#i don't care if you already have or you didn't like it
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ridingthatd · 2 days ago
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❝ YOUR DAD'S FRIEND ❞
farmer! toji x succubus! reader ft. gojo
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➨ succubus : female sexual demon that feeds on a male sexual desire in their sleep.
your parents were divorced. so it was normal for you to spend the whole summer with your dad, back in the village he lives in. but what wasn't normal is getting fucked by the farmer next door who happens to be your father's friend, fushiguro.
warning : heavy smut, kinky, breeding, a lot of cum, squirting, daddy kink, dilf kink, anal sex, degrading, public sex, piss kink, a lot of fluid kink, spit kink, wet tongue kissing, toji is obsessed, pussy talk, dirty talk, fat cock, etc...
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you were a succubus. a sex demon.
well maybe half demon? since your mother who's a succubus fell in love with your dad who's a human. he never knew what your mom was she kept it a secret. but her little secret was getting to dangerous once she found out that she was pregnant with you, that's when she decided to divorce your dad. breaking her heart and his heart but what was done had to be done.
your mom had full custody over you, but you still visited your dad from time to time. once you hit eighteen it was time for your mom to teach you about her little secret, after all you were just like her a demon.
a demon who feeds of people sexual desire to survive.
at first it was weird, instead of sleeping at night like any normal human do ; you were wide awake creeping in their dreams. it was weird how lifeless you felt if you didn't absorb energy through sexual dreams. it was weird how high you felt as your pussy suck the life out of a man's cock.
you're 20 now you got used to the way you are. you have a couple of friends who were just like you so you didn't really feel alone, gossiping about how kinky the quiet classmate that you fucked in his dreams was or about how your annoying teacher liked to be pegged in his dreams. college life was fun.
"sooooo you're going to your father's boring ass village this summer?". your friend gojo questions you as he wrap his arm around your shoulder.
you nudge his arm off you in disgust.
"don't put your arm on me! I don't want to touch you after knowing you fucked our old ass lunch lady in her dreams last night!". you shiver in pure disgust while glaring at him. 8shoko laughs next you as she stares at satorus heart broken face.
"hey! it's not my fault she wanted me so bad". he pouts at you before pulling you toward him by the waist and holding you tight.
you sigh before giving into his tight hold.
"do you really have to go to the bum village this summer?". shoko mutters out as she places the cigarette on her wet lips.
"yea I really don't have a choice but I promise I'll be texting you guys". gojo grunts disappointed at the fact you won't be partying with them this summer.
you hear mei mei heels clicking behind you as she makes her way toward the table. "what if I just distracted your dad by fuckin-".
"NO!". you immediately scream out in horror on the average of tears at the idea causing the whole group to laugh out.
"just promise you'll be keeping us updated". gojo firmly says, his hands gripping your waist harder, pulling you closer to him.
you knew satoru cared about you a lot and he would do anything to make sure you're safe and protected.
you node before placing a gentle kiss on his cheek, not noticing the way gojo flushes and his head drops hiding his face behind his white hair.
"i promise".
you take a deep breath in admiring your fathers small house. you were finally here in the village, you miss your friends already but you didn't hate it here. the air was fresher then the city toxic air and the sky was a lot clearer. you were found of the cold breeze that was hitting your body.
"do you like it?". your father nervously ask making your eyes soften, he always wants what's the best for you. you quickly node smiling at him.
"mhm- I love it!".
he let's out a relieved sigh before proudly shoving his hands into his pants pocket causing you to giggle.
"I'm glad you like it, I worked pretty hard on it with a help of a really good friend". he puffs his chest out, causing you to snort.
"oh here he is!". your dad speaks out, you shift your eyes to the truck car that was parking in the house next door. your breath hitch as the man behind the car makes his way out.
the man was tall and broad, his dark hair on display as he looked down pulling at his black tie, his other hand undoing the button of his blazer. his large veiny hands then moved to loosen the top buttons of the white dress shirt underneath, exposing the firm looking skin of his chest. it seemed like he wasn't comfortable or used to dressing like that.
it was only when he closed the door of his truck he looked up that your eyes widened.
Wow.
never had you seen a man so devilishly handsome. he was strong, you could tell that much, and not just in the physical sense. sure his broad frame and muscular physique was eye catching but his presence was utterly dominating and intimidating.
it was enough to have your pussy fluttering.
he had beautiful skin, and high defined cheekbones that complimented his strong jaw.
his striking dark blue eyes were cold and calculating, one of a powerful man who knew what he wanted and knew how to get it. and right now they were staring blankly at you, you could swear you saw a hint of lust behind them before they turned blank.
"i told you office work isn't meant for you fushiguro! you're meant to be a farmer". you hear your father jokingly talking to the man ahead of you.
fushiguro? so that's why he looked so uncomfortable in his cloth.
toji mutters out something to your dad that you couldn't really hear. your dad immediately turn his head toward you.
"oh! this is my daughter that I told you about". your father introduce him to you.
"this is toji fushiguro". toji simply looks at you his jaw clenching so hard likes he's trying to suppress something before he gaze at your dad listening to whatever crap he was telling him.
you sit awkwardly at the dinner table chewing on your food as you sneak a glance at fushiguro who sits across the table his huge forearm muscles flexing each time he takes a bite of his food.
little did you know that toji was fighting to control himself.
TOJI POV ;
fucking hell, toji groans in his thoughts as his fat cock twitch in his pants under the dinner table. how fucking disgusting of him getting hard at the dinner table because of his friends daughter, he doesn't know what you're doing to him. he hasn't been sexually active for years now and he has never experienced what he's feeling right now.
he feels like a pervert whenever the veins on his cock twitch as he take a glance at you. something about you feels so breedable to the point where his cock is itching to pound you, breed your dirty little pussy at the dinner table even while your dad is here.
he excuses himself to the bathroom, growling lowly as soon as he closes the door. he got to be losing his fucking mind toji thought to himself as he cup his raging fat cock through his pants.
he hisses at how sensitive it is as he pulls it out- the thickness of his tip was so red pumping with blood as precum leaks out of it.
he can't believe he's doing this right now, jerking off like a horny teenage boy in the bathroom but he can't go back while his cock is like this.
he takes a deep breath before looking around the bathroom for some sort of toilet paper so he can catch his cum when he finishes.
then his eyes land on something inside the washing machine. his cock press on his abdomen as he stares at the red thong in there.
no no he can't- you'll find out- his friend is going to find out for fuck sake.
but here he was his shirt lifted up holding it by his mouth as he huffs and drools on it while stroking his leaking cock with your thong.
fuck toji can't believe he's doing this but it was to good to resist, so good that it has his thighs shaking as he fuck into your thong. he can see his precum leaking through his tip and soaking the fabric.
oh how he wish he could force you to wear this thong once he fills it with his cum, keeping your little pussy warm. and this throws him off edge as robes of cum start shooting out of his fat cock into your thong.
painting it white just like he wished.
a knock was heard on the door causing toji relaxed body to tense.
"hey is everything alright man? we're going to sleep". toji sighs zipping his pants up and rinsing your thong under water making sure there's no drop of his cum left before placing it back where he found it.
"yea give me a minute". he huskly speaks out.
END OF POV.
you let out a deep sigh as you slam your body into the bed, something about your dads friend toji sleeping here tonight makes you excited for some reason.
you snort at your own thoughts before diving into someone's dream to feed off tonight.
you look around confused as you see yourself in the middle of a field. you can really make out where you were because of the tall grass.
you let out a loud gasp as you two rough hands gripping you by the waist and a warm breath fanning against your sensitive neck.
"caught you". a husky voice speaks out against your neck causing your legs to get weak as your heart beat faster once you feel his fat cock throbbing behind your ass cheeks.
he run his nose up your neck before reaching your ear and sucking on it in the most dirty way soaking it with his spit, his warm tongue peak out and trail your ear before reaching down your neck again but this time he bites on it.
you moan out in pain and pleasure, arching your ass into his cock as a reflex.
"hmmm you dirty fucking slut- rubbing yourself on my cock like that? what is your dad going to think hm?". he growls out, grabbing you by your hair and turning your face around.
your eyes widen once you realize who it is but it was already to late because his tongue was deep down your throat, swirling around every inch of your mouth as his large hands make their way inside your panties before shoving them down your legs.
he doesn't let you catch your breath once he pulls away from the kiss, bending you over on your knees before pushing your sundress over exposing your wet pussy.
