the best plan? Probably not. But it beats getting murdered for a heroine who couldn’t find her moral compass with both hands and a map.

You make it back to the duke’s grand estate—because of course it’s grand. Every aristocrat in this godforsaken novel seems to have a mansion the size of a small country. Rook practically floats through the gates, his dramatic energy causing every passing servant to give him the “not again” look. You follow, still trying to process the reality of your current situation.

After an unnecessarily flowery tour of the place (you’ve been here before in this body, but you let him talk because it’s easier than interrupting), he finally stops in the courtyard. He turns to you, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Now, mon chevalier, reclaim your rightful position as my trusted bodyguard!” he declares, flinging his arms wide as if inviting the heavens to applaud him.

You blink. “…Respectfully, sir, why do you need a bodyguard?”

He pauses, staring at you like you just asked why water is wet. Then, with an infuriatingly serene smile, he says, “Ah, but the shadows are filled with secrets, my dear knight! The beauty of life is in its mysteries, n’est-ce pas?”

You squint at him. “Okay, but that doesn’t answer the question.”

He leans in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Because the wolves, mon ami. The wolves.”

You freeze. “…What wolves?”

Rook straightens up, tilting his head as if contemplating the meaning of the universe. “Ah, they are everywhere and nowhere. In the forests, in the halls, in the hearts of men. Who can say where danger truly lies?”

This man just said a whole lot of words without saying anything.

“Right,” you say slowly, pinching the bridge of your nose. “But you’re, like, ridiculously strong. I’m pretty sure you could take on any wolf—metaphorical or not—by yourself.”

“Ah, mon chevalier,” he says with a wistful sigh, placing a hand on his chest like he’s reciting a Shakespearean soliloquy. “Strength alone cannot protect one from the unexpected, the unseen, the poetry of peril!”

You stare at him, trying to figure out if this is some sort of elaborate prank. But no. This man is completely serious.

“So… wolves. Poetry of peril. Got it,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “I’ll, uh, just… go patrol or something, I guess.”

Rook claps his hands together, beaming. “Ah, magnifique! I knew you would understand! Truly, you are a gem among knights!”

You slink off, still scratching your head. You’re 90% sure the wolves are a metaphor for absolutely nothing, but who are you to question the logic of a trash novel? At least the pay is good.

You quickly realize this trash novel is trying to trash you right back. It’s like every corner you turn, fate has decided you don’t deserve a peaceful life.

Walking through the garden to calm your nerves? Someone leaps out of the hedges with a dagger. You narrowly dodge, trip over a decorative fountain, and the attacker runs off, cackling.

Trying to enjoy the roses because you’re starting to think, “Hey, if I gotta die, at least let it be aesthetic?” Nope, arrow. Right past your ear.

By the fifth assassination attempt (some guy “accidentally” dropping a potted plant from a balcony), it clicks. The heroine must’ve decided since you’re not doing her dirty work anymore, she needs to eliminate you before you spill the beans. But, unlike her, you have brains.

So, you write a letter.

Dear Villainess and Esteemed Archduke,

I hope this letter finds you well, though considering the general chaos surrounding us, that feels optimistic.

I am writing to inform you of an unfortunate situation involving a certain someone (cough the crown princess cough) who has, shall we say, less-than-noble intentions toward your continued existence.

To clarify: she asked me to assassinate you. I know, shocking. However, as someone who values integrity, personal safety, and not being murdered by shady royalty, I’ve decided to step down from my position as her unwilling assassin.

This does mean she may hire someone else to handle the job, which is unfortunate for you but also none of my business anymore. I’m not sure how you typically handle murder plots, but I suggest taking precautions, like perhaps not smelling your roses or standing under precariously placed flower pots.

Lastly, while I am admittedly a pawn in this chaotic mess, I felt it was only fair to let you know what’s going on. I wish you both a long, unassassinated life.

Warm regards,

Your Local Retired Assassin

P.S. Please don’t kill me. I’m just the messenger.

You thought this letter would buy you peace. Instead, it bought you an invitation.

And by “invitation,” you mean you’ve been dragged into a private meeting with the villainess and the archduke, who are both sitting across from you now, looking like they’re deciding whether to thank you or strangle you.

“So,” the villainess says, her voice like ice. “You’re telling me the crown princess is plotting to kill me?”

“Uh, yes,” you say, your palms sweating. “But, like, not me anymore! I’ve retired. Permanently.”

The archduke raises an eyebrow. “Why would she want to kill us?”

You glance at the villainess. “Uh… because you exist?”

Before the villainess can stab you (she looks ready), the door swings open, and in saunters Rook.

“Ah, my friends!” he says, grinning ear to ear. “How serendipitous that we are all here. I believe I can shed some light on this matter.”

You gape as Rook launches into a detailed explanation of the heroine’s convoluted scheme—exactly what she’s planning, who she’s hiring, and even the color of the dress she’ll wear while gloating about it.

The villainess and the archduke exchange a glance, then rise, thanking Rook for his “invaluable insight” before sweeping out of the room, leaving you and Rook alone.

You turn to him, your jaw still on the floor. “How do you even know all that?”

Rook just winks at you. “Ah, mon chevalier, the shadows have ears, and I am their maestro.”

He struts out, humming a jaunty tune, leaving you sitting there, more confused than ever. At this point, you’re half-convinced Rook is either a genius or just making stuff up as he goes. And honestly? You’re too tired to figure it out.

You’re stationed at the edge of the garden, trying your best to blend into the scenery while the tea party unfolds. Rook, as usual, is the life of the gathering, passionately chatting with Vil and Epel, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

You’re in your usual "bodyguard mode," which mostly consists of staring off into the distance and trying not to fall asleep. It’s peaceful—for once—until Epel casually drops a comment loud enough for even you to hear.

"Rook, you finally got them back, huh?"

Your brain screeches to a halt.

Got you back? Back? What does that mean? What is there to get back? Was there something to get back in the first place?

You barely have time to process any of this before Rook, in the most Rook way possible, interrupts with a flurry of poetic nonsense.

“Ah, young Epel, the winds of fortune have indeed graced me with their bounteous song! But let us not dwell on the past, for the present blooms before us like a radiant garden of opportunity!”

You blink. Did… did that mean anything? Epel seems to think it doesn’t, judging by the way he rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath. But you’re too busy processing the odd look on Rook’s face to care.

Because, for the first time ever, Rook looks nervous.

His usual serene confidence is still there, but there’s a hint of something else—a faint pink dusting his cheeks, an almost imperceptible shift in his tone. And why the hell is your heart fluttering at the sight?

You squint at him, trying to decode whatever is happening here. Is he… embarrassed? Flustered? Can Rook even be flustered?

Before you can spiral further into overthinking, you notice Vil’s sharp gaze cutting through the moment like a knife. His violet eyes lock onto yours, and an infuriatingly amused smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

Oh no. He knows.

Vil, of course, pretends like nothing’s happening, smoothly pouring himself another cup of tea and joining the conversation like the consummate aristocrat he is. But every so often, you catch him glancing at you with that same entertained expression, like he’s just discovered a juicy secret.

You try to shake it off, refusing to let yourself be dragged into this nonsense. But Rook’s flushed face lingers in your mind, and every time he smiles at you for the rest of the party, you feel the heat creeping up your own cheeks.

Great. Just great. Whatever this is, it’s going to haunt you for days.

It started with an uproar in the palace—a desperate, urgent call for help sent to Rook, Duke of Hunt.

"The wolves are attacking!"

You were mid-sword practice when the messenger arrived, breathless and frantic. He handed the summons to Rook, who took the parchment with an amused smile.

"Wolves, you say?" he mused, tapping his chin dramatically.

"Yes, my lord!" The messenger practically collapsed from the effort of delivering the message. "They’ve breached the outer gardens, and the prince and heroine request your immediate assistance!"

Rook looked at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Ah, mon chevalier, do you recall what I told you once about wolves?"

You blinked, frowning. "You mean the thing about being surrounded by wolves one day? I thought you were joking."

Rook’s grin widened. "Oh, I never jest about wolves."

You opened your mouth to demand clarification, but Rook waved the parchment dismissively. "Alas, I must decline."

The messenger froze. "W-What? But…you’re the Duke of Hunt! The greatest tracker and marksman in the kingdom! Without you, the palace is doomed!"

Rook leaned forward conspiratorially. "Tell me, mon ami, what makes you think I’d risk life and limb for the likes of the heroine and her precious prince?"

The messenger stammered. "B-But—"

Rook held up a hand, silencing him. "No, no. I simply cannot. My schedule is far too packed. Why, just this morning, I promised my chevalier here that I’d help reorganize their weapons rack." He turned to you with a wink. "Isn’t that right?"

You rolled your eyes but nodded. "Yep. Super busy."

The messenger left, looking utterly defeated. You figured that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Over the next two hours, messengers kept arriving, each more desperate than the last. Rook refused them all with increasing flamboyance.

One messenger was sent away with, "Alas, the stars are not in alignment for such a hunt!"

Another was dismissed with, "The winds whisper that this is not my destiny today."

Finally, a personal plea came from the heroine herself. She barged into the estate, dramatically throwing herself at Rook’s feet.

"Oh, noble Duke!" she wailed. "You are the only one who can save us! Please, I beg of you!"

Rook tilted his head, pretending to think it over. Then he glanced at you, his expression suddenly sharp beneath the veneer of cheer.

"And what of my chevalier?" he asked.

The heroine frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You’ve made quite a nuisance of yourself lately," Rook said lightly, though there was an edge to his voice. "Why, only yesterday, you sent someone to ambush them in the gardens, did you not?"

Her face paled.

"I might reconsider," Rook said, his tone taking on a singsong quality, "if you promise to leave them alone from now on."

There was a long, tense pause. The heroine’s expression flickered between rage and fear before she finally forced a smile. "Very well. I promise."

"Splendid!" Rook clapped his hands and stood. "To the hunt, then!"

You stood there in stunned silence as he walked out the door, bow in hand. When he turned back to flash you a grin, you couldn’t help but mutter, "What the hell just happened?"

Rook’s laugh echoed through the halls, and you were left wondering yet again if you’d ever fully understand this ridiculous man.

It’s payday, baby.

You’ve never been more excited to hold a pouch of jingling coins in your life. Your day off couldn’t have come at a better time, and you’ve already decided to treat yourself. No assassination attempts, no cryptic poetry, no Rook yammering about beauty—just you, the market, and sweet, sweet retail therapy.

After wandering for a while, you stumble upon a fruit stall, and your eyes light up. The produce is incredible—vividly colored, juicy, and nothing like the waxy, suspiciously glossy stuff you’d get in your original world. You don’t even know what half these fruits are, but they smell amazing, and you’re buying them all.

As you carry your haul back to the manor, an idea hits you like a freight train. You’ve been craving dessert—specifically, something you can’t get in medieval Europe. Something simple, sweet, and utterly anachronistic.

And that’s how you end up in the kitchen, surrounded by fresh fruit, flour, sugar, and whatever else you’ve managed to scrounge up. You’re determined to make crêpes. Yes, you know they weren’t invented yet, but the cooks don’t even seem to know what a waffle is, so they’re not going to stop you.

It takes a bit of trial and error—because, shocker, medieval kitchens are not equipped for finesse—but eventually, you’ve got a plate of soft, golden crêpes filled with fresh fruit and drizzled with honey. It’s so beautiful it almost brings a tear to your eye.

You’re mid-bite, mentally congratulating yourself, when Rook materializes out of nowhere like some kind of dessert-seeking missile.

“Mon chevalier! What marvel have you crafted here in this humble kitchen? The scent alone rivals the sweetest perfume!”

You freeze. This is fine. He’s just curious. There’s no reason to panic. Subconsciously, you scoop up a bite on your fork and offer it to him, your body on autopilot.

Rook doesn’t hesitate, leaning in and accepting the bite with the elegance of a prince at court. “Magnifique! Truly, you have woven magic into this creation, mon cher!”

You relax slightly, pride swelling at the compliment—until he takes your hand and licks a stray drop of honey from your finger.

Your brain short-circuits.

Before you can even form a coherent thought, Rook grins at you with that infuriatingly charming smile of his, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek.

“You are as talented in the kitchen as you are with a blade,” he says, his voice warm and soft, as if he hasn’t just dismantled your sanity.

And then he’s gone, striding out of the kitchen with his usual jaunty step, leaving you standing there like an idiot, replaying the sensation of his lips on your cheek and his tongue on your finger.

You slowly sink to the floor, crêpe in hand, trying to process what just happened.

“Why,” you mutter to yourself, taking another bite of your crêpe for courage, “does this keep happening to me?”

Life had been…dare you say it, pleasant recently. No assassination attempts, no tea parties and no surprise arrows whizzing by your head. You were almost convinced this world might not be so bad after all.

But like clockwork, the plot reared its ugly head.

You were outside, basking in the rare serenity of a quiet afternoon, when the shouting began. You knew the voice instantly. It was grating, furious, and way too familiar.

Your abusive father—the original you’s deadbeat excuse for a parent—had somehow crawled out of the woodwork.

“You useless brat!” he snarled, stomping toward you. “How dare you stop sending money? Do you think you’re too good for your family now?!”

Oh, for the love of—

You crossed your arms, already done with the theatrics. “First of all, family implies mutual care and respect, neither of which you’ve ever provided. Secondly, kiss my ass.”

The man’s face turned a deep shade of purple, veins bulging in his forehead. He raised his hand, and you didn’t flinch. You weren’t scared of him. You were just irritated that he had the audacity to show up and ruin your vibe.

But before his hand could even swing down, an arrow whizzed past, slicing through the air with deadly precision. It nicked his cheek, leaving a shallow cut, and he yelped like a scolded dog.

You turned, and there he was.

Rook.

But this wasn’t the poetic, flowery Rook who praised sunsets and waxed lyrical about everything under the sun. No, this was Duke Hunt. His bow was clenched tightly in one hand, his expression colder than you’d ever seen. His eyes locked onto your father, sharp and unyielding, and for the first time, you truly understood why people called him a hunter.

Your father stumbled back, clutching his cheek. “Y-you’ll regret this! I’ll get my revenge!” he spat, turning tail and running like the two-bit villain he was.

You didn’t even watch him go. You were too busy staring at Rook, your heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the fact that, dammit, he looked good like this.

You silently scolded yourself. Really? Now? This is when you’re going to have a revelation about your feelings? Pull it together.

Rook’s gaze softened as he looked at you, and without a word, he closed the distance between you. Before you could process it, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a firm, steady embrace.

You stiffened for a moment, but then it hit you—you were shaken. You hadn’t realized it until now, but the encounter had left your hands trembling. And Rook…he didn’t say a word. He just held you, radiating warmth and reassurance, as if he knew exactly what you needed.

Slowly, you relaxed, leaning into him, letting the tension bleed out of your body. For once, there were no witty remarks, no poetic musings, no cryptic riddles. Just Rook, steady and solid, and the quiet comfort of his presence.

You closed your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. Maybe life here wasn’t so bad after all.

It was the hunting competition trope—the bread and butter of every third-rate villainess novel ever written. Noblemen rode out in droves to massacre innocent wildlife in the name of prestige, while the women gathered on the sidelines to swoon over who could kill the most majestic creature.

Normally, you'd find this whole affair ridiculous, but today? Today, it was a strategic opportunity.

Rook and you had cooked up a plan. After bagging his game, Rook would publicly gift it to the villainess, cementing the stance of his household against the heroine. A subtle yet unmistakable message to everyone present: this duke’s house wasn’t here to play politics; it was drawing battle lines.

Rook was, predictably, ecstatic about it all. “Ah, mon chevalier, what a splendid opportunity to honor beauty and justice with the art of the hunt!” he proclaimed, twirling dramatically as he readied his bow.

What you didn’t anticipate was his strange fixation on a handkerchief before he left.

Throughout the day, noblewomen approached Rook, each one batting their lashes and holding out dainty, embroidered handkerchiefs. It was practically a parade of desperate peahens.

“Oh, Lord Hunt, a token for luck!” cooed one particularly persistent lady, pushing her frilly kerchief toward him.

Rook clasped his hands to his chest with exaggerated reverence. “Ah, mademoiselle, your thoughtfulness moves me beyond words, but alas, I cannot accept. To carry such a treasure into the wild would be to risk its loss, and I could never bear such tragedy!”

Another woman attempted to loop her kerchief around his wrist directly. Rook gracefully dodged, as though she were offering him a live snake. “My dear lady, your artistry is unparalleled, but the only adornment fit for this hunt is the pure, untainted spirit of nature herself!”

By the third rejection, you were practically biting your tongue to keep from laughing.

But then came the curveball.

“Ah,” Rook sighed as he approached you. “If only I had a handkerchief imbued with sincerity. A simple, honest token to guide my aim and steady my heart!”

You blinked at him. “What, like…this?” You pulled out your completely ordinary, unembellished handkerchief and held it out.

Rook’s eyes lit up as though you’d just handed him the Holy Grail. “Mon chevalier! How perfect! How divine! This humble square of cloth shall be my guiding light!”

Before you could protest, he tied it around his arm with a flourish and rode off, looking like he was ready to star in his own personal opera.

From his place in the pavilion, Vil Schoenheit took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea, his sharp eyes locking onto yours with a glint of pure amusement. The smirk tugging at his lips seemed to say, Oh, I know exactly what’s going on.

Meanwhile, Epel squinted between you and Rook, his expression shifting rapidly as though he’d just cracked the secret to immortality. He whispered something to Vil, who nearly choked on his tea before regaining his composure.

What the hell is going on? you thought, baffled.

Fast forward to now, the present, where the plan was supposed to culminate with Rook triumphantly presenting his prize to the villainess. Simple, elegant, strategic.

So why, why, was Rook standing in front of you holding a literal griffin?

“Uh, Rook,” you whispered through gritted teeth. “What are you doing? This is supposed to go to the villainess.”

But Rook was having none of it.

“Ah, my loyal chevalier,” he declared loudly, drawing the attention of every noble in the vicinity. “It is only fitting that such a prize goes to the one who inspires my steadfastness and resolve!”

Your jaw dropped. “Rook. No.”

He turned his radiant smile on you, looking like a proud schoolboy showing off a crayon drawing to his teacher. “Yes!”

The gathered nobles erupted into murmurs, and you could already feel the weight of every single judgmental stare. This was not part of the plan. But despite your internal screaming, a small, annoying part of you couldn’t help but feel…flattered. This was a duke, and you were just a knight. A very confused, very underqualified knight, sure, but still.

Vil, still seated with his ever-present cup of tea, took another long, pointed sip, his eyes glimmering with amusement.

This was the drama he’d signed up for.

The hallway leading back to the room where Vil, Rook, and Epel were sitting felt oddly silent, the muffled voices of their conversation barely filtering through the door. You weren’t one to eavesdrop—but when you heard your name, well, curiosity got the better of you.

"Just confess already," Epel was saying, his tone exasperated. "We’ve all seen the way you look at them."

Vil chimed in, his voice tinged with amusement. "Epel is right for once, Rook. Love is about timing, and yours is abysmal."

"But love is an art, mon ami," Rook replied, his tone unusually hesitant. "It cannot be rushed. It must unfold naturally, like the petals of a flower in spring."

"Okay," Vil drawled, clearly unimpressed. "But what happens when someone else plucks your ‘flower’? Say, the gardener they’ve been spending so much time with?"

The silence that followed was deafening. You leaned closer, your heart pounding, hoping—no, needing—to hear Rook’s response.

Instead, you heard nothing.

The stillness stretched unbearably until you couldn’t take it anymore. You shoved the door open, startling all three occupants. "What are you talking about?"

Vil raised an eyebrow, the picture of nonchalance, though the corners of his mouth twitched with mischief. "Perfect timing, as always. I’ll leave you two to sort this out."

He grabbed a very reluctant Epel by the collar and dragged him toward the door. "Wait, I wanna see what happens!" Epel protested, but Vil shut the door behind them with a decisive click.

Which left you and Rook alone.

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a look that you hoped masked the frantic hammering of your heart. "So…what’s this about a confession?"

Rook’s usual composure faltered. For once, the poetic, perpetually self-assured Rook you knew looked…unsure. Vulnerable. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his gloves, and he avoided your gaze, staring instead at the floor.

"Rook," you said softly, stepping closer. "Please, just tell me what’s going on. I need to know."

He finally looked up, and the raw emotion in his eyes was enough to steal your breath.

"Mon chevalier," he began, his voice low and trembling, "I have loved you from the start. At first, it was the camaraderie of equals, a kindred spirit I admired. But when you returned from the heroine’s side, defying expectations and staying true to yourself…you captured my heart completely."

You blinked, stunned. "Rook, I—"

He continued, the words spilling out as though he’d been holding them back for far too long. "You never treated me like I was strange. You accepted me as I am, even when others mocked my passions or dismissed my eccentricities. I never truly needed a bodyguard. I just needed you. Near me. Always."

His voice broke slightly on the last word, and you felt your resolve crumble.

You sighed, but it wasn’t from exasperation. It was the sound of relief, of something clicking into place. "Next time," you said, stepping even closer, "just tell me your feelings directly. It’ll save us both a lot of trouble."

Before he could respond, you reached up and pulled him into a kiss.

It was everything a first kiss should be—long, searing, passionate. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you flush against him as though he never wanted to let go. You melted into him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, and for a moment, the world outside that kiss ceased to exist.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. Rook’s lips quirked into a smile as he whispered, "Your lips are the sweetest arrow, mon amour, and they have pierced my heart beyond repair."

You burst into laughter, burying your face in the crook of his neck to muffle the sound. "Gods, Rook, only you could ruin a moment like this with something so cheesy."

He chuckled softly, his arms still secure around you.

And as you stood there in his embrace, you couldn’t help but think that this ridiculous, trashy novel world was the best thing that had ever happened to you.

The parlor was warm with the golden light of afternoon sun filtering through the windows, but the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation. You stood near Rook, his arm casually draped across the back of your chair, as Vil and Epel looked at you expectantly.

“Well?” Vil prompted, raising a perfectly arched brow.

You glanced at Rook, who smiled encouragingly, as if to say, go ahead. Clearing your throat, you announced, “We’re…together.”

Vil sighed dramatically, setting down his teacup with a soft clink. “Finally. I was starting to think I’d have to intervene.”

Epel, on the other hand, froze mid-sip of his cider. Slowly, he set the glass down, stood, and walked over to you. His expression was a mix of grief and dread, like someone had just informed him of some terrible, life-altering news.

He placed both hands firmly on your shoulders and looked you dead in the eyes. “Good luck,” he said, solemn as a funeral bell. “This is a life sentence, y’know.”

Rook chuckled, clearly amused. “Mon cher Epel, you wound me! Surely being with moi is more of a treasure than a trial?”

Epel turned to him, unimpressed. “Treasure? You follow people for fun. You recite poetry to wild animals. You can’t even eat pie without analyzing its existential meaning. I mean, who does that?”

You were already laughing, shaking your head as you patted Epel’s hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Epel. This is a sentence I’m more than happy to serve.”

Vil smirked behind his tea, watching the scene unfold with obvious amusement. “Frankly, I’m just relieved we won’t have to endure any more of his tragic sighs every time you left a room.”

Rook clasped a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Oh, Vil! My sighs are poetry incarnate!”

Vil didn’t even blink. “Your sighs are the sound of unspoken melodrama. Spare me.”

Epel plopped back into his seat with a long groan, running a hand through his hair. “Anyway, I guess congratulations or whatever. At least now we can all stop pretending we don’t notice him staring at you like some love-struck puppy.”

“That’s rich,” you shot back, grinning. “You’re the one who looks like your pet rat just died every time we get close.”

Epel huffed. “I’m just saying! Now you gotta deal with him being even more poetic! And clingy! You thought the prince and heroine were bad? Wait till you see Rook when he’s in love. You’re doomed.”

At the mention of the prince and heroine, Vil made an exaggerated sound of disgust. “Speaking of those two… Honestly, has anyone ever been so painfully predictable? The prince has all the charm of wet cardboard, and the heroine—don’t even get me started on her hair ribbons.”

“Ah, the heroine,” Rook sighed wistfully, but there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Always so delightfully transparent. Her schemes are like open windows to her soul.”

You snorted. “If by soul, you mean her desperate attempts to turn everything into a sob story, then yeah, sure.”

Epel leaned forward, grinning. “Did you see her crying at the hunt competition? Like, girl, it’s a competition. What did you think would happen? That the griffin would apologize and hand itself over?”

Vil smirked, tapping a manicured finger against his chin. “Or how about the prince declaring his ‘eternal devotion’ to her at the banquet last week? I nearly choked on my wine.”

Rook chuckled, turning to you with a soft smile that was far more genuine than his usual theatrics. “Ah, but let us not waste all our words on such trivialities. This moment, mon amour, is one of joy.”

You leaned into him, your laughter subsiding into a contented smile. His arm slipped around your shoulders, holding you close as Vil and Epel continued their playful bickering in the background.

For the first time since you’d been thrown into this absurd world, you felt completely at ease. If this was the result of being trapped in a trash novel, then so be it. You were exactly where you wanted to be.

Trash Novel Masterlist

Complete Masterlists

[dewdropdinosaur]

Kinktober Day 18: Massaging

Summary: Silco is beyond stressed, so you find a way to make him relax. Little do you know, he has way more on his mind than your hands on his shoulders. Warnings: Oral sex, blowjobs, massaging, slight sub/dom dynamics, etc. MDNI, 18+. You're responsible for your own media consumption. Kinktober Mention of the Day: @silcoitus Their kinktober writing has me foaming at the mouth for Silco! Go check them out!

The tension in the air was palpable. The weight of leadership pressed down on him, with the constant threat of enemies lurking in the shadows. Papers lay strewn across the desk, remnants of plans and schematics, while the glow of the single lamp highlighted the lines etched deeply into his face. The dimly lit office of the Last Drop provided no respite for the Eye of Zaun.

You entered the room quietly, footsteps barely audible against the worn floorboards. You had noticed the signs of stress in him—the way his jaw clenched, the furrow in his brow, and the way he stared at the papers without truly seeing them. Sure, you were his assistant and noticing these signs was apart of the job but recently the both of you had toeing the line of a relationship after a few dates and stolen kisses. So, was walking up to him and placing your firm hands on his shoulders apart of your job or was it your love for the scarred man that sat before you?

“Hey,” you said softly, breaking the silence. Silco looked up, his piercing gaze softening slightly at you presence. “You’ve been working too hard. How about a break?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, revealing the tension in his posture. “I can’t afford to rest right now, Y/N. There’s too much at stake.”

You stepped closer, eyes searching his. “I know, but you need to take care of yourself too. Let me help.”

Silco hesitated but eventually nodded, the flicker of gratitude hidden behind his usual stoicism. You moved behind him, hands warm and gentle as you placed them on his shoulders. “Just relax,” you instructed quietly.

As your fingers began to knead the tense muscles, Silco felt a wave of relief wash over him. You had a uncanny way of grounding him, of reminding him that even in the chaos, some respite may be found. It was part of the reason he was so drawn to you, how you seemed to quiet the incessant noise in his mind. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to sink into the moment as you worked the knots from his shoulders, touch firm yet soothing.

“You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, don’t you?” You murmured, voice a calming presence in the storm of his thoughts.

“Something like that,” he replied, his voice low. It was hard to let go, to admit that he needed this small reprieve, but the way your hands coaxed the tension away, one knot at a time, was perfect. He wouldn’t admit it aloud but he would often imagine how else your hands would feel raking down his chest. How it would sting, leave marks for him to wear secretly with pride. Would your hands feel just as good wrapped around his hardened length, Jana, he could see it now. 

You slolwy dragging the zipper of his suit pants down to let his cock spring free, marvelling at the sight, knowing that it was all for you. Wave of arousal pooling in your pants, leaving a wet spot he would surely tease you about later. His body tenses again, his breath getting caught in his throat, as you work out another knot in his back; unaware of his thoughts. His eyes would drift open to watch your actions, his gaze burning intoyour body with a mixture of desire and need. A low, guttural moan would part from his lips as you would start to pump his throbbing member, his hips instinctively bucking towards your touch. He's almost lost for words, the sensation overwhelming his senses, his mind clouded by a primal desire. He can barely think straight anymore, all his focus centered on you and what you're doing…should be to him right now. 

The strain in his pants is unbearable as he imagines all the filthy little things your hands could do to him. It was wrong, truly, to think such henious things of his assistant. But here you were, so perfect and obiedent, taking care of him like you loved him. 

You chuckled softly, you fingers digging into a particularly tight spot. “You know, you could always delegate a bit more work to others. Trust others to handle things.”

“I trust you,” he said, surprising himself with the quickness of his reply. Had you noticed the way his eyes dialated, how his trousers had a large indent? “You should charge for this,” he quipped, maybe bringing the topic back to its origin would save him from embarrasment. 

“Only if you promise to take me out for dinner afterward,” you replied, playful tone lightening the atmosphere. But then, he could feel your hot breath on the shell of his ear. You leaned down, lips ghosted over his face as one of your hands stopped its ministrations to slowly wander its way down his chest, his belt buckle; settling at the zipper of his pants. “And if you promise to let me make you feel as relaxed as possible, boss.”

Oh, how could he deny you?

[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. [read part 1 here!] (please)

You decide June looks good on Acros. Unlike in Cotria, now sure to be perspiring with tourists, the downtown here is comfortable, inviting, even. At home, you’d be shoulder-to-shoulder with three other people right now. 

This is one of the things you like about this country: it seems to be intentionally idyllic. It’s becoming more clear to you that Joshua’s parents weren’t actually in need of anything from you other than a status boost. You suppose they’re learning the hard way what exactly that comes with.

Jeonghan’s car, or rather, the car Jeonghan happens to be in (he couldn’t drive his way out of a paper bag, try as he might), pulls up to the curb. He’s fresh off a stint of good press, meaning months of speeches, ribbon cutting, and run-ins with parliament and journalists and business moguls all vying for a bite of a future king. You’d add yourself to that list, but you know you’re at the back of the line—you practically live there now, but you’re not sure if things could have happened any other way. 

You watch him step out of the van, never windblown even though he likely just got off a flight. Always with a smile, too, one tired but recognizable, so different from the plasticky ones he wears on TV. 

The first thing he does when he gets out is throw his arms open for a bear hug. “Hey, cricket,” he says, voice wrought with jet-lag. “Missed you.” 

“Glad you had time for one more stop,” you murmur, squeezed into the million-thread count of his shirt. 

“I always have time for you,” he replies, which is decidedly untrue, but you don’t have it in you to say that. All you do lately is get into arguments, and you’re not looking to add your brother to your hit list. 

(He hugs Jihoon, too, since you all practically grew up together. Is that your gun, or are you just happy to see me? Jeonghan jokes. Jihoon’s reply: It’s my gun. It’s always my gun.) 

The second thing he does is push the brim of your baseball cap down.

“The paps,” he warns, as if they were the boogeyman.  

“If they can’t recognize us, they need to get better at their job.” Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “For God’s sake, Jeonghan, we’re all wearing matching hats.” 

No, you are not kidding. Jeonghan, blue, you, red, and Jihoon, green, a la The Powerpuff Girls, which was a joke you made about six years ago and could not let go of. 

“Whatever,” he laughs. “Aren’t you supposed to be showing me around? This is your domain now.” 

“Don’t get excited. I just got here.” 

“What do you need to go shopping for, anyway?” he asks, now walking side-by-side with you. 

“I ask that question every day,” Jihoon replies, glancing at Jeonghan as if to say Women, right?, save for the fact that the both of them have exactly zero game. 

“Somi’s birthday!” you exclaim, two ticks too loudly. “Stuff, I dunno. Just trying to get used to this place.” 

“This isn’t exactly Rodeo Drive, you know.” 

That, Jeonghan is right about. You’re sure there must be a shopping district somewhere in Acros, but definitely not here. Here, the streets are lined with dense cherry plum trees, wine-stained and fragrant. They frame driftwood-paneled shop windows housing kitschy art galleries, mom-and-pop bakeries, and patioed bistros with striped awnings. 

An elderly couple passes you. They smile and wave, visible even under the shade of their parasol, either blissfully unaware of your status or too wise to care. 

“I know,” you waver. “Whatever. I'll just get Yunjin to find me something for the party.” 

Your eye wanders to the jaunty facade of a music store. The sign flaunts handmade, cursive letters with a curly treble clef in the lacquer of old paint. In Cotria, the same sign would be neon, Hollywood-esque, vain. 

“Party?” 

“Let's go there,” you interrupt, hoping to run your big mouth over with some more talking. Of course Jeonghan wouldn’t be cool with any party, nonetheless the one Somi was planning on throwing, but, either by habit or wishful thinking, the news just tumbled right out of you. 

“Party?” Jeonghan repeats. He trails close after you, hoping to grab the door before you can. Such is what he had been taught, after all, which came more naturally than navigating big-brotherhood. “Jihoon?”

Jihoon shrugs, and opens the door before the both of you get there. You’ve trained him well. 

“It’s a small thing,” you tell him. “Close friends only.” It’s not technically a lie—small is relative, and it’s not your fault Somi has two hundred-some close friends.

Inside, you notice the shop is bigger than it looks from the outside. In the front, their nicest pianos: the glossy Yamahas, the baby grands. a lone drum set, on sale, the hi-hat sparkling under the LED lights. And finally, guitars hung from the wall like posters, some lime green and child-sized, others sanded down so the mahogany glows. 

“You already know what I’m going to say,” Jeonghan says, the lilt of his voice verging on not-so-casual. 

“Then don’t say it,” you reply flatly. “You went to those parties too, by the way.” 

“Used to, but—” Jeonghan sighs because he’s beat, and he knows it. 

You absentmindedly flip through a book of sheet music—Alfred's Essentials of Music Theory. behind it, 40 Taylor Swift Songs for Piano. 

“You’ve been good, I hope?” you cut in. “Not too tired?” 

“No,” Jeonghan says.  “I've been great. You?” 

You can’t read his expression. Old Jeonghan would tell you that he’s ready for a nap, that he hates sleeping on airplanes, that his hands still get sweaty when he gets in front of a crowd and the camera flash hurts his eyes. New Jeonghan never complains, either because of some drastic change in his character or because he feels like he can no longer complain to you. Both hurt your feelings in equal measures.

“I called, you know.” 

“I was busy, cricket.” He holds up a copy of Complete Advanced Piano Solos and wrinkles his nose. He's hoping you’d laugh with him about it, but you’ve already moved on, now fixated on the shining columns of electric guitars. “I wanted to ask about, you know, all the new stuff going on.” 

“You mean my arranged marriage?” The words feel stiff in your mouth. 

The arranged marriage I'm doing for you? I split my heart open for you, and that’s the thanks I get? 

You avoid Jihoon’s tentative glare to look at your noodled reflection in the polish of a red Fender. You think of Joshua, of a corny rendition of Here Comes The Sun and a pick between his teeth, cradling a guitar held by a linty, ten dollar strap. 

Then you think of what he said on that piano bench—that somehow he could have prevented this. Actually, this might have been all your fault. One too many shots, and you ended up setting feminism back five centuries. 

“Y-yeah.” You watch Jeonghan’s silhouette appear behind yours. “Has it been okay, at least?” 

Okay is a complicated word to use. It’s hard to say, even for you. 

It would certainly be TMI to tell Jeonghan that you’ve been kissing a lot more often. First it was under the flimsy guise of practice—We have to be ready for our dinner tomorrow, Joshua had said, to which you readily agreed. You couldn’t be the unwilling victim of another headline like KISS OR MISS! It would be terrible for your ego, even more so than your public image. 

Yesterday, though, as you were winding down for bed, Joshua had come out of the shower, damp white tee and all. A sorry, unspeakable part of you willed you to posit—Hey, maybe we need a refresher? You couldn’t even get halfway through your sentence. Hell, his glasses even came off.