"wait- ahhh!". he doesn't let you finish as he shove his finger deep inside your pussy grunting against your ass at how tight you are. toji couldn't help himself as he pull his already leaking cock out of his pants.
stroking his fat cock as his tongue peaks out leaking your clit before sucking it into his mouth. you can't believe this is happening.
you were in the middle of a field. on your knees, hands digging into the dirt as you feel tojis wet tongue swirling around your ass hole before sliding down to your bare pussy. his large rough hands gripping your plumpy ass, holding you in place as he devours your filthy pussy in the openness of this field.
"your dirty little pussy better water this fucking field with your squirt". tojis growls out as he graze his fangs on your clit while fisting his fat cock furiously behind you. you can hear the fapping sloppy filthy sound that tojis cock was making while he strokes, it was making your pussy even wetter to the point you weren't ashamed to mutter out your next words.
"and your cock better sow my fucking pussy with your seeds". and that's when toji lose it, he shoves his face completely into your ass.
you scream as you feel his nose entering your pussy, your eyes roll back you've never felt this before the combination of him sucking your clit while his nose fuck into your pussy was so deliciously dirty.
"yea give it to me". toji moans out his hand working harder on his cock as he feels you riding his nose, pushing back and forward against it. your juice was going everywhere from the force, his whole face was glazed.
"fuck-! too much I feel like I'm going to piss-! no more- ahhhhh". you start sobbing, you lost control over your body the pleasure was to much.
"yes-! yes-! you good fucking girl piss in daddy's mouth- piss in my mouth!". toji whines out his cock was starting to rut against your thighs.
your eyes roll back at his dirty words, not being able to hold it back anymore. you came with a force your clear piss landing in his mouth causing toji to groan in bliss at the feeling of your warm liquid. it was spilling and dripping down your thighs to his sensitive cock.
"i-! mmmmmmm, it's soooo good I can't-! I can't-!". your thighs shake as your hot juice spurt out of your pussy landing everywhere. toji couldn't hold his groaning anymore as he drinks in your squirt, it was so much so much. your hot liquid was dripping down his face while his cum was already spilled on his hand.
you were shaking, your body giving out but toji wasn't done with you. he stands up and hold your face with his cum filled hand smearing it on your red lips.
"does my little baby want daddy to take care of her?". he coo at you shoving a thumb in your mouth and you immediately suck on it, whinning as you taste his salty cum.
"shhhh let daddy do the work". he shushs you picking up your body and holding you into his arms. you place your head into his chest whimpering as you feel his fat cock ripping through your pussy.
"I know I know daddy's cock is to big? hm?". you sob feeling your pussy stretching fully trying to adjust to how thick his cock was.
"i- ahhhhh! mmmmmmmm!" you couldn't form out your words, you could feel every inch of his cock, his throbbing veins, his fat tip finally hitting your cervix. your body shakes against his, his cock was so thick so good.
"here baby? right here?". he grunts rutting his hips up, bouncing you on his dick. you were a mess drooling fucked out of your mind. toji growls before ripping your top off and diving into your bouncing boobs taking one of your fat nipples into his mouth sucking on it hard while his fat tip dive into the gummy walls of your pussy.
"gonna cum-! please". you sob out.
toji halt his movement pulling his hard dick out ripping a whine out of you before placing your body on the ground.
he hold both of your legs giving your ankles a wet kiss before placing them on his board shoulder as he sloppily tap his fat cock on your clit.
"tell me what do you want from daddy hm?". he breaths out trailing kissing on your feets.
"I want you inside- please! please-". you whine wiggling your bottom at him. toji hums before place his rough hand on your belly pressing his hand there as he questions.
"you want daddy here? hm? you want his cock to fill your belly?". you moan out at his dirty words eagerly noding your head.
toji doesn't hesitate as he shoves his cock fully inside in one go, reaching your insides before pulling out and doing the same again. your body was being shoved away by the force of his thrusts but toji growls holding you back into his cock by your feets.
you were so close so close to squirting all over his cock. you were going to-
"having fun without me?". you hear your friends voice gojo.
you gasp as you find yourself in your room again sweat coating your body.
what the fuck just happened.
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taglist : @mikyapixie @renaimel @hikaako @ourfinalisation @justbelljust @sarcasticbitchsblog @sesshomarunrin @phoenixflames498 @cloudserenity @c0ckdrunkk
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aangelinakii · 2 days ago
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SOULMATE SCARS.
— matching wounds.
summary : ever since you were young, strange bruises and scars have been emerging all along your body. surprisingly, you weren't extremely clumsy, so you had no ideas as to where they came from. sure, a couple bruises might be okay — they don't even hurt anyway — but when you wake up with autopsy scars along your chest, it's time to tell a professional. what happens when you meet someone with the same scars as you?
note : description of blood and injury so just be aware of that if rhat stuff icks you out
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when blood began dripping from your arm in the middle of drinks, your night got a little darker.
even in the darkness of the poorly-lit bar, a juke box in the corner ringing an old fleetwood mac song, one of your friends could make out the slash of a great cut peeking out of your shirt on your upper arm, a long, cool dribble of blood slipping down your flesh.
"holy shit—"
despite being used to plum-coloured bruises and scars from out of nowhere, you weren't much of a bleeder — or, at least, whatever strange power from above had cursed or blessed you with this.
someone grabbed a napkin and dabbed you up, but the damage was already done; scarlet spatters stained the white short sleeve of your shirt, and it stung to peel away the fabric from the fresh wound.
normally they didn't hurt, but something about this one was different. maybe you were asleep half the time they happened, so you only got the aftermath the next morning when you undressed for the shower.
needless to say, you weren't feeling like glasses of wine and gin and tonics anymore tonight, and bid your friends farewell before slipping into the nip of the gotham night.
as you rounded the corner down your block, after one of your shorter walks home, you glanced back down at your arm, goosebumps rippling along the flesh. now when you inspected it, beneath the illumination of the streetlamp perched above you, it almost looked as though your torn, sticky flesh was welding back together, starting with the edge of it.
no longer did it sting, but it was certainly sensitive against the biting breeze, and your pace quickened.
by the time you were opening your front door, light from the corridor spilling into your flat, the wound was only half-open. but also something was different.
in your apartment, i mean, like something had shifted.
steps careful and quiet, you slot your keys between your fingers as you edged further into your flat, turning the handle to make sure no noise came when the door met its hinges once more.
the couch had definitely inched slightly to the left, and the shading atop your lamp was crooked. perhaps the couch was less easy to notice, but when you lived here every day, you'd almost bumped into it before noticing — but the lampshade was undeniable.
something groaned from the bathroom, where, when you peered towards the door, had a sliver of white light peeking through the cracks in the hinges. the sound of like when you suck air in through the gaps of your teeth came after, and you knew then and there: someone was in your home.
for safe measures, you plucked one of your kitchen knives from its block and crept toward the bathroom; now, the scuff of a boot against the tiles.
once you were outside, but with enough distance to be able to make any split-second decisions, your voice edged up your throat, a croak at first, before you could find your footing.
"whoever's in there, show yourself," you stated as firmly as you could, though the waver in your tone was apparent to any trained ear. "or— or i'll call 911."
shit, you probably should've done that first, investigated later — but you'd already spoken, and there was no reversing it.
a pained cough came from behind the door, and your mind immediately went to the worst: there was a killer behind there, purposely staying quiet so you'd open the door and they'd jump out and kill you in your own home— oh, you're opening the door anyway.
but what you found wasn't any killer of the sort; just a guy.
a shirtless guy.
tons of supplies you didn't even realise you had in your house were scattered about the tiles around him, where a pair of thick tactical pants-clad legs lay spread apart weakly. one of his arms hung limp at his side, his hand sitting palm-up upon his thigh helplessly.
but what else you noticed... moving up his toned chest, flesh littered with scars and scratches, was one long scar you recognised all too well. the mere sight of it caused the painless mark along your own torso to throb — which it had never done in the years you'd had it.
starting just below each collarbone, sloping down to his solar plexus, and straight down his stomach to his navel.
a mirror image of what lay just below your shirt now.
but you had never had an autopsy, and, by the look of it, neither had this guy; sure, shadows curved below his eyes and grime littered his cheekbones and forearms, but this man was very much alive.
glinting in the light, your eyes caught a metal needle dangling by his limp arm. you followed a red thread up, up to the bulb of his shoulder, where a half-open wound lay, somehow simultaneously oozing with red and crusting with it.
mouth running dry, you tore your stare away, dropping the knife and taking your hand to tug at your stained sleeve.
although much less bloody, the cut you'd found at the bar was the exact same.
with shivering fingers, you took a ginger step forward and encouraged yourself to look back to the black-haired man leaning against your bath.