You really only liked each other past 9 PM—you still couldn’t quite manage to get through a conversation like normal people. At this point, you had a 50/50 split in terms of who would cast the first terrible stone of petty disagreement. The only thing we have going for us is a dubious physical attraction, seemed like way more of a mouthful than okay, though. 

“Yeah, it’s been okay.” You look around. There's a decent amount of mediocre acoustic guitars on the back wall, more than enough to scratch the itch of someone too afraid to defile something more honorable. “Hey, don’t wait up for me. I think i might buy something.” 

—

[august 10, 2:57 pm; a dress fitting. 

In the ten-foot mirror of the boutique dressing room, you watch Yunjin yank the ties of your corset into a punishing knot. Your mother watches behind you, perched on the chaise. 

“Regal and radiant,” she reads aloud, the shiny cover of a magazine between her hands. “Finally, some good news.” 

“About you and Joshua?” Yunjin asks. 

“Ye–ow!” you wince. “Yeah. We went out to dinner yesterday.” 

The dinner: an exhausting, stuffy affair at an Italian restaurant with two Michelin stars. You came in a nice dress, Joshua in slacks and his best button-up. Smile, wave, a kiss on the cheek. You fed him a spoonful of dessert, a stiff, too-sweet panna cotta. It was either raspberry or strawberry—you were too distracted to really notice. Instead, you’d been practicing the steps, the motions of a true love. 

Should we hold hands over the table? Joshua had asked. 

I don't think we have to. Your hand had curled over the napkin on your lap, as if the thought of his touch physically stung. 

“This is a nice color,” your mother interrupts. She pinches the fabric of the skirt up at your waist, watching the way it bunches over your hips. “It's suitable.” 

Suitable. Right. The dress for your engagement ball, suitable. Just like you, newly suited for the engagement. 

You watch your image in the mirror. It’s taller, more regal, likely the product of Yunjin squeezing all the air out of you, Or worse, the penetrating gaze of your mother over the top of the tabloid.

You blink hard; you waver. ]

[august 20, 10:13 pm; a quiet return to acros after a day at the beach with somi and soonyoung. 

The castle sleeps, warm under the soft glow of candlelight on marble. You pad through the halls, carefully, as to avoid waking the entire country with the thwacks of your still-wet sandals. Hopefully Joshua is sleeping. He'd certainly ask questions, either about if bikini tops really need all that padding or what the SPF of your sunscreen was. 

You approach your room, where the lamplight from the cracked door oozes into the hallway. There's a determined rustling noise coming from the interior. Incriminating. Holding your breath, you cast a long glance into the thin slice of bedroom you can see from where you’re standing. 

There sits Joshua, cross-legged on the bed. Between his legs, the guitar you bought him. It must have finally shipped. He’s tied the gift ribbon it came with to the guitar strap, a woven linen with an offensively bright jacquard pattern. 

A hesitant A major chord, then G major, offkey. Hm, he hums aloud. Then you notice his phone propped on a pillow, a Youtube tutorial rumbling in the background. He tries the G major again. Better, he says, pumping a fist into the tired air. 

God, what a dork, you think. But you don’t walk away.] 

– 

From the garden, the Acrosian moon renders the city blue, like ink from a spilled well. 

It’s quiet out here, you notice. The forest spills into the sky, and the scent of roses lies heavy on your skin. You’re seated on the bench beneath the sculpted gazebo, a worthy centerpiece, and you revel in the coolness of the granite, the bated still of the air. You like this garden better than the one at home, although it’s entirely possible that you’ve been conditioned into hating all topiaries, no thanks to your parents. 

It's only when you hear the quiet click of footsteps behind you that you realize you’ve lost track of how long you’ve been outside. You’re now able to tell them apart–these, Joshua’s, steady and purposeful, sound like they have a heartbeat. 

You don’t turn around to greet him. “So you finally had enough, huh?” you ask instead, sliding to the left so he can sit beside you. 

“How'd you know?” he chuckles. 

“I'd like to think I know at least a little about you.” 

“I appreciate it,” is his reply, surprisingly warm.

Just a few hours earlier, your parents had come to visit. They cooed and giggled and connived alongside Joshua’s parents before launching into a very long, very serious discussion about your engagement ball. You’ve learned not to sweat the small stuff, the small stuff being the color of the napkins, the members of the string quartet, the hors d'oeuvres. But then it got weird: the symbolism of the color of your nail polish, which journalists were allowed to watch you make out, when and how Jeonghan was supposed to announce his presence during all of this. 

Then things got critical, which really sucked. No one was safe this time, not even Joshua. You lasted about an hour, Joshua about forty-five minutes more. You wonder what his breaking point was. Maybe it was his mother finally telling him off for having more than three buttons undone whenever he wore a dress shirt. 

In the silence, you feel an inexplicable peace. Maybe this is the only time you can get along; underneath the same moon, the same stars, the divide doesn’t feel quite as wide. You let your mind clear, first, past the fog of Somi’s birthday bash, glittery and blinding in your mind’s eye, past Jeonghan’s tired shoulders in the music store, past all the magazine covers and photo ops. The heavy reality feels heavier in your stomach, but you’re no longer as scared, although resignation looks like acceptance when you whittle it close enough to the bone. 

“Have you ever been in love before?” 

Joshua’s voice is so low, it takes you by surprise. You look to your side and see his eyes, shaded by the long curl of his lashes, trained on the sky, his expression unreadable. There’s a piercing sincerity to it, one you haven’t seen before. 

“No,” you reply, the answer coming to you faster than any regret ever could. “How could i?” 

“So all the boyfriends before, just…?” he trails off. He's referencing the magazines, all the covers with full size photos of you and the model of the month holding hands by the riviera, sharing a martini, kissing outside a nightclub. There are too many to remember, but you’re surprised he’s aware of any at all. 

“It was just stupid fun. I dunno. We hung out, had sex, whatever. It was never serious. I didn't tell them about anything at all; I was okay with them not really knowing me, at least, not as anything other than a party girl, the runaway princess, etcetera. We didn’t owe each other anything.” 

“Sounds lonely.” 

“Sometimes,” you answer. “But it was fun. I don't regret it. I just never saw room for them in all of this.” 

Joshua hums, low and deep. 

“And you?” you ask, incredulous. “In love?” 

“In university,” he says after a brief pause. “There was a girl. I think I loved her more than I had ever loved anything else before.” 

“What? Who?” you interrupt. “Do I know her?” 

“No.” Then, a quiet chuckle. “No one did. She was a civilian, a normal girl. She wanted to be a biologist, I think. it was either that, or a nurse. We snuck around a lot. Probably more than you did.” 

“Can I ask what happened?” 

“I told her I'd marry her. I thought if I wanted it enough, it would happen. I'd go to my parents, profess my love, and all our rules would fall away somehow. Just like that.” 

Suddenly, it feels like there is a gaping wound in your chest. Every new word seems to draw the bloody edges of your skin further apart. 

“Well, they didn’t,” Joshua continues. “I broke her heart. and I learned that all of this would never go away. Not for love, not for anything.” 

There is an impossible hollowness inside you. You imagine Joshua, twenty-one and bright-eyed at Cambridge, hiding beneath the arch of the cobblestone bridge, the long one behind the quad, to carve hearts into the limestone. There's a girl wrapped in his jacket, her laughter like bells. She draws him close, runs a delicate hand through his hair, a shorter cut, more sporty than it is now. The night is still just as kind, forgiving, as it is now, and the moon still round like a young pearl. 

“And that’s why you’re…you know.” You pause. The words all feel stuck to the roof of your mouth. “You like the rules.” 

“Because it would mean that it didn’t end in vain. That it wasn’t really my fault.” 

“You don’t want to mess up again. I get it.” 

“Yeah.” 

You notice your arms are touching, that they have been touching. Somehow, you don’t want to move away. 

“Why are you telling me this?” you ask.

“Not sure.” Joshua sighs, having fully abandoned the filter he normally speaks to you through. “I don't think we’re so different. I don't know. It feels good to tell someone.” 

“Do you still love her?” 

“No. I don't think I can.” 

“I'm sorry,” you swallow, feeling the familiar lump in your throat. 

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.”

It’s getting cold, the twilight breeze now coming in from the sea. A silence, now sticky, caustic, settles between the two of you. The thought of Joshua, hopelessly in love, a line you hadn’t even dared to cross, seems to wind itself deep into your neurons. 

“No really,” you insist. “I'm sorry. I gave you a hard time—no, I've been giving you a hard time. I didn't know.” 

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“What?” 

“Be nice to me. No one’s watching.” 

“I know,” you say, a foolish conviction rising in your stomach. You almost feel silly, juvenile, for never really baring your heart like how he had. You’re not sure which was worse. 

You turn to look at him, really look at him. He's framed by the haze of the violets, the gentle curtain of the willows. 

“Says the real you?” Joshua asks.

“Yup,” you laugh. “Usually is. You probably get the worst of it, to be honest.” 

“She’s not so bad.” He returns your gaze; it’s honest, unsearching. “According to the real me, by the way.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

There are no words left. In fact, nothing quite says more than the way you now sit together, hands close enough to touch, without quarrel, complaint, or a yearning to prove yourself to some invisible standard. Instead, you enjoy the quiet calm, the way it drapes itself across the garden, the city, the quick of your heart. Now that you think about it, it’s the first time you’ve been able to do this without feeling like you were putting on a show.

This time, you think it’s real when you lean against his shoulder, and he leans back, chasing your warmth.

And it certainly seems to stay real when your hands find each other. You realize he does it the same way every time—the gentle skim of his fingertips down your hand before your palms meet, gently, forthright. 

And it’s here, in the uncertain glow of the summer moon, where you think you’re the closest to ever knowing just what Joshua had been talking about earlier. 

His hand curls around your cheek, holding you, wanting to see you clearer still, and he kisses you. It's not the practiced motion of an ill-conceived love, nor a hungry, blind stumble in your unlit bedroom. No, this time, it's as if you are being drawn back, wonderfully, slowly. Joshua kisses you as if it's the first time, as if to undo all the other times.

And somehow, almost by magic, the fountain song and the phantom photographers, the parents and the press, the world and everything in it, finally draw quiet. 

–

“So,” Jihoon says, reloading his pistol. “You ok? Don’t you hate the range?” 

You push your earmuffs aside to hear him better. “What?” 

“I said, don’t you hate the range?” 

“Well,” you balk. Jihoon puts the gun down and leans against the booth, looking at you from behind the glare of his safety glasses. Behind him is the paper target of a man with five bullet holes through his head. “I think I've gotten used to it.” 

This is all true—you did hate the range, but it’s where you can always count on finding Jihoon on a Sunday afternoon. Better people went to church, but Jihoon preferred to terrorize the poor center circle of a bullseye. 

“Hm.” He picks up the pistol again, stares down its iron sights. “Somi need anything for her birthday?” 

“She needs a new man,” you reply, and Jihoon laughs. 

Bang. Bang. 

“But, no, I'm getting her that vintage Cartier watch she’s been wanting forever. They were auctioning it off in Paris.” 

“Right, since it’s time for her to get a new boyfriend,” Jihoon deadpans, although he can’t quite get it out before he chuckles. “What about Soonyoung?” 

“They cannot get together. You’re just being messy.” 

“Sure, I'm the messy one. Didn’t they sleep together?” 

“That was, like, two years ago. Drunk.” 

Bang. Then a click–the clip’s empty. “By the way—you decided if you’re going to Cotria this weekend? Jeonghan will be back again, you know.” 

You pause, watching Jihoon reload the magazine, shiny bullet by bullet. You definitely know Jeonghan’s coming home—minus all the time you spend on Find My Friends, you were always acutely aware of when he was in town. The real question is if you wanted to see him again. Usually, you’d count down the days, make plans at all your favorite restaurants, buy a bottle of cheap wine to split over a shitty Godzilla movie. That was when you still talked. 

The last time you saw him was when he visited you in Acros. After the music store, you milled around a couple shops, walked through an art gallery. (Remember when you got lost at the Prado? he had asked. You were staring at that painting with all the butts. 

Kinda, you had replied noncommittally. All Jeonghan did lately was start his sentences with remember, like he wanted you to forget who he was now.) 

“I dunno,” is what you land on. “I'm busy.” 

“Well, Jeonghan asked me.” Jihoon takes down his old target and sets up a fresh one, another formless, black silhouette. 

“Asked you what?”

“If I could ask you to come.” 

“Does Josh know?” 

“He actually already helped with arrangements for you to go back,” Jihoon replies, palming the gun again. “He said only if you wanted to, though.” 

The tightness in your chest seems to coil over itself once more. Joshua had asked you about Jeonghan over breakfast one morning, before handing you a coffee and a croissant to soften the blow. You had been talking a lot more lately, which, somehow, you didn’t mind. If he wasn’t making fun of you, he was actually a decent listener. 

You watch Jihoon steady his arms. 

Bang. Bang. Bang. 

–

Like all of your great ideas, it began in the back of a car. 

Surprising, maybe. Accidental? Never. 

You’re getting ahead of yourself, though. It really started earlier tonight, at the charity event you attended with Joshua. 

Lesser beings would blame the wine, a cheap chardonnay only fit for sorority girls on a Friday night. Naturally, you and Joshua were responsible for downing about half the bottle—a fun amount, you’d like to say, although you admit you were surprised at your date’s ability to hold his alcohol. 

You, however, can peg the real culprit: a reasonably slutty dress, removed from the annals of Somi’s closet, back when she was less of a Paris Hilton and more of a Princess Diana. 

The evidence: damning. As you were getting ready—Can you zip me up? you had asked Joshua, fiddling with the rollers in your hair, already a generous ten minutes late. Then the slow, lingering skim of his touch, molasses up the hollow of your spine. At dinner, a warm hand on your knee. You didn’t hang around much longer after that, but walking to the car was a wondrous excuse for the flat of his palm to find the small of your back, fondly, comfortably, as if you had known each other for years. 

Since you had spoken in the garden, certainly you had acted like more of a couple. It came more naturally, likely due to the fact that you had no idea if you were actually a couple or not. You suppose it doesn’t matter at the end of the day. Well—sort of.

Now, you’re just being obtuse. What you’re really trying to do is explain how your hand found its way down Joshua’s pants in the back of your limousine. And still, found is too generous of a word. But you digress. 

The short version: you kissed Joshua. Jihoon parked the car out back, you had gotten tired of Joshua glancing at you through the side of his eyes, and you kissed him. Regrettably, this hasn’t gotten boring yet. You enjoy the way he searches for your touch, the part of his soft lips. 

Sometime between the third and the tenth time your tongue found its way into Joshua’s mouth, Jihoon removed himself from the situation—he was always good at that part. Two wandering hands later, your palm skimmed over the front of Joshua’s slacks. No big deal, except he was half-hard and he moaned in your mouth like he was doing the ad-libs in a Cupcakke song. 

“Whoops,” you had babbled. This whole night, you’d been searching for the brakes on the clown car winding through the horny fog of your horrible, vexed mind. 

“Fuck, sorry,” Joshua replied just as quickly, the words seeming to slip back down his throat. 

Then you had stared at each other and blinked, hard, as if that would erase the fact that, one, the prince of Acros had just cursed approximately half an centimeter from your face, and two, you’d now crossed a bridge that could not be uncrossed. 

You could no longer lie to yourself about the fact that you are hopelessly attracted to Joshua. You don’t even know if you want to lie anymore. You still thought of the time you ran into him, birthday suit and all, all those weeks ago in the bathroom. And, yes, you had wondered how big he was, although you blame Somi for planting that evil idea in you. 

Hence, with God as your witness (since Jihoon was no longer there), you had said, “I can help, you know. If you want.” 

You didn’t expect Joshua to nod so quickly. Then again, you now know yourself to be a poor judge of most things, especially ones relating to whatever this is. 

“Do you want to?” he had asked, eyes fogged over. 

“Yes. really.” Then you stopped. “Is this your first—”

“No. Does it really seem like it?” 

Okay. You’ll have to unpack that later. 

So, finally, here you are. Somewhere along the line, your shame had fallen to the wayside, and a new desire now rocks you. 

“Could’ve just asked earlier,” you tease, thumbing the buckle of Joshua’s belt. 

“Should’ve known you’re not one for subtlety,” he laughs softly, his eyes fixed on how you undo the clasp. It’s a silly comment, but all the blood still rushes to your cheeks at the idea of him wanting you not just now, but all night. “Next time.” 

“Really now.” The button at his waistband proves difficult with your new nails, so you instead sit your hand on the tent in his pants, palm him over the fabric. “You’d let me do this in the washroom of a charity ball?”

Delightfully, you watch him squirm. He doesn’t fight you, instead, uses his hands to bring you closer so you can feel his voice on your skin. “You’d be surprised,” he replies. 

“His highness,” you say before returning to the wretched button, “Fooling around at a formal event? Scandalous.” 

“Says the walking scandal,” Joshua laughs again, nipping at your earlobe. Then a sigh, breathy and tortured, as you finally peel back his slacks. 

“Isn’t this about the time where you be quiet and let me do my thing?”

“Is that an order?” 

“Yeah, since you seem to like them so much.” 

He opens his mouth to complain, but you’ve beaten him to the punch. Skin meets skin; you watch his eyes flutter shut, the slow fall of his shoulders as he exhales. 

Fuck, you think to yourself. If that’s all it takes for him to get hard— you force the thought back to where it came from. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Already, you’re reveling in the lewd image before you: the nation’s darling prince, legs spread and slack-jawed in the back of a limo, dizzy at the thought of a pretty girl playing with his cock. 

Your hand wraps around his length, pulls it out of his briefs. Feeling the weight, heavy and warm on your palm, makes your skin prickle. He is big, but even if he wasn’t, the way he gasps into your ear when you start pumping him is enough to satisfy. 

You start slow, just to be a little mean. He's longer than you expected, you realize. A turn of the wrist at the base, a little more pressure, and you hear him groan, loudly, shamelessly, as he tips his head back. 