"you... you..."
it wasn't much, but it was all you could muster.
seemingly unaware of the connection you'd just made, the man averted his eyes, looking back to his wounded flesh. "sorry, i didn't realise you'd come home – thought the place was empty," he mumbled.
that didn't matter now.
perhaps it should've, really, but not when... well, you saw it.
similarly, the keychain dropped from your grip, and you edged closer to the man, whose expression twitched in alarm.
"can i see that? your arm?"
as you lowered down to a crouch, the man's green eyes followed warily, his previously parted lips thinning, but he didn't move away.
eyes lingering on him for a few more beats, you turned your attention to the red-hot gash embedded in his flesh. "what happened?" your fingers found the eye of the needle, conscious not to touch too much of the red that plagued it.
the man watched your careful movements, as you lined up the prick with his torn skin and slowly pushed it through. he was unflinching, apparently more glad to just be able to sit back and not worry about himself for once. "bad knife. really shitty as you can see."
"yeah, i can see." mentally, you snapped at yourself, for you'd been unable to leave the bitterness from your tone, and the man's expression only looked on quizzically.
your fingers left the needle, allowing it to swing against his arm as it had done before when you found him, specking him with little lines of his own blood. in one swift action, you tugged up your sleeve, revealing your own half-open wound, the seared edges of flesh linking miraculously together.
the man's dark eyebrows knitted together and he physically drew himself back slightly. "shit, what'd you do there?"
"i didn't," you snapped back — not mad at him, per se, but more so the situation: this man was the reason for your horrific wounds, ones you never felt, but were cursed with the burden of. "you did."
a scoff came from the man's lips. "yeah, right..."
no, he was right. he didn't need to say anything; you were crazy.
"have you ever... i don't know, woken up with a bruise you don't know how it got there?" you pushed, eager to plead your case.
he made an attempt to shrug, but winced and ceased the movement. "doesn't everybody?"
so he was one of those difficult ones.
he comes into your apartment bleeding everywhere, and has the audacity to have an attitude. he wasn't even welcome.
"my point is," you huffed, "yours are the same as mine."
you extended a finger at his chest. "this. i have this.
it was now that he finally looked convinced. well, not entirely, but that look of judgement softened into something more commonly identified as confusion.
you tugged at the hem of your shirt, and rose the fabric slightly to show where the end of your autopsy-type scar ended — just above your navel.
when he looked at you now, it was like trying to figure out if you were dead or alive. or maybe if he were dead or alive.
"what, so..." he began after a few silent beats. "so we're connected, or something? you get my scars, i get yours?"
that's certainly what it seemed, but you shrugged anyway; there was no way to know for sure.
lips pressing together, you leaned forward to resume sewing up his wound, unable to fathom the way your own scar seemed to stitch itself up, too — no thread, no needle.
what a strange way to end your night...
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kaivenom · 1 day ago
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Hey same person who asked for OP DILF x MILF reader
How about them reacting to MILF reader having a kid? (Even funnier if it was like luffy or zoro lol)
OP DILFS dating a MILF who has a kid
Characters: Mihawk, Doflamingo, Crocodile, Smoker,Shanks.
A/N: Two things. First one: i love this, i really had a good time writing it, you have great ideas my dear anon. Second one: exams are finally oveeeer, so i would be trying to update more than usual to get all the requests out of the hoven for everyone.
Masterlist
Dracule Mihawk
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After taking care of Zoro and Perona, he thinks that he is ready for everything.
One day you were both on the kitchen and he like ussual is reading paperwork.
"It looks like the new generation it's going strong, this kid seems a good swordsman." he shows you the picture.
"Drac, i think it's time for us to talk." he almsot felt fear for a moment, "that kid it's mine, not like you and Zoro, literally that is my son." his mind exploded, you never saw him that concerned.
"And when will you have said this to me?"
"I am telling you now... you know how difficult it's to date at our age, especcially being a woman who already has a kid?" he nodded and pushed you closer, "i planned on telling you soon, i just, didn't know how, i was expecting something like this to happen to have the oportunity to tell you.
"You are lucky i already have practice with that green haired boy... call him, we can set a dinner and i can meet him formally, maybe even bond?" you coudln't help but smile and kiss him.
Donquixote Doflamingo
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He already has experience with children since he literally adopted a lot of them.
One day someone robbed on the royal treasure chamber of Dressrosa and he was furious, he was looking for you to help him relax.
"My dove, i need some of your assistance on my d..."
"And when i tell you i date someone your best idea it's to rob him? you are lucky i found you and your stupid friends before he did? and.... " you finally became aware of his presence, but his eyes were already glued to the teenager.
You grabbed your child by the collar of the shirt and went to the door, your previous angry look bacame softer seen how Doflamingo's eyebrows were frowning.
"This is my son... i called him to Dressrosa so you could finally meet him but he decided to 'prove you'... i dont know what was on his mind. I have the treasure located and coming back to the chamber."
"You have a child." Doflamingo looked at the verge of an aneurysm, gritting his teeth.
"I do, please, don't punish him... i thake the responsability." his lips curled in a strange smile, like he was trying to fake it.
"I am honored to meet your son, it's impressive to know how skilled he is, maybe he can join court..." clearly Doffy was having a hard time trying not to kill you son.
Sr. Crocodile
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Experience 0, oblivious 100%
He was on his office, doing work and you appeared with your son.
"Croc..." he turned the chair and looked at you both, "dear, i told you i don't need more agents... i don't know how you contacted someone with such a high bounty but i don't need it." and he turned the chair again.
"This is my son..." Crocodile was thankfull for being backwards to you cause he choked on the cigar.
"Your what?"
"SIr Crocodile, i am (Y/N)'s son, i was hoping to meet you and bond a little, i wasn't expecting a job... but if you give it to me i am not going to complain."
"You already have a job as bounty hunter, don't try to take advantage of this." you poked your son's cheek under Crocodile's surprised look.
"I..." he cleared his throat, trying to sound serious and prepared, "pleasure to meet you child, i would have appreaciate it a warning."
"I warned you, i left a note on the fridge that said 'special meeting today, i have a surprise'" your son started to laugh.
"That sounded like a booty call, jajaja, maybe he was expecting you to come here in lingerie." you punched your son on the head to make him shut up.
"I can make a reserve on the restaurant we both like and i can know you better." he tried to sound profesional but your son was right, he tought you would give him a sexy surprise, not this.
Smoker
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He was really tired of dealing with teenage pirates.
He spent the last week chasing and fighting agaisnt a new supernova, he was tired and just wants to get home to you.
"Hello love." he said while hanging his uniform, then he got to the living room and saw that same supernova playing cards with you, "i don't know what you are doing here bastard but you are not going to hurt my..."
"Relax old men, i was just paying a visit to my mother." Smoker got his mind reset.
"Smoker sweetie, this is my son."
"How couldn it be your son? you are a marine."
"Same happens with Garp, but he is a grandfather.... i think maybe this is a nice time for you two to meet." you were really nervous but tried to sound chill and smooth.
"Oh mother, we already know each other, thi sis the man that has been chasing me all week." the moment got worse every second and you wanted to hide, but you felt Smoker sat next to you and put his arm on your should, "noooo, cut the romantic things, i am going to throw up."
"Don't talk to us like that, yesterday i was furious that you were so childish but right now, i wont tolerate you talking to your mother or me with such a disrespectful tone." you had to hide a laugh, he clearly was getting his frustations out but at the same time trying to be nice. "so tell me, how can a son of a marine officer become a pirate?"
"Well..." and you knew that this would be a long night.
Akagami Shanks
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Since Luffy and Uta, he was out of the parenting thing, for now.
You were sleeping and suddently canons started to burst on the ship, you got dressed and prepared to a new day at board.
"I am xxxxx, and i will defeat you, Red Head SHanks."
"On your dreams, child." canons were still bursting when you got on the ship and saw the attacker of the ship.
"Mom?" "Son?" you both said at the same time, Shanks mouth touched the ground.
"Come here you little prick, how could you blow the ship of your mother's fiancee."
"You are engaged? i didn't got the letter nor invitation, you don't love me or what? i know we don't live together anymore but..."
"I sent it yesterday, it should get to you in a couple of hours but... we took the covers of various newspapers, how could you not saw it?"
"You know i don't read that bullshit..." you both were yelling at each other from the ships, until Shanks decided to finally talk.
"And when i was going to know this?"
"Today!" he coudln't even talk, his mind was going to fast, another problematic child.