“Feels good?” you ask, voice lower than a whisper. You know it does—you’re not inexperienced by any stretch of the imagination, but something about turning the prince into putty makes the months of horrible foreplay worth it. 

“Yeah,” he says, part sigh. “Really good.” 

“Good.” Then you hold out your palm in front of his mouth. You tell yourself it’s a litmus test for his freak-o-meter, but there’s a part of you that wants to make this the best handjob of his short, unexciting life. 

First, he looks at you, wide eyes unblinking. There's already a flush, pretty and pink, across his cheeks, the column of his neck. Then, it clicks. He spits into your hand, and you watch it trail down the plush curve of his lips, his chin, the ridge of his adam’s apple. The color spreads to his ears; his mouth twists shyly. Oh, he looks perfect, maybe even more than perfect like this. 

As if drawn by a magnet, you kiss him, and your hand finds his cock again. The friction alone draws out a low whine from Joshua’s chest, enough for you to feel the sound on your own tongue. Emboldened, you pump faster, harder, loving the way his hips kick up to meet your touch. 

Still, he gives no indication that he’s close. Something tells you he has more stamina than you think, which surprises you. Thirty minutes ago, you thought he was a virgin. 

“Josh?” you murmur, your lips brushing over his. “Wanna taste you.” 

He meets your gaze, expression unreadable. You think maybe you’re moving too fast, that you’ve crossed some sort of boundary, until you feel the shadow of his hand move, first on your waist, then up the back of your neck. He gathers your hair in one hand, easily, as if he’s done this many a time before, and you get the message. 

You wet your lips, swollen at this point, and bow your head. You’re running on something crazier than adrenaline at this point—even seeing the bead of precum at his tip is making your jaw feel heavy. 

The first taste, always thrilling, sends sparks to your cunt. You seal your lips around his cockhead, feeling its weight on your greedy tongue, and he pulls your hair just enough to make you moan. 

“Were you thinking about doing this all night?” Joshua asks, voice deceptively innocent. 

You can’t answer. You don’t want to. He tastes good, he even fucking smells good, and you want him bad. Instead, you take him to the base, feel him bump against your palate as you try not to gag. You can’t fit him all the way, so your hands make up the slack. He's even bigger fully hard, and already, you feel the ache in your cheeks, your temples. 

“Fuck, you must have been.” A groan, low and slutty. “Doing so good for me.”

You can’t tell if he’s being genuine or if this is his version of dirty talk, but it’s working. His hand is gentle, restrained behind you, letting you lead. The worse part of you wonders what it would take for him to break, but that’s a project for another time. 

Honestly, he doesn’t need to do much—again and again, you chase the feeling of his cock deep in your throat, enough to bruise. You don’t even care if you gag around him; when you do, he pulls your hair back, just enough to make your scalp prickle wonderfully, seemingly oblivious to the fact that you like it. 

You feel heady with arousal. You start to wonder how he is in bed, if he’d hold your hair like that, run his mouth like he is now. He's vocal, more than anyone else you’ve been with, and every little noise goes straight to your core, makes your thighs squeeze together pathetically. By now, you’re sure you’ve ruined this set of panties. 

“ ‘m close,” he says between breaths. “You don’t have to—” 

Stupid, stupid boy, you think. You don’t think you’ve wanted to do anything more. So instead of answering, you look up at him, eyes big and watery, and you suck hard. with your tongue nestled underneath his cockhead, right by the vein, it’s almost too easy. 

He groans, loud, satisfied, and you feel his release fill your mouth. Even after swallowing, it’s enough to run down your chin, get your makeup all smudged, and you like it. If you weren’t in trouble already, you are now. 

“Ah, I made you a mess,” Joshua says, gravelly and intimate. With one hand, he takes the handkerchief out of his suit jacket and cradles your jaw with the other. “Hold still.” 

“You,” you manage after clearing your throat. “You don’t have to sacrifice your pocket square.” 

“Yes, I do,” he chuckles. He wipes the corners of your mouth, your aching chin, and it almost makes you cry. “You literally gave me head in the back of a car. The pocket square can go.” 

He draws you up to his chest so you can rest your head on him. There’s a warm, melty feeling between your ribs, minus what you had just swallowed. Inexplicably, even as the horny fog clears from your brain, you still want to be close, closer than close and then closer still. 

“Head? I don’t like hearing you use normal people slang.” You pout, and you feel his laugh radiate from beneath his skin. “Good head, at least?” 

“Oh, please. Better than good,” he answers. “You’re perfect. perfect.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you start. Then he shuts you up with his mouth over yours, and you forget to think about liking him, loving him, or marrying him—this, you think you can do. 

—

“We’re in Barcelona!” 

You’re greeted by a pocket sized Somi and Soonyoung as they grin at you from your phone screen. They look to be on the balcony of a hotel suite, both wearing their matching silk robes. 

“Wow,” you reply. “And where was my invite?” 

“We did invite you, bitch,” Somi says, pulling down her sunglasses to look at you. “You said you were busy.” 

“Well, I mean…” you uncap a bottle of nail polish. “That's not untrue.”

“The ocean needs you,” Soonyoung whines, clutching his chest. “We need you.” 

“I'm sorry! Josh and I have been doing engagement stuff.” 

“Josh? Since when were you on a nickname basis?” 

“Whatever,” you interrupt. “What are you guys gonna do today?” 

“Beach,” Soonyoung responds brightly, with Somi’s Don’t let her change the subject! loud in the background. 

To be honest, you don’t even know the answer to her question. It just sort of happened, which seems to be the new normal for you. You’re also trying to pull apart last night–the freak-o-meter test came back inconclusive, and, for some reason, Joshua fell asleep with his arm over your middle. (Actually, you can think of a few reasons why he did that, but you’re not really sure how to feel about any of them.) 

“Ugh, I miss you guys.” You wipe at your pinkie toe, having smudged the polish beyond repair. “Drink a little extra sangria for me. And by little, I mean a lot.”  

“You’re still coming to Somi’s birthday, right?” Soonyoung asks.

“Yes, of course she is,” Somi replies. “Unless you can’t. Which I totally understand.”

“I still can,” you lie. “It just has to be more low-key than usual.” 

“No paparazzi,” Somi says. “And I'll tell everyone to keep you on the down low. Super duper down low.” 

“No way.” Damn, you curse to yourself—you keep screwing up painting your big toe. “Seriously?”

“Anything for my queen,” she giggles. “Pitbull is also confirmed, by the way. Secret Pitbull now.” 

“Good, because that’s the only reason I’m coming.” 

“Boo, you whore.” Somi wrinkles her nose at you playfully. (Is she being serious? Soonyoung asks in the background.) “Also, I'm still waiting for my update on the whole prince thing. I've been very patient.”

“No updates. Nothing to report,” you insist. Frustratingly, your cheeks are hot, like you’re in secondary school all over again. 

“You fucked him, huh?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. 

“Halfway. Maybe.” 

The combined sound of Somi and Soonyoung’s gasps rips apart your phone speakers, and you draw in a big breath. I did it for the plot doesn’t quite seem like the right justification, not like it used to be. The plot never used to involve the M word, love, or any sort of feelings at all. Now things are more confusing than late-stage Grey’s Anatomy, but good luck explaining that over the phone.

“So you do like him,” Soonyoung says, saucer eyes sparkly on-screen.

“I don't know,” you answer. It’s true, you don’t. To you, like was flirting over text and french kissing. Paradoxically, you had told Joshua all of that, and he still decided to do whatever he did to you on the ledge of the fountain all those days ago. It felt like he ate the heart right out of your chest. Then you had to go and suck his dick, which never made anything less complicated. 

“Oh please. Look at you,” Somi laughs. “Yeah, you do.” 

Fuck. You’ve smudged all the polish off your big toe again. 

– 

Not much surprises you these days, but you can’t say you were expecting to see your riding boots to be the first thing you see when you arrive home in Cotria. 

The second thing you see is Jeonghan, smiling at you in his big, stupid riding helmet, camo-printed because he bought it when he was 15 and his head never grew much bigger since. 

“For old times sake?” He then holds your own helmet up by the straps, and whatever twinge of annoyance you had felt earlier makes way for something softer, more forgiving. “Everything's set up outside.” 

It doesn’t take you much time to take him up on the offer. If anything, a long ride usually solves all your problems, and you definitely have problems that need solving. 

You saddle up in the stables, wordlessly, moved by habit. It seems to be the same for Jeonghan, too. Even Peanut acts like it hasn’t been years since he’s seen him, and he noses at the box of sugar cubes like he always does. Then again, horses don’t hold grudges, at least, not like you do. Even Joshua seemed more optimistic about this encounter than you did. 

“So you're back back,” you say, hooking your feet in the stirrups. “Or do you have more jet-setting to do?” 

“Back back,” Jeonghan replies. “Missed home too much.” 

He cocks his head towards the old riding trail, the one that loops the long way through the woods. The gesture is but a formality—it’s the only path you ever take. Still, you follow behind his horse, watching the beige swoosh of Peanut’s tail the same way you did when you were a little girl and things were far simpler than they are now. 

Under the cornflower sky of a near-autumn, the forest seems endless. A flock of geese split the sky in two; a warm breeze haunts the canopy, scattering the afternoon light. The dirt under you is soft, peaty from the morning rain. The hoofbeats are silent today. 

Jeonghan’s horse slows so that you ride side-by-side. 

“Hey, cricket?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I…” Jeonghan clears his throat and pauses, quite unlike him. “I wanted to come out here to talk.” 

“Everything ok?” 

“Yeah, I…” Another pause. “I know things haven’t felt normal between us. For me, at least.” 

You almost drop the reins. A strange, floating feeling is set off in your body, like a flare. 

“Yeah,” you reply. “I was kinda hoping you would say that.” 

“I'm sorry.” A hard swallow. “I haven't really been the best brother, have I?” 

“Well, not…not really.” Quickly, frenetically, words bob up in the back of your mouth like you’re playing whack-a-mole. You had been waiting for this conversation to happen for so long, you realized you hadn’t planned much further than that. “It felt like you’d changed. A lot.” 

The wind feels like ribbons around you. You sway back and forth on Astrid, as if on a boat. 

“Was it the birthday party thing?” you ask. “I didn’t mean for it to…you know.” 

“Actually, that was my fault.” Jeonghan smiles bitterly. “I shouldn't have let Mom and Dad run me over like that. You should’ve been there. It was never really the same without you.” 

“Well, I should've come,” you admit. “So we both fucked up.” 

“Maybe,” he chuckles. “But the rest—definitely my fault. I made myself busy because I felt like I had to.” 

You’re growing to really hate that word. Jeonghan had to grow up, Joshua had to break up with his first love, you had to learn to pick up all the pieces of both of these things and try to fit them back into your life. 

“You didn’t even look back.” 

“I was scared, cricket. That if I kept looking back, I wouldn't be able to go forward. And I didn’t want to leave you behind, but I did. I think there was a happy middle somewhere, I just couldn’t find it.” 

“Jeonghan, you’re not really making sense right now,” you say, flattened, and he laughs. 

“I don't even know what I'm saying. I think I'm trying to say that I just want you to be happy. And that I'm sorry.” 

You bite your lip, as if to distract yourself from the strange pressure in your throat. You think you want to cry, but you’re not sure.

“But are you happy?” you ask. “With the coronation and everything? Did you even want this?” 

“I am, believe it or not. I know you don’t, but I'm not lying. Somewhere along the line, I started liking all of the talking, the traveling, the interviews. I like that I can help people. Some of it sucks, but not all of it.” He laughs, finally one that sounds like something you can remember. “Not everything you have to do is bad.” 

“Jeonghan, I'm getting married because of you. Because of this,” you say, trying to keep your voice from cracking. “I don't know how to do this. Any of this, not like you, not like Mom, or anyone.” 

This, in fact, does make Jeonghan stop. He stills and falls silent. At once, it seems the forest goes quiet too. 

“Don’t get married, then.” You don’t respond, so he says it again. “You don’t have to go through with it. Not for my sake, at least.” 

“What?” 

“I've been thinking about it ever since it happened. I can talk to everyone. You’d rather not be with the guy, right?”

Your tongue freezes in your mouth. You thought you had an answer, but it refuses to come out. 

“I have a duty to protect you, too. I’ll be fine with or without the press.” 

“Jeonghan,” you say quietly. Many moons ago, you would have laughed at the word duty, but instead, your stomach turns over and over and over. “You don’t have to.” 

“I want to,” is his simple answer. “I want to because I care about you. We can figure out the rest.” 

Something in your bones feels heavy. You’d also been waiting to hear those words, but it didn’t feel as freeing as you thought it would. You think about Joshua, his books and his perfectly placed bookmarks, his dumb dad jokes, the way he reaches for your hand, fingertips before palm. 

“Can I think about it?” 

“Of course. The engagement ball is probably happening either way, but it’s no big deal. Bigger engagements have been called off in far worse circumstances.” 

You’re having trouble believing him, but you have no other choice. Your life would certainly get a lot easier if everything were to just end. No more press releases, scripts, or awkward pictures. And no more worrying about if you could go out on the weekends or just how much of yourself to give up to make things work. 

“There's no rush.” He turns to look at you with the same wild shine in his eyes that you’d grown to miss so much. “Truce?”

That, somehow, you’re much happier to hear. You thought you’d be angrier than this, feel the usual metal-red of your gut, but all that’s left is a sobering feeling of relief, of home. At last, things feel close to normal. 

“Truce.” 

So you ride and ride, but a decision doesn’t come to you as easily as you thought. The sunset breaks; the word duty clings to you, unshakable, unrelenting. 

—

Somehow, you have gone full circle: at the end of a long day, you find yourself back at the piano, much like you did when you were seven, and the only thing you could do right was play Hot Cross Buns. 

Joshua had bought an unreasonable amount of music books, half guitar for him, half piano for you. You’d forgotten just how much you had liked playing until that night, many nights ago, when you and he had first muddled through that duet. 

Yesterday, you and your parents had tea at the waterfront before you had left the country. You were still undecided on the engagement; frustratingly, the needle hadn’t moved much in either direction since Jeonghan had raised his proposal to you. 

Congratulations, your mother had told you, right over her cup of oolong. 

For what? 

You’ve risen to the occasion. You’ve grown up. 

To you, this was not a compliment. You didn’t know what it was. You had twisted the ring on your finger, back and forth, a habit you picked up after all the time you spent wearing it. You wondered if somewhere, you had become exactly like Jeonghan, molded and spun into someone unrecognizable. Maybe that was why Joshua finally seemed to like you.

Have you practiced for your first dance? your father asked, and you no longer had time to worry about the state of your personality—you had other fires to put out. 

Really, that’s why you’re at the piano today. You thought you could play the damn tune and somehow remember all the ballroom dancing lessons you had taken when you were younger. Unsurprisingly, it hasn’t worked yet. 

There’s a knock at the doorframe. “Come in,” you say, already knowing that it’s Joshua. No one else does that; Jihoon barges in and just starts talking, and you can hear Joshua’s parents from a mile away because of all the jewelry they have on. 

“Just wanted to see what you were up to,” Joshua says. He leans against the frame of the piano, already dressed down for the night. 

“Nothing,” you reply. “Just magically hoping that I remember how to ballroom dance.” 

“Well, first things first, you can’t dance sitting down.” He chuckles, and you pull your lips tight. 

“I'm serious, Josh,” you whine. 

“You really don’t remember?” He gives you one of those looks, one that you’re quite used to now, with the judgmental wrinkle of the brow. “Didn’t you take lessons?” 

“Yeah, like…fifty million years ago.” 

“I couldn’t tell,” he says, grinning something foolish. “You don’t look a day over fifty.” Then he offers you his hand, which you take, and he easily pulls you from the bench. 

“Flattered,” you say, unable to push down the corners of your smile. “You gonna teach this senior citizen a few moves?” 

“Perhaps, as my good deed for the day.” He holds your hand, still firmly in his, and slides it up his arm to rest on his bicep. “Left hand here,” he tells you. 

“Are you flirting with me?” 

“Not yet,” Joshua laughs. “The ballroom hold ring a bell?” His other hand finds your free one, and you interlace fingers simply, easily. Then, the warmth of a hand between your shoulder blades, one that draws you to his chest. 

“I think the only dancing I know how to do is half drunk in the dark. Can’t exactly throw it back on you in front of God and country.” 

Joshua grins, a big one, and you, traitorously, feel your cheeks get prickly. 

“I wouldn't want God looking at you like that,” he teases. 

“And country’s already seen it all.” 

“They should consider themselves very lucky, then.” His eyes meet yours, lit by the scattered light of the chandelier. “It's my turn to ask you to let me lead.” 

“Fine,” you pout, noticing that familiar warmth in your stomach. 

Joshua begins to count your steps off (one, two, three—ow, that’s my foot! —sorry!). He’s patient with you, more patient than you think you deserve. His hand seems to slot perfectly into the curve of your back; his gaze settles onto you in a way that makes your chest feel heavy, molten. 

“For someone who goes out so much, you have a terrible sense of rhythm,” Joshua says, teasing. 

“Hey,” you object. “Maybe I just have a bad teacher.” 

“Oh, so it’s my fault now?” 

“Well, I'm not about to blame Britney Spears.” 

Joshua laughs, and the sound is so close to you, you can feel it on your skin. 

“I still think it’s the student’s fault.” 

“Me?!” Perfectly timed, your sock-clad feet collide (yours, striped and fuzzy, his, plain white). “Impossible.” 

“Too distracting,” he murmurs, and you notice how unfairly pretty his eyes are. “You bump into me, criticize me, you look at me like that…”

You feel dizzy. You don’t know what Joshua’s doing to you, but it’s mean. Your face is warm, and normally you’d blame it all on the alcohol but you haven’t had any. Worst of all, the soft part of you, the lizard-brained, impulsive part, can’t stop thinking about his lips and how they would feel on yours.

It’s a thought you don’t let linger, much like all of the other half-thoughts you have, and you kiss him, as if it was a reprieve from the terrible, horrible way he’s making you feel. (It isn’t.) 