"Boy, stop blasting canons and get on the ship... i love your mother and i want to marry her, i can kill you."
"You are not going to kill me, i am going to defeat you."
"You can try, after the wedding and only if i am looking." you yelled at him and went to Shanks, "leave him, he is excited in reality to meet you."
"I must recompose myself, i must make him see i am a good stepfather."
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naamahdarling · 3 days ago
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i know this is the hate the military website but veterans DO NOT deserve this and you SHOULD sternly oppose policies that fuck over veterans.
if this gets people mad at means-testing then GOOD because i'm not a veteran but i'm living under means-testing and let me tell you it is HORRIBLE and the effects it has on your humanity, both in your understanding of your value to society (none, or none worth fighting for) and in the sense of your ability to fucking FEEL CONCERN FOR OTHERS instead of concern for your own safety when something like a crisis happens, are truly horrendous. (my dad being in hospital should be a source of pain and fear because i don't want my dad to die, not because i'm terrified of what him dying would do to my housing and benefits, but i don't get to fucking feel that like a normal person -- years of survival gatekeeping successfully stripped that away from me.)
if you need public assistance to survive you are expected to live as a lesser thing as penance.
fucking stand up for disabled veterans.
the rights of the disabled are the rights YOU will have WHILE YOU ARE DYING. look that in the fucking eye. care NOW.
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He wants to decide if you deserve it.
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plethorawrites · 7 hours ago
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How the Batboys would react to finding out and dealing with you self harming/having severe depression.
TW: Mentions of cuts, blood, suicidal thoughts, incorrect use of pills, sort of implied eating disorders.
Please don't read if this could upset you in any way.
---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_
Bruce:
The first time he notices is also the first time you spend the night. The lights were dark and you were both a bit buzzed after downing several glasses of champagne to endure a boring event he invited you to as an excuse to see you. Of course he was more concerned with kissing the inside of your thighs than noticing the little healed scars on them.
He notices them the next morning though, when the sun is streaming through the window and you get up to find your clothes while assuming he's asleep. He wasn't. He saw the marks. The scars. He refrained from saying a word about them, waiting weeks for you to open up about them on your own terms. He could see they were healed so he wasn't terribly worried at that moment.
When you finally told him, you said you'd been clean for months. He had no reason to suspect you would start again.
But you did.
He didn't know the exact day, or the specific reason, all he knew is that you stopped wearing shorts to bed and stopped letting him leave the lights on to see you when you were intimate. You stopped smiling as often, too.
Of course, being a detective, he can tell when you start getting lethargic, not from work or stress but simply life itself. He hears when your words have less meaning, and your expressions are false. He makes it his mission to not let you fall into the spiral any more than you already have.
You might not want to tell him you're hurting yourself but he'd be damned if he didn't do whatever he could to make you stop. That started by holding you tighter at night so you couldn't sneak off to the bathroom to cut, he'd ask you to visit him at work, insist on every meal being at a restaurant so you didn't even have time to try to hurt yourself. And of course, he helps with the tasks you start struggling with, but pretends he doesn't notice.
He just says "Can I practice braiding your hair so I can help Cassandra?" and use it as a chance to make sure you don't start letting your hair tangle.
He even makes the braid a bit crooked even though he can French braid perfectly, just to sell it. He'll wash it, too, claiming it's: "A good excuse to spend time together." after a long day.
He just wants to make sure it's not getting greasy. He can see the guilt on your face when you sit in the tub, staring at the wall. You wanted to tell him to stop, that you could wash your own hair. But you probably couldn't. It felt like too much work and you just wanted to sink underneath the water of the tub for a few minutes of peace. He kept you upright though, kissing the back of your shoulder, the side of your neck, your cheek, making you hum.
You weren't able to feel much, emotionally speaking, but you could feel gratitude and love.
When he notices you skipping meals because you can't drag yourself to the kitchen or bother to cook, he will. He'll make anything, even if you change your mind about what sounds good and make him cook six different dishes before eventually accepting one of them. He doesn't care. He just wants you to eat. The second you show the slightest bit of interest in something, anything, it's yours. You make a comment about the beach sounding nice, the next thing you know he's taken the day off work and is driving you there with the top of a convertible down.
You say you kind of miss one of your old hobbies— be it painting or crochet, it doesn't matter what, the next day the nicest stuff for you to get back into it arrives. Fresh paints, massive canvases or imported yarn and crystal hooks. He watches, intently when you start to focus on something you like again, the heavy ache in his heart subsiding when he gets to show enthusiasm about your project when it's done.
You start holding him again at night, your face buried in his chest instead of sleeping facing the wall. One night you slide into bed wearing shorts and he can see your scars, red ones among the old faded pale ones from when you first met.
He knows they'll heal too in time. Just like you have.
---
Dick: He doesn't realize there's anything wrong several months into dating you until he catches you taking some pills when he was walking back into the room and later searched up the name, figuring out they're antidepressants.
He can't believe he didn't see it sooner and hates that you were always putting on a fake smile with him. He wants you to talk about it, but understands that it's hard for you too and your every attempt to open up to him ends with you in tears or walking out in frustration because the words won't form.
He suggests (very strongly) that you see a therapist and after some gentle coaxing, you agree. He sits in the car the entire time waiting for you and when you come out, numb for a few minutes as you sit there in silence before sobbing uncontrollably for the 20 minutes in the parking lot. He gets you whatever you want after— ice cream, cheesecake, brownies. Whatever you're craving.
He takes you every week, sometimes multiple times a week. He never complains and he's ALWAYS there. He'll wake up early, even if he barely slept. He'll skip family lunch, he'll rush out of a bank robbery just shouting for his brothers to handle it without him. It doesn't matter what, he'll be there.
He's taken to heavy positive affirmations, as well. He puts sticky notes up in the bathroom with smiley faces for whenever you brush your teeth or put on moisturizer. There are little hearts and words of encouragement on the front of the fridge and inside of it too for when you manage to crave a snack. Hopefully something healthy like fruit, but even if it's junk food, it's better than an empty stomach.
Every morning he wakes you up and tells you you're beautiful and he's grateful to have you.
He likes to remind you not to push yourself as well. "If you just manage to wash your hair, you'll have done something" and "If that's too hard, I'll help you make the bed." But also..."If you don't do anything at all today, you still survived. That alone is difficult, but you're doing it."
Every night he lays it on even thicker because he knows it gets harder at night. "I'm so proud of you for making it through another day." And... "I know it sucks right now but I promise I'll help you get through this." And... "Just take it one day at a time."
When you get homework from your therapist— to do 3 hard tasks over one week, make a list of every negative and positive thought to see them out loud and deduce why you have them, physical exercise—he does it with you. No matter how foolish or seemingly simple it is.
Your therapist told you to do something you struggle with? Done. He'll stand behind you while you do the dishes and help you dry.
You need to get something from a store that's dozens of miles away? Road trip. He'll buy the snacks and take turns driving so you don't het stressed out burn out.
You're told to get some physical exercise? He'll be your partner for whatever kind you want to do. Jogging in the park, keeping a slower pace than usual for you, practicing on rings while you climb the stairmaster—he falls, because he's distracted by your ass. But that's besides the point.
When you start to show signs of feeling better, that therapy is working, he's elated. And after several months and things are better, much better, you tell him whenever you're feeling off. Whenever that nagging feeling comes back over you. You guys work through it then and there to keep it from getting bad again.
Though sometimes, when he's leaving for work, you'll pout and say you feel sad just to get him to stay. You both know it's not a depressed feeling. You just don't want him to leave and he'll indulge you. "Oh, well, if that's the case, I'll just have to stay in bed with you until you feel better."
---
Jason: He's busy. Always. But that didn't mean he was oblivious. Yet, that's exactly how he felt when he realized you'd been abusing your medicine. He knew after the first few dates that you were on medication for chronic depression and he was more than understanding about it. Millions of people suffered from it, himself occasionally included.
But when he's laying in bed and catches you sneaking into the bathroom to take three more pills than you're supposed to, he's caught off guard. Then you slide down to the floor, sitting crisscrossed, making small cuts on your thighs, wincing in pain the entire time. It takes every ounce of self control not to jump out of bed and rip the blade from your hand. He contemplates it, he really does. But that would just make things worse. So he waits.
It keeps him up all night, though he pretends to sleep. And in the morning, you're back out of bed, taking more and sliding back in bed, pretending to wake up just like him.
He blames himself entirely.
He thinks he should have been better, done more, noticed something that made it better. It was his job to support you and protect you and he had failed and that killed him in ways that seemed unimaginable.
After an incredibly difficult conversation where he confesses to knowing you've been filling scripts you don't need and taking more than necessary, you're both an emotional mess. But he assures you he's not leaving or angry, just scared for you. He wants to help but needs you to let him.
He absolutely dedicates himself to keeping you away from anything even remotely dangerous.
The knives in the kitchen? Gone.
Even the butter knives are plastic now.
The razors in the bathroom? Thrown out in a trashcan outside so you couldn't find them.
Even the little blade in the pencil sharpener is taken out.
He won't let you have your pill bottles either, at least not at first. He makes sure you take them everyday, morning and night, then after several weeks starts to let you handle them by yourself.
He still sneaks out of bed to count them and make sure you weren't taking more than prescribed. He insists on being the one to wrap your arms, cleaning them to make sure they don't get infected. And wiping your legs as well. He has to remind himself not to squeeze them too hard, the way he wants to.
While holding you at night he makes sure not to hurt them, even though he wants to hold you much tighter to comfort himself as reassurance you're alright. He listens, late at night when you're whispering to avoid crying. When you explain the feeling it gave you. He knows it.
Once they heal and he can hold you tighter, not as afraid of hurting you by squeezing your thighs the way he likes to. He starts kissing them each night, making sure you know they're not embarrassing or shameful.
He's got scars on most of his body; you were the one to teach them to appreciate them. If he could return the favor, he would. A thousand times over.
He tells you the same things you told him. "You made it through."
---
Tim: When you tell Tim, and by tell I mean confess after he figured it out on his own, you're surprised to find that he doesn't have much of a reaction immediately. He stays quiet, hums a little, nods along. He never interrupts but you see his eyes glazing over a bit, the way they do when the gears start turning in his head. He knew, of course, that you had depression.
He knew you hurt yourself, not in the traditional way of cutting or attempting suicide, but in much subtler ways, like forcing yourself to finish a meal even though you're full and your stomach hurts, taking boiling hot showers that leave your skin red and raw practically painful to even touch from how dry it is, making yourself stay up late and function on the fewest hours of sleep possible.
You purposely made life harder for yourself and for the most part, didn't even realize it. He did, though. What he didn't realize was the amount of medicine you'd tried, to the point you felt none of them worked, the amount of therapists and psychiatrists you had seen, the level of depression you had truly sunk to before. It hurt him to realize once you started opening up. He wanted to make that pain go away. So, he researched. Constantly.
He wants to know every single thing that can cause depression, the statistics of self harm leading to suicide, the effectiveness of different treatments or facilities. He knows every antidepressant, their side effects, their manufacturers, and dosages. He suggests inpatient care for you, but absolutely refuses to send you to someplace like Arkham.
Instead, he finds the best of the best, way out of the city, where the entire staff passed his background check, the facility was up to date on every code possible, and the rules seemed relaxed enough to let you feel like yourself while also making sure you're safe. He's allowed to visit and does so as soon as possible, even manages to get extra hours in the night. You have the best of care there, too, he knows because he can see it on your face every time he's there.
The food is wonderful, the private room you have is nice (even if you miss his warmth at night), the activities they make you do remind you of the hobbies you used to love before they became unbearable. Even therapy sessions, always private because Tim knew you wouldn't want to speak about it in a group, are rather helpful.
When you get out after a few weeks, he's right there, waiting, like always. And he's got the biggest smile because he can see immediately the light back in your eyes that he missed so much. He keeps up with some of the tactics you learned or hobbies you started while there, gladly sitting on the floor with you while you do paper mache.
He always makes sure you know you're not weak for needing help and if you ever feel like you need to go back, even just for a week, or weekend, he'll be there for you. Just like always.
---
(Aged up. I imagine you both in LOA)
Damian: It didn't take a genius to know you were a miserable person. Most people in the league of assassins were. He rather liked your level of misery, usually. It was cynical, with a touch of wit and dark humor that always made him feel seen.
It wasn't until he caught sight of a few scars on your calf that he didn't recognize that he started to realize you were more miserable than he had originally thought. You tried to play it off, claiming you got hurt in a sparring match. But that was a lot and he knew it. Because A) you never lost. And B) the cut was at an angle a sword wouldn't be able to reach unless you were the one holding it.
You clearly didn't want to talk about it, so he wouldn't make you. He was always taught that emotions were weak and even though he didn't fully believe it as he used to, he still isn't big on a lot of sentimentality. Which is fine, because you aren't either.
He still keeps a quiet, very close eye on you. Maybe you noticed, maybe you didn't. He wasn't sure. He didn't care either way. He was worried and with your recent behavior, he felt he had every right to be. You started putting in less effort during training, if you even showed up at all. He'd find you on the balcony at night, leaning your head against the railing and staring at the gardens with a blank expression.
Even the things he knew you loved— your favorite foods, the music you liked to listen to on a record player while you got ready for bed. It stopped appealing to you. The meticulous way you'd fix your hair before bed every single night abruptly stopped, too. You simply fell asleep with it as is and woke up with it tangled. You still held him at night, but it felt less like an embrace for the both of you and more like you were clinging to him like a life line.
He pays extra close attention and anytime he isn't allowed to be by your side, he makes sure someone else is. It's hard to keep you away from sharp objects, given nearly everything around them was a weapon, but he tries to get you to vent your rage by cutting training dummies and not yourself.
He also takes you to the quieter, more secluded wing, into an empty room with pillows on the floor. He makes you sit with him and meditate, which he knows is hard at first, boring and you don't have the most energy, but he holds your hand, his fingers pressed to your pulse to make sure you're listening when he tells you to take a deep breath in and think— not of what you're grateful for, like some might suggest. No. Instead of asking you what you want to live for, he asks you what you can't die without. The grudges you're holding, the projects you haven't finished, the people who are just waiting to see you fail. He won't let you let them win.
And it works. That passion and drive slowly comes back with his help and support at your side, doing your hair for you at night and making sure someone brought you a meal three times a day even if he wasn't around to make sure you ate. Your need to be the best and spite anyone who thinks you aren't returns after a while.
One night he finds you training alone, sweat dripping from your brow, your scars both won in battle and self inflicted on display. Instead of interrupting, he simply watches, admiring your form which had improved since you started picking up your sword more often. He loved watching you find your spirit again.
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ptergwen · 2 days ago
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Hi there, I'm SO HAPPY YOUR BACK! I was wondering if you could maybe write a Tom Holland Peter Parker x fem Stark reader based on this prompt?: You’re unconscious after a mission gone wrong, and Peter’s voice shakes as he desperately calls your name, when Tony comes. If you don't want to do it, its ok
stay
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w/c: 2,005
warnings: mentions of blood, angst (happy ending!)
a/n: hi lovely thank you sm! you guys know i love my angst so i felt very in my element with this one hehe, thanks for the patience while i get used to writing again! feel free to keep sending in your reqs and chatting, i love hearing from y'all and will answer asap ♡
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"y/n? it's over, i got him. i’ll come find you, okay?"
you don't answer.
"y/n/n? can you hear me?"
there's only silence on peter's end of the headset. peter isn't worried, not at first. he figures maybe you just got disconnected.
"y/n?"
nothing.
now that peter hasn't heard from you on the third try, he is starting to worry. the two of you had gotten separated during your mission. the plan was for you to distract your opponent and peter to web him up, but you lost him somewhere along the way. it was hard to stick together in the dark, twisty tunnels. he'd thought it would be best to take care of your opponent himself and find you after.
tony is going to kill him if he let anything happen to you. it's okay, though. he can just use his suit to track your location.
"friday?"
"yes, peter?"
"take me to y/n."
peter swings through the tunnels to get to you faster. friday guides him, which he's grateful for because he doesn't have a great sense of navigation as is. it's even more difficult underground. peter lands where friday tells him to, but he doesn't see you.
"are you sure this is where she is? i think she might've lost connection... maybe her location didn't update."
"y/n's watch is online, peter."
peter notices something on the ground, its blinking light catching his attention. he picks it up. sure enough, it's your stark tech watch, but where are you?
"would you like me to check again?"
peter makes out a figure a few feet away. it isn't moving. he takes a few steps toward the figure, reaching for his mask.
"that's okay. thanks, friday."
he removes his mask to see better, brows knitting together. something doesn't feel right. peter's senses confirm it, the hairs on his arms standing up and eyes focusing harder in the darkness. in peter's head, he already knows it's you. in his heart, he hopes it isn't.
peter crouches down and puts a hand on the figure's shoulder, rolling them over to face him.
it's you.
your spandex suit has some rips in it, and dirt is coating your back. your mask is pulled up part of the way. peter takes it off, revealing blood dripping down your forehead, your eyes just barely open. tears roll down your cheeks. peter cups your face tenderly in his hands, eyes desperately searching for yours.