“You talk too much,” you tell Joshua, right against his lips. “Not enough teaching.” 

“I'm putting you in remediation.” 

“Devastating.” 

“And giving you homework.” 

“Whatever shall I do?” 

Joshua answers that question for you. He kisses you, once, twice, still not enough, and, somehow, things feel more simple than they ever had before. 

—

Jihoon’s eyes are dark, dagger-sharp in the rearview mirror. 

“We’re coming up,” he says. “A few minutes out.” 

“I know,” you answer. Yunjin was successful, almost too successful, in her task of finding you an appropriately revealing dress for a newly engaged twenty-something at the party of the year. The filmy silk stretches around your thighs; the cowl neck flirts with the neckline of the bikini top you have on underneath. 

You look good, probably better than how you’ve looked in months. And yet, for some reason, you don’t feel good, at least, not how you’d thought you’d feel on the way to the only event you’d been looking forward to this year.

Somi’s gift rattles in your lap. It’s covered in this loud, hot pink wrapping paper unbecoming of something you had spent years tracking down on the antiques circuit. Normally, you’d have a laugh with Jihoon about it, maybe take some selfies in the car, but instead, you find yourself spinning your ring around your finger like you always seem to do these days.

You think of Jeonghan, of Joshua. Of course, what you do or don’t do on your best friend’s birthday is none of their business (although, very inconveniently, Jeonghan did have some event this weekend, and Joshua was traveling). But still, you think of the boldface headlines, the whispering gossip forums, the washed-out image of you in your little dress on the cover of a cheap magazine. This wasn’t exactly a tame party, and things weren’t just about you anymore, not like they used to be. 

Marking your arrival isn’t the GPS nor Jihoon, rather, it’s the firefly buzz of the cameras outside your limo as it’s forced to come to a stop. You squint, trying to see past the tint of your windows, and see Somi, radiant in her birthday tiara, as she pushes through the crowd. Behind her is the villa she rented, illuminated by pink and gold strobe lights. 

You crack open the car door and are met with a stifling deluge of camera flashes. Music pulses through the air, enough to feel beneath your heels. 

“Who's my favorite princess?” Somi exclaims, throwing her arms open. “You made it! you look hot.” 

“Not as hot as the birthday girl,” you reply, and you let her squeeze the air out of you in a wonderful, bone-crushing hug. “What's with all the cameras?” 

“Professional photographers. Just wanted something to remember the night by, because we are blacking out.” She giggles, already tipsy. “Come, come, we’re doing shots inside.” 

“Without me?” 

“We’ll catch you up.” 

Somi drags you by the hand through the sea of people, and you watch the cameras follow as they always do. She leads you up the stairs, underneath the towering balloon display, and into the foyer, already darkened, lit only by a disco ball chandelier and the neon backlights. 

You spot Soonyoung by a champagne tower that seems twice his size, as promised. He's in a leather jacket, no shirt under, and you watch his eyes light up as they meet yours. 

“A shot for her highness,” he shouts over the music. 

“I thought this was champagne.” 

“Tequila's close enough.” He laughs, eyes upturned, bright like gemstones. 

The first shot goes down easy. it always does. So does the second, unsurprisingly. Around the third is when Somi tells you that the strippers are coming in an hour. (—Strippers?! —Not everyone has a fiancé, you know.) 

And, just like that, you’re back to the beginning. It’s hard to think over the ridiculously good Kesha mix the DJ is playing, but, terribly, you think you’re starting to understand what Jeonghan was talking about. You’re still not sure how you feel about duty, responsibility, sacrifice, those heavy words that feel impossibly heavier in your mouth, but all you know is that, as much fun as you’re having now, it comes at a fair price. 

Somi told you nothing, no compromising pictures, no drama, would reach the press, but, as hard as she may try, you feel like enough people have laid eyes on you already that someone was bound to hear something. If not now, then definitely in a few hours when everyone’s on at least two and a half substances, and all bets are off.

Briefly, you recall your appearance at the derby, the memory like a shard of glass. You had stood guileless next to Joshua, tripping over your words because you hadn’t cared enough to read the damn briefing, and he had covered it up with a dad joke or two. Coming up with those abominations must have been hard enough for someone whose first book was the Oxford Dictionary, but you don’t even think God and all his angels could cover up this. More than that, the thought of everyone having to try anyway makes your gut twist. 

Someone tells you to smile for a selfie. You recognize her, but you don’t remember her name (Amelia or Alicia, one of Somi’s friend of a friends. On second glance, there are definitely more than 200 people here). Let's dance! another voice shouts in your ear. 

Your head hurts. You hate the idea that Jeonghan might be a little right, but you hate even more that you’re starting to agree with him. Maybe you need another shot. 

“Your gift,” you say, fighting over the chorus of Your Love Is My Drug. “Somi!” 

“Oh my god, you did not!” she squeals. She clasps her hands over yours, wrapped around the box, and draws them to her. “Let me take it to the table. I’ll meet you by the pool—oh, oh, there’s a hot dog stand out there too!”

“Actually,” you start. You’re not that drunk, not yet, but now you think you can feel the ground start to sway under you. it wouldn’t be too far a stretch to say that in half an hour, after a little time at the bar, you’d probably be spending the night, no question. “I think I have to run.”

“Aw, really?” Somi tilts her head and squints, as if trying to read your mind. 

“I am so sorry,” you tell her, as sincerely as one can over a pop song from the 2000s. “Swear I'll make it up to you.” 

“Life stuff, right?” 

“Yeah.”  

“It's ok,” she says. “Really really. Go home, figure your shit out, and we can have our own party.” 

She holds your joined hands to her heart. Whatever look you gave her, she believed. That, or she knows you better than you think. 

So you leave. The car ride home is silent. Jihoon doesn’t ask questions, and you can still hear the sound of the music ringing in your ears, on and on and on. 

– 

You think the worst thing you’ve ever woken up to was the Crazy Frog ringtone of one of the guys you had slept with during university. 

The second worst has got to be five voice memos and three consecutive missed Facetime calls from Somi, which is the first thing you see upon opening your eyes. 

“Oh fuck,” you murmur, still coming to. Your bed is empty, but you see Joshua's suitcase in the corner of the room. He must have come home early this morning, while you were still sleeping. 

You crack open your text messages. 

–OH MY GOD.

–I AM SO SO SORRY. 

–someone must have gotten paid off for last night’s pictures…i had no idea i swear 

Then a voice memo. Then another voice memo. then a PopCrave Twitter screenshot: YOU CAN TAKE THE PRINCESS OUT OF THE PARTY–OR CAN YOU? followed by the worst, most incriminating photo of you and Soonyoung, arms linked, throwing back a shot. 

“No, no, no, no.” You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the stone-cold drop of your heart to your feet. “Fuck. Fuck.” 

Shit. You have to find Joshua and make it right. 

Somehow, you thought it wouldn’t matter, that you didn’t care what did or didn’t get out as long as you were able to have a good time—you desperately search for that same feeling, knowing that it’s long, long gone. You don’t even think you truly ever believed that. 

You race down the palace hallways, ones that feel far more familiar than the rigid bastions they were when you first got here, but it’s Joshua who finds you before you find him. Or rather, it’s his voice you hear, trickling out from behind the library door. 

Suddenly, you’re five again, and you’re spying on Jeonghan talking to your parents. You peek through the crack of the doorframe. As Somi would say, nightmare blunt rotation: there stands Joshua, surrounded by both sets of parents, and no one looks happy. 

“We knew it,” another voice says—your mother. “We’re sorry, but we said this would happen.” 

“It’s no matter. There’s nothing left to do but call the engagement off.” 

The room goes quiet. You notice your hands are shaking. Your face feels numb.  

“You’re right. I don't think anyone’s getting what they want out of this, anyway.” 

“We’ll cancel the ball. There’s no way around it. Likely a relief, right, Joshua?” 

The moment seems to squirm, suspended in time. This is what you were waiting for, right? Your parents were right—no one wanted this anyway. You certainly didn’t, and now you get your get out of jail free card. On top of that, you get to hear what you’d been expecting all along—that Joshua never liked you, that this was fun and all, but he’s ready to stop playing pretend. 

“I…I disagree.” You freeze. “She's my fiancée. I made a commitment to her, and I'm not going to walk away.” 

“Joshua, my dear, this arrangement was never going to work. You can be honest.” 

This is the part where Joshua nods, does his perfectly symmetric smile, and agrees. This is what he does, what he’s been doing since forever. The story always ends the same way. That was the point. 

Instead: “I am being honest. Since when was it illegal to go to your best friend’s birthday party? I don't care what the rest of the world has to say. She’s not who they, or you, think she is.” Through the door-gap, you watch the pursed, resolute draw of Joshua’s lips. “You didn’t even invite her here to talk about her own engagement. You never once gave her a chance.” 

A stunned silence falls over the room. 

 “I’m sorry, but this is how I feel. I won't let you take another girl I love from me. Not again.” 

Your hand flies over your mouth, and something twists deep in you, like you’re drowning from the inside out. You can’t, won’t, believe what you just heard. That somehow, beyond all the fighting, the quiet nights, the snide remarks and the fake smiles, that Joshua loved you? Loved? Enough to say all that to the people that ruled his life with an iron fist? None of this made sense, but nothing’s made sense since you got here. 

The room erupts into noise, peals of voices all colliding into each other, and you do what you do best—you leave. 

—

No one talks about that morning. You don’t even think anyone knows you were there—part of you wishes that you actually weren’t, so you didn’t have all this on your mind. (Joshua, later that day: I got you something from Seoul. From his suitcase, a bottle of soju. Just kidding. Then a jade bracelet, so vibrant it looked like the ocean.) No one talked about Somi, and no one talked about the party. 

In fact, everyone had just rolled on as usual, all the way to the end of the week, the day of your engagement ball. Even you did. The word love felt so big, so burdensome, when Joshua had said it to his parents, but you didn't mind it on you.

The lingering touches, late night talks, tea made the way you like—nothing really had changed much since shit hit the fan, but now you knew that was the label. You guess that when you told Joshua you had never been in love before, you were really telling the truth. Either that, or he was just saying whatever the hell he needed to stop your engagement from imploding. 

Still, you found yourself still reaching for him. There was an unfamiliar comfort about his nearness. You woke up this morning cradled to his side, and, for once, it wasn’t a scene you wanted to erase. 

Now, your hairstylist hoses your blowout down with hairspray. You’d spent the better part of this morning sitting in different chairs, hair, makeup, nails. A part of you waits for the other shoe to drop: Joshua’s mother would waltz in and tell you, Surprise! You’re a single woman again, just as you should be. 

It never happens. You’re wrapped in various mists and creams and powders, all the while fielding all the same questions about the ball (—Excited for tonight? Yeah, of course. —How does it feel being the surprise couple of the year? Surprising.)

It’s not until Yunjin comes in, wheeling in your giant, sparkly engagement gown, all Italian lace and satin brocade, that things feel real. 

The dress itself is beautiful, a pale champagne number, gathered at the waist with a smattering of crystals down the train. Earlier, when you’d first tried it on, it looked like a costume fit for the girl playing wife. It was another smothering thing that hung on you, just like everything else in your life. 

Today, you watch your form tall in the mirror. You meet her eyes, her uncertain mouth. It’s you, for sure, but there’s a stillness about you that you can’t quite put a finger on. Maybe Joshua’s demeanor was contagious. 

Yunjin laces your bodice up, careful eyelet by eyelet—“You’re nervous, huh?” 

“Is it really that obvious?” 

She laughs. “Breathe. You’re not getting married. Not yet, at least.”

“Yunjin, isn’t it weird that no one has talked to me about Somi’s birthday? Everyone on the planet saw the leaks.” 

“Maybe they finally learned to stop giving a shit. You looked hot, you had a good time, end of story. It’s not like anyone died.” 

True. She grabs your shoulders and looks at you through the reflection of the mirror. 

“Smile. Enjoy yourself. You look so, so beautiful.” You take a deep, soaking breath. You think about Joshua and all the sharp edges of his voice when he said he loved you. You had argued with him a lot, and you had never heard him like that. “You want this, right?” 

Well, when she puts it like that? Yeah, you do. You think you really do. 

—

The Great Hall is unrecognizable when you stand before it; the pink and white zinnias have been replaced by bouquets of calla lily and eucalyptus, the arched ceilings, once cold and imposing, now are bathed in the buttery, warm glow of candlelight. And the too-big space, usually empty, is now filled with partygoers, radiant in their best dress. 

You stand at the top of the grand staircase. A thrill, anxious and skittering, runs up your bones. You’re reminded of your last big public showing at the derby, of the sea of microphones and the eye of the camera and the crowd, all staring you down. 

You run through the cruel motions. First, a curtesy, so slow you think the audience can see you tremble. Then you take the first step down the stairs, and you watch them turn to you like the tanned halo-faces of sunflowers. 

There, in the center of the crowd stands Joshua, unwavering. He's wearing a deep blue tuxedo, unfairly flattering (though, the lone curl of hair falling into his eyes is strong competition). Meeting his gaze, you watch the corners of his mouth fold up in a way that reminds you to breathe. In, out. You’ve got this. 

Every step, you feel like you’re learning to walk for the first time, like you've lost your sea legs. Amongst the guests, you spot Jeonghan, next to him Jihoon. Then back to Joshua, like your eyes can’t stay away. He shoots you a covert thumbs up—you’d expect nothing less from the corniest man on Earth—but, nonetheless, it makes the long walk to the center of the room feel much shorter, despite the torture devices on your feet (Louboutins, not broken in).

One, two steps, and you’re face to face with your fiancé. Your heart is still racing, thrumming against the cage of your bodice like it's trying to escape. You’re sure the whole congregation could hear it if not for the quartet that’s come to life, now playing the opening notes of Blue Danube. 

Yes, that’s right, you tell yourself. You still have to dance in front of the whole fucking country. 

Before you crash out and make this a national emergency, you feel the warmth of Joshua’s touch. Fingertips before palm, always the same, he finds your hand, like he manages to do every single time. 

“I’ve got you,” he says, low enough for only you to hear. And for the first time, you believe him. 

—

Really, you could have gotten away with saying nothing. It would be much easier, to be honest. 

The ball had gone off without a hitch so far. The music was good, the food even better, and your parents were somehow silenced, instead opting to dance among the crowd like they were young again. Still, you can’t seem to put your mind at ease. With everything that had happened this week, Jeonghan’s offer only seemed to weigh heavier, more urgently upon you. And of course, there was the matter of Joshua choosing to opt into your engagement, against all odds. 

You realize you had gotten quite good at running away from things—your family, your responsibilities, the media, even Joshua—not knowing how to bear the weight of an impossible duty. Actually, you thought it was a royal failing until you had seen Joshua in the library that morning, jaw set, unbending. 

“Hey, Josh?” you ask, with a few bats of the eyelashes to soften the blow. 

He tilts his head in that way he does, and his gaze softens. Damn you, you think. Trying to distract me with those horrible, pretty eyes.  

“Can we talk about Sunday?” 

“What about Sunday?” He still looks confused, and you know the look well enough at this point to know he’s not faking it. 

“Um…Sunday morning. After the party,” you say slowly, as if giving yourself time to back out, just in case. “I heard you talking with our parents.” 

In an instant, his expression changes, and his eyebrows roll into their usual furrow. You feel his hand falter behind your shoulder blades. 

“Oh,” Joshua’s voice drops. “That.” 

“I’m sorry,” you say, realizing all you do is apologize. “It was supposed to be a small thing, no cameras, I barely even stayed—.”

“Hey, it’s ok,” Joshua interrupts. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” 

“I-I know,” you fib. The thing about pretending is that you’ve both become so good at it that you have trouble believing him. “It’s just that I also heard what…what you said.” 

Somehow, the wrinkle between his brows grows deeper. 

“I said a lot of things that morning.” 

You press your lips thin, feeling what you’re about to say ball up on your tongue. Easily, you could change the subject; you didn’t have to know anything, really, you could stay silent and let the world work around you, just as you had been taught. But you watch the soft twist of Joshua’s gaze, how he studies your expression, and you know you can’t go back to how things used to be. 

“You said you…” You take a hard swallow. All the blood in your body only wants to exist in the apples of your cheeks, away from your brain where you need it most. “You loved me.” 

At once, the world spins off-axis. You feel the anxious flutter of Joshua’s heart under your palm, and your own stomach flips in its cage. The L word coming out of your mouth seems ten-thousand times more ridiculous than anything he could say, probably because you can’t remember the last time you actually said it and it came out all wrong. 

He must feel the same way. For once, he can’t meet your eyes. His mouth opens and then closes, as if hoping to delete what you had just said. Maybe you would just keep dancing, beat by beat, and this would all go away.

Silly girl, you think, traitorously. Pick a damn side. Either he likes you or he doesn’t. The problem is that, somehow, both options hurt your feelings. 

“I mean, I totally get it if you just said it to keep up the act,” you cut in. “There are a lot of reasons why this is a good idea.” 

“The act?” 

“Well, yeah,” you reply. “Isn’t that what this is? Haven’t we just been lying to everyone? To ourselves?” 

Joshua’s hand at your waist stiffens before he draws you closer to him. You expect him to roll his eyes, do one of those exaggerated sighs that he does when you’re being difficult. 

Instead he leans in, close enough for you to feel his voice against your skin. 

“Do you think I was lying back there? Or now?” 

Your heart lurches. 

“I—no, but.” You pause. Every single coherent thought you’ve ever had scatters to the wind. “Well.” 

“Because i’m not,” Joshua says, this time, more softly. “Not about this. Or us.” 

“But how? Why?” You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling your chest swell in a way it never has before. “You’re perfect, and I'm…I’m me.” 

“That’s why,” he answers, simply. “You’re smart, funny, honest—sometimes too honest, even. You reminded me there was a better version of me that I had left behind. One that wasn’t perfect, but was happy.” 