"oh my god, baby, what happened?"
"that guy."
your voice comes out weak. despite the blood and tears staining his gloved fingers and the tightening in his throat, peter does his best to stay calm.
"what guy? the one we were fighting?"
"yeah."
"he did this to you?"
you hum in response. peter props an arm behind your head for support.
"it's okay. everything's gonna be okay."
"but... it hurts."
"i know, baby. but you're gonna be okay. we're gonna get you home and..."
your eyes flutter closed.
"hey, hey, hey. look at me."
peter strokes your cheek, willing you to stay awake. you grunt.
"tell me where it hurts so i can take a look. can you do that for me, y/n? where does it hurt?"
"my head. on top."
peter carefully parts your hair, searching for the source of your bleeding. there's a damp patch of hair near the top of your head. he moves it aside and finds a gash. it's small, but fairly deep. he doesn't think he can handle this on his own; he needs to tell tony.
"i’m gonna call your dad, okay?"
you don't respond. your eyes are closed when peter looks for them.
"y/n? you have to stay awake."
you don't say or do anything to indicate that you hear him. tears prick peter's eyes, threatening to spill over. he doesn't know much about head injuries, but he knows this isn't good.
"please wake up, y/n/n."
peter grabs both your shoulders and shakes, hard enough that it should wake you. nothing. you seem to have slipped into some sort of an unconscious state.
your watch starts to beep with an incoming call from your dad. peter accepts it with a shaking hand.
"friday tells me your vitals are suspiciously low, little lady. what's going on?"
peter fights to keep his tears at bay. he cradles your head with one hand, placing his other on your heart. he needs to feel your heartbeat to remind himself you're still here.
"it's me, tony."
"kid? where's y/n?"
a quiet sob escapes him, tears finally falling. tony doesn't need to hear anything else.
"i’m on my way."
it doesn't take long for tony to get to you and peter. he comes whirring through the tunnels, retracting his iron man suit when he lands. you lie on the ground, your head in peter's lap. you'd woken up shortly after peter spoke to your dad, but you aren't really responsive. peter is cradling your head gently in both hands and whispering words of reassurance.
he's so focused on you that he doesn't even notice tony is there until he feels a hand on his shoulder.
"what happened, kid?"
tony kneels down next to peter.
"i... i don't know. the guy we were fighting... i didn't see, i think she hit her head."
"okay, okay. let me see the damage."
tony uses his watch to illuminate the dark area. there's dry blood all around the crown of your head, in your hair. it's worse than he expected. he doesn't let it show, though. he doesn't want to alarm you any more than you already are, or peter for that matter; he's a mess.
"i found this."
peter moves your hair to show your dad the wound on your head. tony shines the light on you to get a better look. concern flashes in his eyes briefly, but long enough for peter to see it.
"friday, call the med bay. tell them it's my daughter."
"yes, boss. it appears y/n may have a concussion. i've detected a large contusion."
you bring a hand up to your head, trying to feel the wound. peter coaxes your hand away with a don't touch, baby. you try to say something, but you can't. you're in too much pain. your dad and peter share a knowing look.
"we'll be there soon, fri. make sure they're ready for us. and call happy, tell him to pick us up asap."
"i’ll let them know right away, boss."
a bright light shines directly in your eyes, making you stir a bit in peter's lap. you whine and squeeze your eyes shut. fresh tears fall down your cheeks.
"it's okay, it's okay. it's just your old man."
you squint your eyes open.
"dad?"
"hey, y/n/n."
"what... what're you doing?"
"just gotta take a look at something. look up?"
you try to open your eyes again, but your eyelids feel heavy. tony holds one of your eyes open himself, then the other. he clicks his tongue.
"what's wrong? is she okay?" peter asks your dad.
"pupils are bigger than they should be. still reacting to light, though. that's good."
"what does it mean if her pupils are too big?"
"friday's right. she could have a mild concussion."
the light turns off, your body finally relaxing. peter's body stiffens.
"that's serious, isn't it?"
peter looks from tony to you, stroking your hair and cupping your cheek, then back up at tony. tony can see the fear in his eyes.
"it shouldn't be, the bleeding just gave us a scare. we'll know more when we get her home."
you grab at peter's knee. he places his hand over yours, thumb smoothing along the back of your hand. you look around the tunnel with blurry vision.
peter doesn't like the uncertainty of this. they don't even know the extent of your injuries, just that they might be serious. he knows you're going to be okay, that tony and the med bay team know what to do and you'll bounce back from this because you're you, but he's scared. you've never been hurt this badly before.
"happy's got our location. he'll be here as soon as he can," tony tells you, voice uncharacteristically soft. you blink your eyes in response. "how long is that gonna be?" peter asks.
"i’m not sure, kid."
hot, frustrated tears fill peter's eyes.
"we can't just wait around anymore. she's been like this for a while."
"trust me, pete. i don't like waiting either."
"then let's just bring her back ourselves."
tony gives peter a stern look.
"let's not."
"why not? it's faster if one of us takes her. i’ll swing her there right now."
peter is already scooping you into his arms, preparing to pick you up. you groan at the sudden movement. tony removes you from peter's arms and takes you into his own protectively.
"i said no. we're not flying her home, and we're definitely not swinging her. it isn't safe."
peter stays quiet, blinking back tears.
"you've gotta remember, y/n isn't like you. she doesn't have powers. for the stark's, it's just us out there."
he knows tony is right, of course he is. he forgets how vulnerable you actually are because you're always so strong. riding home with happy may take longer than peter wants it to, but it's safer for you. he needs to think about your best interest. putting other things first caused all of this in the first place.
if peter had found you earlier instead of finishing the fight, maybe he would have been able to get you help sooner. maybe you wouldn't be in this bad of a condition.
"i’m sorry, tony. i’m really, really sorry."
"no biggie, i get it. you're just looking out for her."
"no, that's the problem. i wasn't."
"what're you talking about?"
peter can't hold back his tears any longer.
"i wasn't there when y/n got hurt. it must've happened when we separated. when i found her, she... she was already like this."
"hey, kid. don't do that, don't blame yourself. you didn't know."
"i could've known if i paid more attention. i could've heard, or... or maybe she said something."
peter avoids tony's gaze, too ashamed to look at him, and too guilty to look at you.
"everyone gets caught up, pete. hell, you know i do. but you know what? you're here for y/n now, and we're taking care of her. that's what matters."
"you mean, you're not mad at me?"
tony surprises him by outstretching an arm and pulling him into a side hug. peter manages a small smile, wiping at his watery eyes.
"do i seem mad?"
"guess not. thanks."
tony pats him on the shoulder.
"time to go. happy'll be here any minute."
"okay, i’ll go ahead of you guys so you can see where you're going."
peter starts to collect your things while your dad helps you up. you're disoriented, head pounding, and you stumble a bit because you don't quite have your balance. tony is quick to catch you.
"easy, y/n/n. you're alright, yeah?"
"i want peter."
"he's right here, just leading the way. i’m gonna help you."
"no, i want peter."
peter's heart clenches. he looks to your dad for permission.
"alright, parker. i'll trade you. but be careful, she's precious cargo."
tony lets go of you, but he stays close just in case. he takes your things from peter. you fling yourself into peter's arms, hiding your face in the space between his neck and shoulder. peter hugs you to his chest. tony smiles at peter and nods in approval, making peter smile back.
"i got you," peter coos. "are you gonna need help walking, or you got it?"
"i dunno, i'm dizzy. carry me?"
"sure, baby."
peter picks you up bridal style, one arm secured under you and the other supporting your head. you loosely wrap your arms around his neck.
"can you stay with me when we get there?"
peter kisses the side of your head lightly.
"i’m not going anywhere."
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tags (join my new taglist!)
@spidermans-gf @sacharinee @thollandsgirl2013 @pettypeety
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boysluts · 3 days ago
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The way you write sanji with a reader who's in love with him but accepts their fate to not be loved by him like that- its AMAZING and keeps punching me in the heart, sooo for the request
Hurt/comfort love confession with sanji🙏 the reader is talking to another crewmate they trust, they talk about their feelings for sanji and how its tearing them apart. And Sanji overhears it all, maybe it reinforce his own wants with the reader
Okay, I'm so sorry this is SO beyond delayed,,
Heh... I hope this'll be okay, I feel my writing is a tad rusty nowadays, so excuse me!
This is not proofread..so I apologise immensely!
I hope this is actually somewhat enjoyable, I'm fuckin scrambling my brains out
I feel as if this is utterly messy and all over the place,, so please bear with me!
I feel it's rather slow-burn,, and considered just posting this and making a second part, but I might post it as one..not sure if that's better or worse
And I'm so sorry for how long this has taken, and how long it is taking..I promise you I'm trying my best mls 🙏
Okay I know I've said it but this is so rubbish I'm so sorry guys
Sanji calls you Cherie,, cutesy loving nickname, it's already pretty shit but the ending is..more..shit??? Read at your own risk 🙏
AUGHHH AGAIN IM SO SORRY FOR HOW DELAYED THIS IS!! I HOPR ITS KINDA ENJOYABLE! MWAUH MWAUH THANK YOU <3
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_ _
You and the crew just finished breakfast,,
God it is always such a delight eating meals prepared by your Angel of a cook, anything he makes quite literally tastes like heaven itself.
No matter what he makes, he always makes it taste so good, fuck, he looks so good.
Its a bit shameful how often you find yourself thinking of him, staring at him, stealing glances, you can't help it. He's perfect in your eyes.
Needless to say, you've for sure caught on to your own feelings, you were self aware you had somewhat of a schoolgirl crush on Sanji, and boy did you figure out crushing on a man that treats all women like deities would drain your soul.
It was easy to fall for the treatment and affection, but you liked him beyond that, you love him beyond that, you've been trying so hard to get to know him, and you feel you've made progress, progress in getting to know him, it lights up your world knowing things about him no women, or man would've cared to know or really ask about...
But of course, seeing him flirt with others has taken its toll, of course you know he means well, and nothing much by it, and fuck. Why are you so jealous??? It's not like he's your man, he can do whatever pleases him.
But it sucks, your heart yearns for him, it yearns for him so bad, you hate how such an angelic man has the key to your heart, but doesn't seem to care. Now, unfortunately the crew has noticed your mood has been..quite down
It wasn't much of a surprise they'd noticed though, you were quite literally a ball of fucking sunshine, you matched or..tried to match everyone's energy, but to you, it was quite startling when you were sitting alone on deck, and robin approached you..or rather seemed to have appeared next to you
You didn't notice her presence, for awhile actually, until she cleared her throat, this startled you slightly, and you broke your staring at Sanji being scolded by Nami for doing whatever he was..
"Ahh..! Robin..hi- I didn't see you there" you say, politely, and flashing her a quick smile
She's silent for awhile.
.
.
.
"You don't have to do that, we can tell something is on your mind" she offers, sharing a neutral expression, you nod and sigh "Robin.." You start and you feel her eyes on you, waiting for you to continue "this is so stupid, God. I." You falter and hold your knees up to your chest Robin places a hand on your shoulder and offers a small smile
"It's not stupid, you can talk about it, if you'd like. No pressure, but I hope you know I'm willing to lend my ears anytime" and you silently thank her
She smiles
"Would..would you consider me stupid, for well.." You take a deep breath "I really like him." "Robin- I really, I really like him. I think. I think I love him."
She isn't surprised, she's seen how at a time your mood really depended on how Sanji was that day, how much you spoke, if it was negative or positive, she had quite an insight.
She sighs, and smiles "I know." You look up at her, through teary eyes "but it hurts, because I know this is the same treatment you and nami get too." Untrue she thinks to herself, she's seen in ways Sanji treats you differently than her and Nami..though, she supposes she sees your perspective.
"I know he treats all women equally, but It hurts, i- I know this is selfish, but is it..really that much to ask for him to truly consider something..with me?" Your frown somehow deepens, and you then go on about how hard it is to not just grab his face, kiss him, which..kinda gave her the ick, but she respectfully listens, regardless..
It seems as if you've spent hours venting about how this is weighing you down, how such a stupid thing as a crush is really anchoring and crushing your soul, and as Robin anticipated the waterworks had started, she can't think of words that would be much helpful to your case, so she just tries her hardest to provide physical comfort.
And in the time you'd been spilling your heart out about the stupid love-cook, Robin was aware he was actually listening, she'd noticed him listening, she' noticed him.
And she was sure his ears were burning red.
So when she looked to her side and saw him with a solemn expression but face somehow flushed, she just slightly nodded to him and herself.
She looks over at you, still sulking "it'll be okay, I'm sure you'll figure it out." She says, her tone hinting the obvious, the obvious you were oblivious to.
.
.
.
After awhile of sitting with Robin in pure silence, she speaks up "it's getting late, let's wash up and get some rest, I think you absolutely need some." The same smile still plastered on her face, you sigh, "Ahh right.."
She gets up dusting herself off, and before she walks away you stop her "Robin" and she looks back at you, tilting her head "Thank you, for all of this, thank you for everything" you smile at her, and she smiles back "Always, y/n, you're always welcomed, this is definitely the least I could do for you" you nod, following her, just until you part ways. She shares a room with Nami and you're fortunate enough to have your own room.
You got to your room, rummaging for your nightwear and undergarments, thinking to just wash off quickly and have a proper shower when you wake up. A couple of knocks pause your rummaging
You think it's Nami, probably asking if she could borrow your snowglobe, you know she wants to break it to get the cat out of it, nit thinking it could anyone but her you open the door eyes shut, finger already accusingly pointing "No Nami, You cannot break the snow globe to get the kitty from inside it" you say, letting out a small huff
Instead of the huff and sigh you thought you'd hear, you heard a chuckle instead, ...that doesn't sound like Nami you say to yourself,, you open your eyes to find no one other than Sanji standing right outside your door, a little Embarrassed, you smile awkwardly, and apologise.
"Its alright cherie" Cherie.. he's only called you Cherie a few times, and your not used to it at all, but still, you can't help the smile that spreads or perhaps the slight redness on your face either "is now a bad time?" He asks, smiling at you, confused you look on your bed remembering what you were just about to do, you smile at him "ahh, no no not at all, do you need something?" He looks nervous you think..
"Come with me, Cherie, let's talk over a drink if you don't mind" he says, all smiley, you smile too following close behind. You reach the kitchen and he ushers you to have a seat, while he brings out soda from the fridge. He sits in a way the two of you are looking at each other, he opens your Soda and you thank him with a smile, "So, what's up? What can I help you with, Sanji?" God, you're so fucking cute. He thinks to himself
He takes a breath, before sipping his drink, looking at you to find that your eyes are already all over him, leaving red to flush across his features..not that you could make out in the dim light. "Cherie i like you too." He says, but it comes out as a whisper, as if its a secret so sacred he has no choice but to protect it with his life, you stare at him, in shock, in awe, disbelief even, are you hearing this right?? Are you..Are you dreaming?
He notices your shock and chuckles, " 'm so sorry I wasn't aware that i hadn't made it as obvious as I thought I had.." he says, sounding a little nervous. He's looking at you as if your his whole word. "I- I know it was invasive, but I overheard the whole thing with Robin. I'm sorry, for being so slow, being so oblivious to your feelings," he says again, rubbing the back of his neck. You wanna lunge onto him and kiss him and ask him if he's being serious.
But you're still in awe. He'd been courting you as you'd been him? He Likes you too?
"Well, Sanji. I'm glad it's you"
He reaches for your hand, comfortingly rubbing it. And you just beam at him, he swears he feels his heartbeat 100x faster now, but he smiles back, a little unsure what to take from the ever growing silence. So then you speak "i'm- I'm sorry, I'm just shocked, I had never expected my feelings to be reciprocated, by You nonetheless" God, you can't help but look at him lovingly, like he hung the very stars in the sky.
And then you start, again.
"It'll always be you." You mutter, a little nervously
So, he speaks.
"And I'm glad it's you too, Cherie."
He's glad definitely.
And you can't help the smile you can only imagine gracing your lips. With nervous hands you cup his face and look deep into his eyes, your smile never faltering once. With shaky hands he cups your face too, he's so cute you think. Blush suits him, maybe only when it's you making him blush like this. Such a genuine smile, and you're the cause.
"Cherie" ... he pulls you out of your thoughts and you look at him, can't help but bat your eyelashes at him. You smile.
"Can.. can, i kiss you?" He asks, so Sacred, you had to make sure you were hearing right. But you nod anyway, "Cherie, let me hear you. Please."