He holds you in his gaze the same way he did in the garden, carved by moonlight. An impossible warmth fills your skin; at once, it feels like, in your vision, there is only him, like you're in a cartoon. 

“At the same time, I understand if—” Joshua starts. 

“I feel the same,” you blurt out. “I…I don’t know what this is, and I don’t think I ever really did, but I want to try.” 

You watch the surprise write itself all over his doe eyes, his unfairly rounded cheeks. From by the hors d'oeuvres, nosy Jeonghan peeks over the shoulder of another guest, already familiar with your lack of volume control. You watch him grin something stupid, triumphant. 

“You’re uptight, judgmental, and you make the worst jokes. But I…I think I might be falling for you too.” 

Saying it is like getting peeled back, terrible layer by layer, like you wrapped a hand around your heart and ripped it out your chest. And yet you’re glowing, newly-bitten with something that feels like freedom.  

“I thought you said I was perfect,” Joshua says, the pink of his lips already unraveling into a smile. This one, you think, finally reaches his eyes. 

“Shush, you—” And amongst a chorus of Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! (which would be, quite frankly, humiliating in any other scenario), you finally give in to your adoring public, and kiss. 

—

The walk back to your bedroom is a blur. All you remember are hands—hands on the small of your back, hands riding up the length of your thigh, hands in your hair, pulling at your roots. You remember hands, and the taste of Joshua’s mouth. 

It’s a walk you are not proud of, one that you’re glad happened in the dark, with all the guests gone home. 

“Did I tell you how beautiful you are?” Joshua says, pressed to the hollow of your neck as you fumble with the handle of the door to your room. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you. No one could.” 

Then his lips on yours, before you finally remember how to open a door. 

“Fuck, Josh,” you breathe between kisses, stumbling backwards until your back hits the vanity. “Need you, need you so bad.” 

He bites your lip, lets you sigh into his mouth. 

“Dress, off,” you tell him, and you lean forward on the table. Obediently, Joshua gets to work. His touch feels fiery, electric on your skin. 

In the mirror, you’re able to see the damage: your lipstick, smudged beyond repair, your blown-out pupils under your heavy lashes. There’s a hickey on your collarbone. 

“Now you have me wishing you'd wear one of those party dresses,” Joshua murmurs, still working at the lacing at your waist. “Far easier to take off.” 

“Really. The same ones that got me in big trouble with you lot?"

"For what it's worth," he replies, before kissing the back of your neck, then the ticklish space under your ear to make you laugh. "I always liked you in those. Even before we met." 

"No way." He’s finished with the lacing; your dress falls to your feet in a glorious heap of silk and lace, leaving you in your slip. Another kiss to your jaw, your cheek. "You hated them." 

"I almost bought a copy of Insider, the one with the cover of you in the black dress with the long sleeves." 

"Shut up," you laugh again, somewhere in between kisses. He’s talking about Soonyoung's new year's eve party, a few years back. You were getting out the back of a cab, alcohol-flushed and on a phone call with God knows who. "I still have it, you know. I could wear it for you one of these days." 

"Don't tempt me." Joshua kneels, bending down to undo your heels. You feel him press his lips to the back of your knee, your thigh. “Friday. Dinner?” 

“Done.” 

Then he stands back to full height and leans into you, just so you can feel him. Like clockwork, your skin prickles wonderfully even just thinking about blowing him in the back of the limo, that night he had held you down on his cock. 

Joshua must see how you squeeze your legs together. He pushes your slip up over the curve of your ass; you feel the rough of his hands over your skin, over the flimsy lace you have on for underwear. Then, before you can say a word, he pulls the waistband back, meanly, enough to tug on the hood of your clit, and lets it snap back against your skin. 

“Oh, fuck,” you keen. You had no idea you were so sensitive, but Joshua’s foreplay game was way better than you thought. “Please, Shua.” 

“Oh? So you like when I'm a little mean?” 

You watch your face in the mirror flush pink, your bitten lips fall open in surprise. He pulls tight on your panties again, loving how your eyes squeeze shut. 

“Maybe.” You pause, humiliated. Fuck it, the cat’s already out of the bag. “Yeah.” 

Joshua’s hands are warm, so warm, when they peel the fabric down your trembling thighs. 

“Legs apart, darling,” he tells you, mouth pressed to your shoulder. “So you like to boss me around the castle, but now you want me to tell you what to do? Is that so?” 

Before you can answer, you feel a finger along the seam of your cunt. You can’t see Joshua’s face in the mirror, but you can sure see yours, and you hate how even the smallest of touches has you drooling. Then a touch to your swollen clit, just rough enough to draw a gasp from you. 

 “I-it’s different,” you protest. Two fingers now, both rolling your clit under them. A whimper tumbles out of your chest, and your hips seem to be moving on their own accord. “Didn’t know you had…experience.” 

“Still not sure what made you think otherwise.” A quiet chuckle, then the slow, agonizing push of one of his fingers inside you. “Fuck, you love that, huh? Soaking my hand.”

“Yeah…” The vanity table suddenly feels too crowded to support the weight of your body, especially like this, as Joshua continues to work your clit with his other digit. Feeling your body surge again with heat, you push aside your makeup bag, all your stupid little bottles, so you can prop yourself up on your arms.

Another finger, and your legs are shaking. Quickly, he seems to have figured out how to hit your g-spot every time, every pump of his hand knocking into you just the way you like.  

“I think it was how annoying you were that did you in,” you finally answer, trying your best to put up a fair fight. “Kinda detracts from your sex appeal.” 

“Annoying?” Joshua asks, right up against the shell of your ear. like this, you can see him in the mirror, and it almost sends you over. the dark hair in his face, the insatiable look in his eyes. Then a third finger, and your eyes roll back. “Am I annoying you? Doesn’t really seem like it.” 

Your body answers for you. You feel yourself tighten around his fingers, fuck, you’re so close, you feel your head start to spin. You watch your reflection shake her head, glassy-eyed and dumb. 

He laughs cruelly. His free hand reaches up to find your tits, and, over the slip, he grabs one, rough like he’s a meaner man, like he’s slutting you out. 

At once, you feel the lightning heat of your release. You cry out, airy and high-pitched, and feel your body rock against Joshua’s as he pins you between himself and the vanity. 

“There you go,” he murmurs. His hand slows, letting you ride out your high, before he pulls out. “Wanted to do this ever since I kissed you that night.” 

“Which night?” you ask, catching your breath. A kiss to your shoulder blade, the nape of your neck. 

“The night you taught me to kiss. Or rather, tried to.” 

Ah, yes. The night you told him what Shark Tale was, and the night you made out for so long, you felt it on your lips in the morning. Dumb fucking Joshua, stupid and in love. The affection that surges through your body makes you mad. 

“You needed lessons.” 

“Not really, don’t you think?” 

“Bed. You’re talking too much,” you insist, turning around to see him. “Also, you’re wearing too much.” 

“Back to arguing with me, I see. Can’t stay away.” Joshua’s shit-eating grin prompts you to yank his tie impatiently, shutting him up. It comes off easily, just as his belt and the waistband of his slacks. (You weren’t about to let them best you a second time).

“Maybe ‘cause you find a way to be difficult about everything.” You wrinkle your nose, and Joshua’s grin only grows wider. “Don’t make me give you another order,” you warn, fully aware that since you guys got here, it’d been him doing the orders. 

You pull your slip over your head, now only in your bra, and lay back in the bed. You think of all the sleepless nights, then the ones spent talking, the ones in his arms. To think they would all culminate to this, to you now watching Joshua undo button by button with a desire unlike any other you’ve felt—it would almost be unbelievable if you weren’t doing it right now.

Like a striptease, you watch his chest peek out between the linen of his shirt. He's wearing a necklace today, one that settles meanly between his pecs. As he moves lower, you can’t help but notice the outline of his cock in his briefs, the spot of precum on the fabric. 

Traitorously, you feel your mouth water. The shirt comes off, and your lungs fill with another shaky breath. 

You know you’re both letting your freak flag fly (one of you more surprising than the other) but it’s in this moment, caught in the lamplight, that you realize how much things have really changed. Still, you’re not able to tell Joshua that this is the first time you’re sleeping with someone you might be in the L word with, but you think he sees it too, or at least, reads the look on your face. 

You feel the dip of the bed underneath as he joins you.

“Are you ok? That wasn’t too much, right?” 

“No, it was…it was good. really good,” you admit, feeling your face heat up again. “I just…I dunno. I like you a lot, that’s all.” 

“Hm?” 

“I—” you stutter, and your mouth freezes up again. “I said I like you a lot.” 

“Sorry, I just wanted to hear you say it twice.” He sees the dismay on your face and smiles. “Hm…I like you an adequate amount. On a good day.” 

Against your will, you crack the fattest smile you think your body is capable of. “You are the worst. The absolute worst, and I still want you to fuck me.” 

Upon hearing this, Joshua does not waste time. That he does—it isn’t long before he has your knees hiked to your chest, cock between your pussy lips. 

“Say you want it,” he whispers. You feel the cold kiss of his chain on your chest, the slick rock of his length between your legs. He's so hard, so big, your cunt already aches at the thought of it. 

“Want it.” Your voice comes out small, breathy. You would fight back, but you’re realizing you quite like this side of him. “Please.” 

When the head of his cock presses into you, there is no hiding. Already, you moan, sweet and loud, feeling the familiar pressure in your gut. 

“K-keep going,” you babble. Fuck, he barely fit in your mouth and now he’s stuffing your cunt. You wrench your eyes shut, listening to him talk you through it (—Look at you taking me so well. Feels good, huh? You’re so beautiful. Honestly, it’s a miracle Joshua’s ex never had a royal baby with how much they must have fucked.) 

Your second orgasm comes quickly, not long after Joshua bottoms out. He groans right in the space where your neck meets your shoulder, and it’s the best noise you think you’ve heard in your life. 

The third comes slowly, more intensely. With your knees to your chest, you think you can feel Joshua all the way in your stomach. Every stroke fucks the sound out of you, his cockhead right up against your g-spot as he fills you again and again. Sometime between orgasm two and three, he’s pulled your tits out from your bra, left marks across your chest. 

“Want you to touch yourself,” he tells you, voice low.

Mindlessly, you listen. One hand finds your nipple, the other your clit, and you let yourself get lost in the feeling. 

“F-feels good, Shua.” He enters you again, all the way, and the pleasure is white-hot. “O-oh, fuck,” you warble. 

“You’re so good at listening to me, you should do it all the time,” he murmurs. “There you go. Take it, take it, just like that. This must be what I have to do to get you to be nice, hm?” 

All you can do is stare up at him, positively fucked dumb, and take it, just as he told you to. One, two strokes, and you feel yourself get impossibly tight; “Fill me, need it, need it,” you whine, delirious. Everything from the look in his eyes, the flushed sweat over his brow, his collarbones to the way his expression responds with every word you say, makes you wonder why you wasted time fucking anyone else.

When he comes, he bites your shoulder, hard, and it’s what you need to follow soon after. You feel so fucking full, so satisfied, you think you could die happy here. 

Joshua flops down on the bed next to you, boneless. You think he’s about to say something akin to that you should have put a towel down, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls your body to him, lets you feel the warmth of his skin play against yours. 

He’s murmuring wonderful things to you, which you would gladly reciprocate if words weren’t coming to you one letter a minute. It’s not your fault though—you need to recover physically, emotionally, spiritually after getting the soul fucked out of you.

Then, “Me or you shower first?”

You groan as a response. 

“I’m serious.” 

“Together?” you offer weakly. 

“Fair chance we won’t just be showering then.” 

“Oh nooo.” 

That’s all Joshua needs to whisk you to the bathroom, where, indeed, he seems to be right yet again. 

—

The spring morning washes over Acros like a second skin. The birdsong rouses you; through the curtains comes sunlight from the garden, spackled on the wall as if spots on a doe. 

It’s been almost a year since your parents had told you that you were marrying Joshua Hong, prince of Acros. Six months since he had told you he had loved you. Two months since you and Jeonghan had pulled off your first joint production at the youth theater (a roaring success). One month since you were fully, fully moved in, Astrid and Jihoon included. 

After your engagement ball, you and Joshua had agreed to take it slow, as slow as two people who had very publicly announced their wedding could. But still, somehow your parents, both sets, could tolerate the two of you wanting to do things the right way. Perhaps they were still shocked things worked out as well as they did. 

“Morning,” you call out. The bed beside you is cold. “Josh?” 

You’re surprised he’s up. Last night, he went out with you, Somi, and Soonyoung. Somehow, he had drunk enough to get up and solo karaoke a Whitney Houston song, although you’re suspecting the alcohol was just a cover for his true intentions. 

Then you look out the window. You spot Joshua, seated on the bench overlooking the garden. This time of year, the roses are in full bloom, their bright heads reaching for the sky in brilliant red and gold. 

When you go to join him outside, he’s no longer at the bench. You actually don’t know where the fuck he went, but it’s no matter. Here, you’re able to appreciate the beauty of the season, the rolling green of the country you’re now calling home. 

It was also here where you had your first real conversation with Joshua without fighting, funnily enough. Now, you’d say the both of you were more agreeable, but that’d be a lie—somehow, you think you actually enjoy bickering with him, but that’s a conversation for another day. 

Behind you, someone (Joshua) clears his throat. 

“Now, what are you—” you say, spinning around. It was too damn early for games, but Joshua had no shortage of bad ideas. 

It’s then that you see Joshua behind you, on one knee. His smile tells you everything you have to know, and every thought in your mind freezes in an instant. 

“When I first saw you, I knew I would marry you,” he starts. That's a joke he’s probably been saving for months now, but instead of rolling your eyes, you can’t help but laugh, like you’re a broken soundboard. “No, really.” 

You stand there, immovable. Of course you had to be in your pajamas (his shirt and boxers, really), no makeup, hair untouched. And yet, you can’t imagine anything more perfect. 

“You drive me crazy,” Joshua continues. “In every way possible. I can't imagine life without your laugh, or your thinking face, or how you always need to have an answer for everything.” 

He produces a small box. It’s different from the first one, the one he used all those months ago when nothing mattered. Inside it, a new ring, something far simpler and more beautiful.

Joshua says your name, wonderful and reverent in his mouth. “Darling princess of Cotria, I'm asking you to marry me. Again.” 

And you say yes, for the very first time.

[END]

[hahaifolded]

141 x POC!GN Intelligence Operative - Say the Word Author's Notes: I have no clue how the military works or even how a base looks like and not gonna lie I don’t respect it enough to do research. Warnings: MDNI, Racism

Ghost really wished he was a better man. Because a better man would have thanked you for your gift instead of ridicule you for it. A better man would have dropped everything to be at your side. A better man would have chosen you over duty. 

But alas Ghost is just a ghost. A husk of a man. A monster. 

But if there’s one silver lining here is that only a monster can recognize another monster and Ghost knew that look in Nikto’s eyes — it’s the same one he sees everyday in the mirror. Ghost couldn’t protect you from himself but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to protect you from this new monster. 

So as you inch your face closer to Nikto’s mask to hear him, Ghost does not hesitate to rip you from the Russian’s jaws. 

“Nikto!” he barks. Nikto slowly turns, almost annoyed by the sudden intrusion while you fly back, feeling ashamed for… talking. When this is all over, Ghost will rid you of this guilt. He promises. 

“You should stand next to me. Will make it easier when I introduce you to the rookies,” Ghost explains. The two lieutenants were tasked in going over basic combat skills with the rookies. 

(And you were here because you’ve been wanting to dust off your own skills and after you heard Nikto was joining Ghost this time around, you felt more comfortable in joining.)

Nikto begrudgingly makes his way over to Ghost, leaving you alone on the mats. And just on cue, the rookies walk into the training room. They surround you with sadly, your “favorites” opting to stand at both of your sides. 

Ghost quickly introduces Nikto and splits the room in half. One half would work with Nikto while the other with him. Ghost pretends not notice the “help me” look your shot at Nikto when you got stuck with him. That was his imagination… that had to be in his head. 

Ignoring the tightness in his chest, Ghost walks up to his group and quickly goes over today’s lesson plan: submission, how to take down your opponent without any weapons. Easy and just the perfect way to get under you… for professional reasons, of course. After calling you as his partner, which your eyes nearly popped out of your head when he said so, he asks the rest to pair up and take a spot on the mats. 

However, before the group split, one of the rookies that especially loved to give you a hard time, spoke up. 

“Lieutenant, quick question?” 

“Make it quick,” Ghost snaps. You are literally about to throw him to the ground. He needs this rookie to shut up. 

“Does the pencil pusher really need to be here? They’re literally just taking space,” he asks. The rookie shoots you a taunting smile. 

You couldn’t believe it. You felt your body go hot.

“Say that one more time,” you spit back. You got in his face. Fuck professionalism. 

And it seemed like the rookie agreed as he got in your face as well. “Learn your fucking place,” he hisses. “You’re just a means to check off a box. No one actually wants you here so why don’t you go back to your office and fuck off, —!” Your ears start ringing at that last word. He towers over you and stares straight into your eyes. Pure hatred is in his eyes. 

You haven’t felt this level of anger in so long. Fuck this guy. Fuck this job. Fuck the 141. Fuck the military. Fuck everyone. You pull your arm back ready to swing when…

Nikto flies past you, throwing the rookie to the ground. He starts to wail on the dumb fuck. The rookie’s little posse tries to pull Nikto off but it’s no use— Nikto pushes them off like nothing. You remain still and watch the scene before you. 

And you’re not the only one. Ghost is in utter shock. In the matter of seconds, Ghost was cockblocked, you were disrespected, and a rookie was getting his face caved in and Ghost didn’t do anything. He just watched. Ghost is a man of action. But he just couldn’t at this moment. Why?

“Lieutenant!” one of the rookies shriek. That finally breaks Ghost of his trance. He rushes over to Nikto and pries the man off the rookie. The fellow lieutenant fights back. However before Ghost can really get into it with the Russian, your voice is heard. 

“Nikto,” you say. No emotion, just a statement. You look at the two and just shake your head. Nikto stops and moves towards you. He cradles your face and gently buds his head into yours. He grabs your hand and begins to walk out the training room with you when he turns around. 

He stares daggers in Ghost’s face and hisses.

“Ask yourself this lieutenant! Why did he feel comfortable enough to disrespect your teammate in front of your face?” 

And with that he leaves with you, leaving Ghost with the question he didn't know the answer to.

Word Count: 838

More Thoughts - Next Thought

[perfectlyoongi]

JEALOUS!YOONGI who doesn’t understand why he has a heavy heart when you say you’re going out with someone else. if there was someone who supported you and encouraged you to see the world, it was Yoongi. he was always ready to receive your news with a wide smile and your stories with a sparkle in his eyes; but when you talked about another person, someone else who made you laugh and shared pleasant memories with you, Yoongi felt a bitter taste in his heart. would Yoongi be sad that he didn’t take you on that trip? would Yoongi be disappointed in himself for not taking you to that restaurant for the first time? what spells did your words cast to cover his heart with a thorny cloak of pure discomfort? “i hope you have fun. but… if you see something is wrong or you don’t feel comfortable, don't hesitate to call. i will get you as soon as possible and i promise to make your time worth it.”

JEALOUS!YOONGI who can’t control his face when he sees someone flirting with you. at parties or meetings, on walks or dinners, every time someone tried to be more flirty to get your attention, Yoongi just looked at them. his eyes lost the shine they gained since the day he met you; his lips were pressed into a straight line in an attempt to control his sarcastic smile; his hands closed into two perfect fists for him to divert all his disdain into his hands; and his mind just repeated the same questions over and over again so they stay stuck in his heart instead of confessing them to you. “have you ever noticed that only men with mommy issues decide to talk to you? have you ever noticed how desperate they are of getting your attention? why couldn’t you pay attention to me instead? i would make you laugh. i would make your night perfect. so why do you prefer those children instead of me?”

JEALOUS!YOONGI who spends the entire car ride in silence. when the end of the day arrived and he was getting ready to leave you at home, Yoongi couldn’t think of a single word to address you. maybe if he went back to yesterday when he still had universes to confess to you he could think of something to tell you; but the reality is that Yoongi only thought about your giggles, your smiles, your eyes so beautiful and bright, your words so delicate and pleasant — all focused on the others. what did they have that Yoongi didn’t? what words did they say that Yoongi couldn’t repeat? no. that Yoongi couldn’t improve, mold them perfectly for your heart to take comfort in them and realize that in reality you only needed Yoongi to make you truly happy.

JEALOUS!YOONGI who remembers all the names and details of your friends. John was so tall you had to gently tilt your head to look him in the eyes — how cute. Chan had fingers so long that your hands touched when he gave you the glass — he wanted that too. Luke made you laugh so hard that you had to cover your mouth with your hand and look around in embarrassment — what a melody. Seok managed to tell such a good story that you just kept asking for more and questioning everything — he wanted that too. Jun convinced you to take a photo with him and you even leaned against his chest — how beautiful. and Yoongi just saw you, just heard you, just admired you, without any courage to make all those details his own. “yes, yes, i remember Choi. wasn’t he the one who greeted you with a hug? and then spilled his drink on you, but those are details. who pays attention to them, am i right?”

JEALOUS!YOONGI who denies with all his strength that he is jealous. why would Yoongi be jealous if you, firstly, were just his friend?, and secondly, he just wanted to see you happy? Yoongi wouldn’t stop your happiness, and, even if it meant you talking to someone who made him uncomfortable, he would just support you and help you find your way. of course he preferred to see you laughing at his jokes and blushing when you accidentally touched his hands. of course he would prefer you to tell him everything about your day and invite him on spontaneous dates. but what do you mean he was jealous? don’t be ridiculous. “do you really think that? please! i’m just looking out for you. you deserve better than them — you are better than them! don’t be silly. go hang out with him and leave me alone.”

JEALOUS!YOONGI who says you are a free person to live your life. if you want to sleep at someone else’s house, feel free to do it! if you want to try the new coffee with that one, go ahead! why should Yoongi stop you from living your life? you are the one who knows what you want, and who you want it with. Yoongi had no vote on the matter. go! go to the park with this guy and leave Yoongi at home! why not, right? after all he will always be there waiting for you. so go! live your life without thinking about him. go! “just go. but if you want to come back, if you feel like it was all a mistake, you can always come to me. always.”

JEALOUS!YOONGI who doesn’t know why he shut you up with a kiss, he just felt it was necessary. shut up. shut up. shut up. why do you always have this need to tell everything in detail? why do you think Yoongi wanted to know how your date went? yes, he already understood. he’s very funny ah ah ah. okay, now that’s enough. stop. please. shut up. shut up. shu—! “i… i don’t know what came over me. sorry. you just... you just talked and talked and wouldn’t shut up and i... i wanted you to shut up. and… and i…”

[wholoveseggs]

Kinktober - {Day Five} {<- kinktober masterlist}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List} {Kinktober}

{Stefan Salvatore x F!Reader} Request {Anon}: I was thinking smth along the lines of Stefan coming home hoping to find reader awake, but instead they’d gone to bed without him. He’d been riled up for most of the day and was waiting to come to them to satisfy that, and seeing as he and reader had previously discussed the possibility of trying out sex while sleeping he thought this could be a good opportunity to test the waters. This was just my first thought for the plot, but it’s totally up to you!

1.5k words - Kinks: Stefussy being Stefussy, somnophilia (consensual), breeding kink & praise kink...

Another chaotic day in Mystic Falls had finally come to a close and Stefan was exhausted. He couldn't wait to get home, pour himself a glass of bourbon and spend the rest of the evening cuddled up next to you. It's been so long since the two of you have been able to have some alone time, and he was going to savor every second of it.

When Stefan walked into the boarding house, it was completely dark, not a single light was on, but he could hear your soft breaths from your shared bedroom. When he walked up the stairs, he noticed that the door was slightly cracked.

He entered the bedroom quietly, taking off his shirt and pants, throwing them in the laundry basket and then walked over to the bed. He smiled when he saw you, curled up under the blankets, your hands tucked under your head. He pulled back the covers, revealing the fact that you were only wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties.

A few nights ago, after a glass of wine or two, you and Stefan talked about what the other liked. You told him that you were curious about trying sex while you were sleeping. You said you thought it would be hot, not knowing what was going to happen to you while you slept.

He knew this was the perfect opportunity to fulfill your fantasy. So he gently ran his fingers up your thighs, enjoying the feeling of your warm, soft skin. He slipped his hand underneath your shirt, cupping one of your breasts in his hand and gently massaging it, his thumb brushing over your nipple, making it pebble. You let out the softest little whimper, and it went straight to Stefan's cock.

"Let's get you out of these," he whispered, tugging on the hem of your panties, slowly sliding them down your legs, and tossing them on the floor. "Such a good girl for me, baby."

You let out a quiet sigh, shifting slightly in your sleep and rubbing your thighs together, seeking any sort of friction. He placed his hand on your knee, pushing your legs open slightly, slowly dipping his hand down towards your core.

"Stef...," you whimpered, letting out a soft moan when he brushed his fingers over your clit.

"I've got you, baby," Stefan whispered, he leaned against the headboard and pulled you closer, resting your back against his chest and wrapping an arm around your waist. Trying his best not to wake you just yet.

You whimpered, your hips bucking into his hand, and Stefan smiled. He was glad to know that even when you were sleeping, your body still reacted to him.

"I'm gonna open you up now, okay lovely?"

You nodded in your sleep, letting out another moan. Stefan dipped his fingers down to your cunt, gently pressing a finger into your pussy, and groaning at how tight you were. Your hips jerked and Stefan let out a deep breath, "such a good girl."

"More," you whined. Stefan grinned, gently adding a second finger, his cock getting impossibly hard as he watched his fingers slide in and out of you, your body accepting him so easily.

"God, I can't wait to get inside of you, darling. You feel so good around my fingers," Stefan praised. He continued fingering you, his hand on your hip keeping you in place as you squirmed and moaned, still in a half-asleep state.

After a few minutes, Stefan could tell you were getting close. He could see your brow furrowed in pleasure, and your mouth parted as you moaned. He pulled his fingers out of you, making you whine and your eyes flutter.

"Stef..." You slowly opened your eyes, looking up at him, a dazed expression on your face.

"Hey, baby." He kissed you on the forehead. "I'm right here, you were so good, do you want more?"

You nodded, snuggling closer into his embrace. Stefan smiled, moving you so you were on your back again, and spread your legs open. He pushed your shirt up, and started licking and sucking on your breasts, his hand once again between your legs.

You giggled, running a hand through his hair, and tugging on the ends, "this is such a nice wake up call."

Stefan chuckled, "I'm glad."

He trailed kisses down your body, his lips leaving a wet trail along your skin. He had already gotten you so worked up, you didn't need any more teasing.

You tugged on his hair, pulling his lips from your stomach and bringing his mouth back up to meet yours, kissing him passionately. You wrapped a leg around his waist, trying to pull him closer.

Stefan let out a groan, kissing you back with as much fervor, grinding his cock against your core. You reached down, grabbing his length and positioning it at your entrance, trying to push him in.

"I've got you, sweetheart." Stefan broke the kiss, and slowly eased into you, the both of you moaning at the sensation.

He set a gentle pace, his hands slotting with yours, holding them above your head and interlacing your fingers with his. He was always so intense in the way he fucked you, but this was different. It was soft, and sweet, and slow, he wanted to make it last.

"Stefan," you whimpered. Your eyes fluttered shut and your hips moved to meet his thrusts.

"Open your eyes, baby. Look at me," Stefan whispered. You obeyed, opening your eyes, and gazing up at him. You could see all the emotions swirling around in his deep, green eyes, the way he was looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world, it was so intimate.

You leaned up, and kissed him, the kiss quickly deepening, as the two of you lost yourselves in the pleasure.

"You're too good for me," he groaned against your lips. "In another life, I would fill you with my babies, fuck, you'd look so good round with our child."

You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pulling him closer, "keep talking."

Stefan growled, "you want that? Want me to fill your tight little pussy with my cum, until it takes root and grows a baby?"

You nodded, your cunt clenching around him at his words, "yes, yes. Fuck, I need it."

He groaned at your words, his hips stilling, and filling you with his cum. "Shit, sorry."

You smiled, "why are you apologizing? That was really hot."

Stefan's cock was still inside of you, his cum dripping out of your pussy and down your thighs, he could already feel himself getting hard again, and moved to pull out, only to be stopped by you, "you're not finished Mr. Salvatore," you smiled.

He smiled, his hands gripping your hips, and he thrusted into you again, making you gasp and moan, "that's a good girl, taking my cock so well, fuck."

You whimpered, gripping onto his shoulders, and grinding your hips into his. Stefan leaned down, pressing his lips against yours once more, groaning into your mouth.

"So full of my cum, being so good for me," he panted, his thrusts becoming erratic. You felt a warmth spread through you, and a familiar feeling starting to build in your core as he fucked you into the mattress.

He leaned back, his thumb grazing your clit, and pressing down, "come for me, baby."

You let out a low moan, your legs shaking as you came, his name falling from your lips, over and over again. Stefan groaned, burying his face into the crook of your neck, and filling you once more.

You were both panting and covered in sweat, as you came down from your high. He placed gentle kisses all over your face, and stroked his hand through your hair.

"Are you okay, lovely?"

You nodded, leaning forward and resting your forehead against his, "I'm more than okay."

Stefan smiled, kissing you softly, before rolling onto his side, and pulling you into his arms. He placed a gentle kiss against your forehead, before snuggling into the blankets, and closing his eyes.

���Don't tell me you're tired,” you teased, a grin forming on your lips.

He let out a sleepy grunt, his arms tightening around your waist. “Shut up,” he mumbled, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck.

“That's so unfair Stef! Waking me up in the middle of the night, only to fall asleep and leave me alone.”

“Mmm, sorry,” he said, his voice muffled.

“It's okay, I'll forgive you if you give me one more round,” you whispered, leaning forward and pressing a kiss against his jaw.

“You're insatiable,” he muttered, but he couldn't hide the smile on his face.

You laughed, rolling him over, and straddling his hips, “maybe a little... But it's your fault,” you said, kissing him softly.

Stefan smiled, placing his hands on your hips, and squeezing gently, ready to please you in any way he could.

“That's alright with me.”

{<- kinktober masterlist}

[starkeyisthelastname]

When stepdad rafe hears reader talking about how she wants to loose her virginity

He had over heard you on the phone, giggling away with one of your girlfriends. As delicate and innocent as you were, your voice still carried and that’s when he had found out about you wanting to lose your virginity. The thought of some random boy’s limp dick inside you, made him seethe in anger. It had to be him who popped your perfect little cherry.

You were sitting on your pretty pink bed, surrounded by an enormous amount of fluffy pillows and stuffed animals. Glittery pen in hand, you wrote something down in your journal, while humming to whatever pop song played. Rafe knocked on the already open door, watching those big eyes light up at the sight of him. You slammed the journal closed, shoving it aside.

“Hi, Rafey!” You said, swinging your bare legs off the bed.

It was comical to him that you were still a virgin, especially the way you ran around the house. Shorts that barely covered your rather thick ass, and flimsy tank-tops that your perky tits nearly fell out of. He was curious now to what you were hiding in that diary of yours, making him walk further into the girly room.

“Whatcha doing?” He asked, casually as he made his way over to the bed. “Writing down all your dirty little secrets.” He grinned. He could tell you were nervous by the way you quickly avoided his gaze, looking down at the fury white rug.

“No.. I don’t have any dirty secrets.” You told him, voice small as you swung your legs back and forth.

“Yeah? So you wouldn’t mind me reading your diary. We are family after all and shouldn’t hide secrets.” He said as a matter of factly, reaching down to pick up the journal. You tried to grab it from him, but failed due to his height.

Opening the last page you written in, Rafe read the neat writing, his confirmation of what he had heard earlier coming true. “Today, I talked to my best friend about wanting to lose my virginity. I want to have sex so so bad…” He didn’t even need to continue on, seeing your cheeks turning pink.

“Please don’t tell my mom.” You pleaded to him, knowing that she wanted to keep you pure despite the fact that you were 19.

Rafe chuckled, throwing the diary back onto the bed. “Relax, kid. What’s got you so nervous?” He asked. “You need dick that bad, huh?”

The way you looked up at him, eyes so innocent and lips so kissable, nodding your head, had him growing hard in his pants. It took everything in him not to shove you down on your knees and fuck your little virgin throat. He'd save that for another time though, right now he was determined to ruin your tight cunt.

“See, when you lose your virginity, you want it to be with someone special. Someone you can trust. Not one of your little boyfriends.” He told you.

You looked at him confused, with a little curiosity behind those eyes. “Someone like you Rafey?” Your tone of questioning as you bit your lower lip out of habit. His ocean eyes gleamed in excitement, the heat running straight to his cock.

His eyes nearly rolled back at the sight in front of him. His pure little beauty of a step- daughter, completely naked before him. You were still reluctant that this was wrong, even after his fingers had loosened you up a bit and tongue had been on your sweet folds. Now with his cock in hand, lining it up with your plump pussy he watched your face twitch as he pushed in.

“No.. it hurts.” You mumbled, pushing at his now bare chest as the stretch to your untouched hole was burning.

“You are fine, kid. Never had 9 inches up your princess cunt, I know it.” Rafe’s voice cracked as he tried not to ram himself inside the tightest cunt he ever had the pleasure of being in. His thumb found your clit, rubbing it slow circles to distract you from the pain. Poor thing.

Your whimpers turned into the prettiest moans sooner than later as he began speeding up. Eyes heavy, and abs flexing as he thrusted into you. He was Rafe Cameron and he got everything he wanted, including taking his step-daughter’s virginity.

[paceprompting]

An Unexpected Gift

written for ‘alone’ | wc: 999 # | steddie | rated: t | cw: no archive warnings apply | tags: pre-season four, pre-relationship, fluff, steve has a crush on eddie, eddie has no clue

@steddieholidaydrabbles

Part One Part Two

Winter break was in full force in Hawkins, complete with a post-Christmas Day bash at the Harrington residence. And after a full day or more stuck with their extended families, the student body was desperate to let loose.

Cue Eddie and his little black lunchbox.

The timing was perfect. His usual customers would have run through their stashes from before school let out, and he could even up charge a little extra when people tried to give him shit. Even then, he was still their cheapest option.

The extra cash would be worth having to convince Wayne to drop him off, still without his van. If he played his cards right, his haul from the party might be enough that he could finally take his van into the shop and stop having to share the pickup with his uncle.

So, perched on his usual armchair and nursing a watered-down rum and coke, Eddie pilfered out the goods. Only a few people noticed the lightly higher prices Eddie asked for, and even then, they wanted their weed more than they wanted to argue.

The house wasn’t decorated very extravagantly, so most everyone looked like everyone else in the dim light of the living room. A customer was a customer, and hard cash was hard cash.

He cleared his lunchbox just about halfway through the party, though he wasn’t sure just how much he’d made in profit. He made a point not to whip out the cash from the pocket inside his jacket with so many people around.

After that, Eddie didn’t exactly need to lurk around. He pulled out his backpack for the lunchbox, and the heavier coat he’d laid on the chair’s arm next to him.

One last unlucky customer sidled up to him.

“Hey, Munson,” Steve said, standing there in a trademark striped polo and dark jeans.

“Hey,” Eddie said back, settling his jacket over his front. He gave a strained smile. “Uh, I’m all out for the night. Sorry.”

Steve hadn’t always bought from Eddie, and he never seemed to mind when Eddie sold at his parties. But he rarely bought by himself, usually serving as the bank from which his friends funded their drug habits.

“No, I was actually wondering if I could ask you something.” Steve rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, unable to meet Eddie’s gaze. “Upstairs, if that’s alright? Alone?”

This was a bad idea. It was one thing for Steve to associate with him in the anonymity of the crowded mall, but there were only certain thoughts that went through people’s minds when Steve Harrington took people upstairs toward his bedroom.

And Eddie was not one of those people.

More like the opposite.

“Five minutes,” Steve promised. “I’ll even walk you out.”

“Not necessary, Harrington.” Eddie rolled his eyes and stepped past Steve, his beeline for the stairs serving as his answer to Steve.

They weaved past the drunk and/or high partygoers lining the stairs. With Eddie going first, he assumed that the strange looks he was getting was less than he if he’d been following Steve.

Who knew who had seen him go straight into the King’s bedroom.

He took a place in the center of the room, hands tucked firmly in his jacket pockets and backpack on his shoulder. Steve closed the door behind him, but he didn’t notice Eddie’s highly-raised brows, instead heading straight for his dresser.

Steve picked up a wide, white box and turned, holding it straight out toward Eddie.

“I didn’t know we were doing a gift exchange,” Eddie said.

“It’s just…something I thought you’d like.” Steve shrugged one shoulder, still holding the box. “I don’t expect, like, reciprocation or anything.”

Eddie peered at the top of the box, where a line of blue text spelled out ‘Bloomingdale’s.’ Eddie leveled his gaze at Steve, but all he got in return was seeing Steve nervously bite at his lower lip.

Eddie took the box.

He heard Steve swallow hard as Eddie worked off the fitted cardboard lid, taking it before Eddie had to ask. Letting Eddie see the garment inside in all its surprising glory.

“It’s—”

“They had one in black, like you’d said.” Steve pointed to the gift, as if Eddie couldn’t see exactly what he was holding.

It was the jacket from that day at the mall. Stiff, because it was new, but clean denim with bright silver buttons on the breast pockets and down the front. The only difference: black, instead of blue.

Eddie dragged his hand across the fabric, remembering how warm the one he’d tried on had been. The warmth that came from nicely made stuff.

“You actually remembered that?” he said.

Steve fucking shrugged again, like he just went around remembering random bits of trivia from people he should never be associating with, much less buying Christmas presents.

The worst thing? Eddie wanted to keep it.

It would be a lot harder for Steve to try and take the gift back if Eddie had it safely in his own closet. Refusing the gift meant Steve could just return it.

Was Eddie supposed to refuse it?

He knew one thing for sure.

Steve Harrington was confusing the hell out of him.

“I’m planning another party. For New Year’s,” Steve said, breaking up the silence of Eddie’s indecision. His hand still on the jacket, Eddie looked him, mouth surely hanging open. Steve pursed his mouth, seemingly unsure of his own words. “If you want to plan…to be there.”

Eddie would have been there regardless. Didn’t usually get an invite to these things.

He narrowed his eyes toward Steve, who he was sure hadn’t not looked nervous since he first walked up to Eddie in the living room.

“I’ll think about it,” he said slowly. He lifted the jacket from the box, officially accepting the gift and tossed the bottom part onto Steve’s bed. As he headed for the door, he added, “And, thank you. For the jacket.”

“Don’t mention it."

Part Four

[starvrse]

CARNIVAL

| pairing : daniela avanzini x fem!reader

| summary : errr u and ur gf go to a fair and u get jealous or wtv

| warnings : g!p daniela, jealousy, p in v, no protection, impregnating talk, ass slapping, cursing, car sex, etc.

| unnecessary bs : 3k words 🙏 glaze me again

walking through the fair, hand in hand with your girlfriend, daniela. the evening air was warm, and the lights of the rides blinked in vibrant colors around you, casting soft glows on the crowd. you had just gotten off the rollercoaster, and now you were both reliving the adrenaline rush. “honestly, that wasn’t even scary, like, at all” you said, replaying the whole ride in your head.

daniela raised an eyebrow, her smile playful but teasing. “don’t even lie!” she grinned, giving you a nudge. “you were screaming so loud, i could hear you over the whole thing.”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “i was just vocalizing my excitement.” you said, trying to sound confident.

“vocalizing?” she laughed. “babe, you were straight up shrieking—and you were squeezing my arm so tight, i thought my circulation was gonna cut off!”

you both burst into laughter, walking a little slower now as you shared the moment. “i was just making sure you didn’t fall off the ride.” you joked. daniela laughed lightly, looking down at you. “yeah, right,” she said, still grinning. “i think i’m the one who was keeping you from flying off the coaster with that tight ass grip.”

you sucked your teeth playfully, the conversation dying down. leaving the two of you to walk in a comfortable silence.

as you got closer to the food stands, the scents of sizzling, sweet, and savory foods hit you all at once. your stomach gave an eager rumble, instantly reacting to the aromas drifting through the air.

“babe, it smells so good over here,” you said, your voice almost wistful as your mouth began to water. daniela let out a soft hum of agreement, her eyes scanning the stalls. “i know, right?” she replied, already looking hungry.

“oh my god! we have to get one,” you pointed at the stall that had “funnel cakes” in big, bold red letters. “it’s basically a requirement at the fair.”

daniela laughed, her eyes practically glowing. “oh, 100%. but like, extra powdered sugar,” she grinned, already picturing the perfect funnel cake in her head. “i want it to look like a snowstorm.”

“you’re gonna be in a sugar coma by the time we’re done.” you said to her, chuckling.

“worth it.” she said, glancing at the stand. “but damn baby, this line’s mad long.”

you shrugged, already stepping toward the back of the line. “it’s okay, i’ll wait. you can go mess with the claw machines or something.”

she gave you a look, raising an eyebrow. “you sure?” she asked, taking out a 50 dollar bill from her back pocket after you gave her a nod of approval. “i’ll win you a stuffed animal.”

“only if it’s a giant bear.” you teased, taking the money from her hand.

“say less.” she grinned, pecking your lips before walking off toward the claw machines that weren’t too far away.

-

finally, after what felt like 13 years, you were 3rd in line to get your funnel cake. not like you were counting, but it definitely took longer than expected. looking around, you didn’t see daniela anywhere, so you figured she was still messing with the machines.

when you got your funnel cake; extra powdered sugar, just like she asked. you made your way over to where the claw machines were. and then you saw it.

daniela, laughing—no, giggling way too hard with some girl who was clearly flirting with her. the girl’s hand was casually resting on daniela’s shoulder, and they were definitely way too into whatever was going on. the way daniela’s head tipped back, eyes sparkling… you felt this weird, hot twist in you stomach.

feeling that familiar annoyance rise up, even though you knew you had no reason to be mad. she was allowed to laugh, right? but the way she was acting with this girl made you feel like you were just… there. holding the funnel cakes like some kinda afterthought.

you tried to brush it off, but it was hard. that stupid, jealous feeling in the pit of your stomach wouldn’t go away. you gripped the plate a little tighter, walking over to her with more force than you intended.

as you got closer, you noticed the girl holding a plushie, a giant, stuffed unicorn. and then it clicked. daniela was the one who’d won it for her.

“you having fun?” you asked, trying to keep your voice casual, but it came out a little sharper than you meant.

daniela turned around, her face lighting up when she saw you. “yn! look! i won her the unicorn!” she said, holding it up, proud as hell.

the girl beside her giggled. “seriously, she’s amazing at this. i’ve never seen anyone get it on the first try.”

you forced a smile, your eyes narrowing a little. “yeah, looks like she’s really good at it.”

daniela didn’t seem to notice your tone, beaming as she looked from the girl to you. “i know, right? i’ve got mad skills. gotta teach you my ways.”

you nodded, still holding the funnel cake in one hand, but now you were just waiting to get out of there. Was she always this touchy with random girls? you couldn’t stop the thought from running through your head.

“here dani, thought you’d want this before it gets cold.” you said a little harsher than you wanted to.

daniela took the plate, but the smile she gave you felt a little off. as if she was trying to gauge if you were mad or not. and honestly? you were.

“is something wrong..?” she finally let out after examining your tone and facial expressions.

you didn’t answer right away. instead, you turned, starting to walk toward the car, your steps maybe a little too quick, a little too angry.

daniela hesitated for a second, glancing back at the girl, “hey, i’ll follow you back later, okay?” she stated, then followed after you.

“bro, slow down!” you heard your girlfriend yell from behind you.

you didn’t slow down, your mind racing, and your jaw clenching at her words. you didn’t want to explain it, didn’t want to seem petty. so instead, you kept walking, arms crossed tightly in front of you.

“come on, don’t walk off like that. what’s going on?” she questioned, slightly jogging so she could be closer to you.

“nothing’s wrong, daniela. just tired,” you muttered, trying to sound casual, but your voice was tight.

“uh-huh.” her voice was softer now, but you could hear the concern. you didn’t know if you wanted her to chase you down or leave you alone. either way, you were pissed.

when you reached the car, you slammed the door a little harder than you meant to.

the latter slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind her (way softer than you did). she tossed the funnel cake onto the dashboard, its powdered sugar already threatening to spill, and then just stared at you. the silence between you two was thick, and suffocating. waiting for something to break it.

you shifted in your seat, unable to handle the tension. “the fuck are you doing? drive.” you muttered, your gaze fixed on the windshield.

daniela didn’t move, her eyes still locked on you, unfazed. “i’m not driving until you tell me what’s up with you.” she said, her voice low but firm.

you let out a sharp breath, refusing to meet her gaze. “i’m fine.” you muttered, staring out the window.

she raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “you’re fine?” she repeated, her tone flat. “okay, cool. then tell me why the fuck you’re acting like I just killed your dog.”

you stayed quiet, jaw clenched, your eyes still glued to the window. you didn't know what to say, didn't know how to explain the frustration building up inside you.

daniela's patience wore thin, and her voice rose slightly. "oh, so now you're just gonna ignore me?" she snapped. "fine. don't say shit, but if you're gonna act like this, you can get out and walk."

you didn't respond, but you could feel the anger starting to boil. you were pissed, but you didn't want to yell. silence felt safer.

"no?" she barked. "then get in the fucking backseat."

daniela heard the scoff as you made your way toward the back, but what she didn’t see was the smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. you could already tell where this was headed, and while it wasn’t exactly the healthiest choice right now, it was clear that you both needed to let off some steam.

soon, the blonde joined you in the backseat, her hand tenderly gripping your waist, pulling you onto her lap. her slender fingers found their way to your neck, harshly guiding your lips to meet hers in a searing kiss. the intensity of her anger fueling a primal need. her body pressed against yours, kissing you in a rough manner.

the car fills with the sound of your bodies shifting, fabric rustling, and harsh breaths as you both grapple for control. daniela’s grip on your waist tightens, her fingertips digging into your skin, while your hands tangle in her hair, pulling roughly.

she broke the kiss to speak, "you always do this, you know. you always shut down and refuse to talk.” she punctuated each word by grinding you a little harder against her thigh, the denim of her jeans rubbing against the thin fabric of your safety shorts.

you whimpered at the friction, tangling your hands in her curly hair, while you bucked your hips on her leg, needing more.

as daniela’s words fade into the background, you can't help but focus on the sensation of her leg between yours, the friction sparking a fire within you. you grind against her harder, the heat building between your legs, and you let out a soft moan, your head falling back against the seat.

daniela’s hand leaves your waist, trailing down your thigh, her fingers brushing against your inner leg, teasingly close to where you need her most.

you can feel the heat of her hand, her fingers inching closer to your center, your body aching for more. you lift your hips slightly, silently begging for her to touch you there, to quench the growing flame inside you. your breath hitches as her fingertips finally graze your mound through your shorts, the touch sending shivers down your spine.

daniela’s fingers find the edge of your shorts, her touch dancing along the hem. she leans in, her breath hot on your neck as she whispers, "Is this what you want?" her fingers tease, dipping slightly beneath the fabric, but not enough to satisfy the growing ache. you let out a soft, frustrated sound, arching your hips upwards, trying to encourage her to go further.

your body aches for more, your hips grinding against her leg, seeking friction and release. her fingers continue to tease the edge of your shorts, brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, yet never quite giving you the satisfaction you crave.

"you want it, don't you?" her fingers slip further under your shorts, tracing the edge of your panties. you can feel the heat of her hand, fingers inching closer to where you need her most. "tell me," she breathes, her lips brushing against your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine. "tell me you want it."

your hips move with the rhythm of her hand, pushing against it, seeking more. "yes," you whisper, your voice hoarse with desire, "I want it."

“too bad.” she says, her warm breath sending shivers down your spine as she slowly pulled her hand away, leaving you empty and aching.

your whimper of protest was audible as she withdrew her touch, the loss of her hand making you press harder into her thigh for friction. “now you wanna make noise huh?” Her voice was a husky purr, full of tease.

she watched you with a heated gaze, her eyes flicking down to where you were still pressed against her thigh, seeking relief. she spread her legs slightly, allowing you more room to grind against her. “you're so desperate for it, aren't you?”

you could feel the frustration building up inside you, your moves becoming more urgent against her thigh. “stop being an asshole and fuck me already!' you said desperately, your nails digging into her shoulders.

the latina rolled her eyes in exasperation at your demands, but she couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. “you're so demanding” she remarked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

with a swift movement, daniela lifted you off her lap and maneuvered you into a new position. “hands and knees” she commanded, guiding you into place. the cool leather against your skin was a stark contrast to the heat emanating from her body as she positioned herself behind you.

She hiked up your skirt, pulling your shorts and underwear down, revealing your bare bottom to the cool night air. she ran a hand over the curve of your backside, then, without warning, she delivered a sharp slap to your left cheek.

you yelped at the sudden contact, your body jolting forward. the pain quickly morphed into pleasure as she began to massage the reddened skin. “so sensitive,” she commented, her fingers drifting between your legs to tease your wet folds. “and soaking wet.”

she rubbed the evidence of your arousal against your thigh before aligning herself behind you again. “spread your legs wider” she ordered, her voice low and demanding. you complied, feeling the cool air against your most intimate area.

she pulled down her jeans and moved her fingers to your hips tightly. “you want me to fuck you like this, don't you?' she growled, pressing herself against you. “in the backseat of my car like a common whore.”

you arched your back provocatively, pressing against her boner teasingly. “then fuck me like one,” you challenged breathlessly, casting a sultry glance over your shoulder. “show me how well you can handle the slut in the backseat.”

her breath caught in her throat at your bold words. “such filthy words coming from that pretty mouth..” she retorted, pulling her boxers down. and without warning, she plunged inside you, making you gasp loudly. she bit her lip at the feeling of your cunt around her, starting a steady rhythm, she gripped your hips harder. “you’re not so tough now, are you?”

you moaned loudly, the sound bouncing off the car walls. “shut up and keep fucking me.” you argued back, pushing back against her to meet her thrusts. the force of her movements made the car rock, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the air.

your moans grew louder and more desperate as she continued to pound into you, one hand moving to grip your hair roughly. “oh- fuck— god, dani!—don't stop!'"

daniela's other hand reached around to rub your clit, her fingers pressing hard against the sensitive nub as she fucked you mercilessly. your body shook with the force of her movements, your legs trembling on the seat.

the taller’s face was contorted with pleasure, her jaw clenched as she tried to muffle her own moans. “damn it…you're so fucking tight.” she groaned, her hips jerking forward erratically.

pleasure clouded dani’s mind, and she delivered a hard smack to your ass, the enjoyable pain making you moan and hang your head low.

“s-shit!” she screamed, grabbing a handful of your hair and yanking your head back. She pounded into you even harder, her other hand smacking your ass repeatedly.

she hissed in your ear, her breath hot and heavy, “you love it don't you? you always take me so well,” she kisses and sucks on your neck, “just obsessed with this dick, right?” trailing her tongue over a spot on your shoulder, teasing it before sinking her teeth in gently. a giggle escapes her lips as your startled gasp fills the air.

she continued, each thrust accompanied by a filthy phrase, “that’s right, take it—take every inch. you're such a good little slut...” her whimpers sounded like music to your ears. “s-so wet—so tight...does it feel good? does my cock feel good in your cunt?”

you arched your back even more, pressing yourself against her as she filled you completely. “y-yes. dani…” you blubbered, your words slurring with pleasure, 'it—it feels so good n’ d-deep!”

daniela gripped your hair tighter, slamming into you with all her force. “shit…that’s right, baby... take that big dick... show me how much you can handle...” your body trembled uncontrollably, your moans turning into screams of pure ecstasy as your hands clawed the leather seats.

the windows of the car fogged up as the vehicle rocked violently with each thrust. daniela's sweat dripped onto your back as she drove into you relentlessly. “listen to those filthy noises you're making…so pretty..”

your moans grew louder, more urgent, as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. “fuck! dani i-i'm gonna cum!” you screamed, your body convulsing as a powerful orgasm ripped through you.

daniela's thrusts became erratic, her hips jerking forward as she chased her own climax. “holy shit yn, imma put a baby in you, gonna’ fill you up so good...” She groaned, her body shaking as she came hard, her juices flooding your already overflowing hole.

she collapsed on top of you, her breath coming in heavy pants. 'fuck...that was so good.” she murmured, still slowly thrusting through her aftershocks, her hand possessively resting on your stomach.

after a moment, daniela slowly pulled her length out of you, a string of your mixed fluids following. she watched hungrily as your swollen, pink folds slowly closed around the absence of her length.

you flopped back onto the car seat, your legs hanging limply over the edge. your breath came in shallow pants, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. “fuck dani…”

daniela chuckled at your exhausted state, “answer me, yeah? you ready to talk about your problem now that i’ve fucked the brains out of you?”

she waited for a response, her eyebrow raised. but you could only manage a weak, breathless whimper. daniela smirked, satisfied with your silence. 'i'll just wait…" she noted, pulling up her underwear and jeans, not bothering to zip them up again.

daniela settled in beside you, casually draping your exhausted legs over her lap. her fingers absently kneaded your tender ass cheeks, relishing the subtle bruises forming there—the physical map of her passionate assault.

she smirked, enjoying the view of your thoroughly ravaged body sprawled out next to her. "looks like my princess is gonna need a few more minutes before she can form words again."

head so good she a honor roll 😋 finally dropped i hope this feels like playboi carti dropping an album 🙏🙏 ngl i forgot reader had a skirt on still so 😅