You flush, and take in a shaky breath, "of course, you can" and before you know it he's pulled you closer to him, but he so very delicately kisses you, it would've fooled you. A man with no experience? He's quite the kisser.. you've seemed to have pulled his face closer, and you just look at him, he's becoming fidgety,
could you really blame him? He just kissed you. And once the nerves settles he pulls you into him, and you hold him too.
He chuckles nervously, "don't regret me, okay, Cherie?" And you kiss his shoulder, a silent response, but you hope he understands.
You can finally take the time and wrack your brain, make sense of what you two are, that your crewmate dynamic is now changed, you're now what you've wanted to be for a long time, his lover. And he is yours, too.
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wuahae · 3 days ago
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hiii hehe :3 first off i'm SOO sorry it took me this long to get around to it omg i really wanted to go into this with a #Fresh mindset and also school Just started and already is pummeling me into the ground but . it's saturday Monday. and i am Here now and i just cracked open a cold one (ginger ale) and i am Ready to get into it!!!!
Here, in the dark, there is just you. 
banger first line btw its so telling... also i remember workshopping this first scene with you and i'm so glad this is what you decided on! it sets the mood perfectlyyyy it fits the perfect amount of humor (SHAKIRA WAITS FOR NO ONE!!!) and ambiance and the ENERGYYY of it is so good like Yeah this is an opening scene of a 2010s romcom! its likeee yeah even though you're in this club at fuckass o'clock the ghost of your mother and all your expectations still digs into you... you can never run away you can only face the things you must!!!! also another thing i wanna say is that its kinda crazy how short this scene is but there's so many things that it establishes like Man... That's good writing... yn who is forced to be everything she isn't and as a result she cannonballs herself into everything she Shouldn't be... just so she can have the feeling of being nothing at all.... yeah!!! oh to be young and wild and free . But what does it all mean for the future...
They stand tall in their planters, majestic and hairy with French lavender. Today you notice that the rightmost one's nose has been pruned off by accident, and he stands, snoutless, staring at his green brothers and sisters. 
picture perfect palace hosting a picture perfect family but if you look close enough you see signs of the suffocation.. the overbearing preening.... WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN!! also the part about y/n noticing the little details about the number of terracotta stones... its like Yeah it's probably bc she's been in this palace all her life but also its like. no one would pay attention to those things if some ounce of her didn't care. used to. etc.
Your father paces near the window, either wondering why you can't be softer, more pliable, like your older brother Jeonghan, or, alternatively, why one of the lions is missing a nose.
only the real ones know who jeonghan used to be... YOU WILL BE MISSED 😭😭😭😭😭
"We have arranged for you to marry someone."  And all at once, it seems as though all the air has been sucked out of the room. There's a sharp pain lodged somewhere between your chest, your stomach, and your unhappy liver. The larks sing emptily in the garden. 
the pacing is sooo good here like yeah... top 10 announcements you won't believe! also the detail of the larks is so good it places you back into the palace setting and also it makes the palace seem so like. big. empty. just a bunch of air and space.
"Why?" you ask. Your voice wobbles, treading over that childlike waver you never learned to control. "Is this to punish me?"  / She's right. She's always been right. Maybe not about the swimsuit, but you haven’t exactly been the PR princess your family needed you to be. If anything, you would think it made Jeonghan look better by comparison, but you know that your parents would prefer you to make appearances in something other than Deuxmoi’s Sunday Spotted. But the royal charade never fit you well either; it clings and sticks and bunches up at the seams like a cheap Halloween costume. 
this makes me sooo like. MY BABYYYYY.... the emphasis on like. you might be an adult but whenever you're dealing with your parents or anything royal it just feels like you're a Child all over again (childlike waver / cheap halloween costume)... i have nothing else to say that doesn't involve my own convoluted parental trauma but just know i #GetHer
You were so sore the next day, you were bed-bound–truly a punishment worse than death, if not for another reminder that everything you do ends up hurting you a little. 
OWIE.....
Past August, you don't think you ever got your brother back.
i loooove this relationship with jeonghan btw idk if i ever said this to you but its like. vulnerabilities in yn that show she isn't just being disobedient to Be disobedient and like. she cares!!!! she just copes bad and has no one around to help her... not anymore :( also this scene in general is just really good backstory without being too monologue-y which is something i am Always impressed by... Good worldbuilding. good dynamic.
Without thinking, you quickly push out the first excuse you have. "I apologize, I was—" 
also i think its so interesting how like. before you know it's jihoon at the door you default to your more proper princess "I apologize" smth that like. Fits your position more even though on the surface level you've long given up on being proper or whatever impossible thing your mother expects you to be.... yeah. Trying is still somehow ingrained in your being
"You forgot your jacket," Jihoon replies. 
unfortunately for both of us i endlessly need him. also reliable best friend jihoon meeowwww I NEEED YOOUUUUU. also yn's imposter syndrome and guilt complex is making me soooo sad....
You wish she was human for a moment so you could show her the crater-sized hole that "prince joshua google images" left in your browser history. 
THIS IS SOOOFDMLDFK me searching up Joshua Hong boyfriend on pinterest to the same effect
The mental image of Joshua Hong being struck down by the first ten seconds of Throat Goat makes you laugh, but you still don't feel far away enough from the truth.
#foreshadowing
You knew you should have done better for your brother, but he didn’t even feel like your brother anymore. 
nooo..... fuck. also me reading this knowing full well What happened that day.... rocking back and forth chanting My Shaylaa....
So you press your heart to Astrid's mane, the pale moon high over the both of you, and you ride. 
astrid who represents the last bit of your childhood and yourself and your Brother, all of which you wonder if you can even bring with you to acros, pressing your heart to her and all that she encompasses... Yeah
You choose to let it slide—you have no choice, really. At least you have an ass. 
#smallblessings
"Didn't know you had a choice."
ooohhhh he's soo.... ITS SO ARC WORDS!!! of course he would say that....
"I mean, I read an insane amount of Dan Brown," you reply. "Not many of us can say we've solved the Davinci code, you know." 
this is actually the worst im clawing at my neck rn MDSFJSDFML is there any greater humiliation than someone not laughing at your jokes...... LAUGH WITH MEEEEE oh my god.... josh being hot and boring. the 10th circle of hell.
You glance to your right to catch a glimpse of Joshua. He smiles, a dutiful press of the lips, and you watch it ripple.
heol........... the first crack in his mask. hah... tfw you're so annoying u make resident stick-in-ass regret his princely duties
He's out of words, so he bends down to awkwardly pat you on the head, which, in all your years of knowing him, is the most affection he can muster. This is why you prefer horses to Jihoon for therapy, although you appreciate the effort. 
he is SOOOOO..... I NEED HIM 😭😭😭😭😭
You still keep your pillow pet on your bed (a horse named Robert).
i tried thinking of a horse pun with robert pattinson for a joke and the best i could come up with was cobert pattinson... robert trottinson... me when rob is destined to have bat puns no matter what . but anyway i love that yn is consistently a horse girl its so cute HSDFJLSFDKM
He's got a copy of Anna Karenina under his arm, probably to weigh the pros and cons of cheating on you. You don't blame him—in fact, maybe it would make your doomed marriage exciting enough to be tolerable. 
THIS IS SOOOODSFMSDFLKJ aaron taylor johnson Where are you!!!
"Oh right, because this is where happiness goes to die, huh?" You snatch it back from him, feeling the knot of anger in your gut flare. 
Oh that's not...... 😬 well Yes actually!
You sink into your side of the bed, a damask-woven vat of quicksand, and watch the spears of light dance on the ceiling.
imagery that fucks immensely..
The prince of Acros owning a book with the words "juicy", "mewling", and "best friend's brother" in the first fifty pages are enough to tide you over for the night. Probably the next week, to be honest.
prince joshua hong caught reading ICEBREAKER?!
"Is it too bright for you?" Joshua's voice, now tempered by the stillness of the evening, pulls you out of your thoughts. "I can turn the lamp off."  / Joshua smiles, and this time, you think it's a real one. 
also one thing to mention is that i love how after the truce is settled they're quick to act like. civilly/almost kind to each other like. they're both not Bad or intentionally hard-to-stand people it's just they're both put in impossible situations . a thin line between hate and kinship and love... etc etc etc. speaking of hate u are an expert at writing e2l banter the tension is palpable
"Any minute now," bitches Jihoon from the other side of the door. 
HE IS SOOOSDFMDSFLK my favorite animal is jihoon being forced to do anything for the royal family. also you calling yourself a HARLOT is so funny. next up the list is calling yourself a reddit-approved hussy
Outside, there is a lone photographer. The sun, morning-ripe, reflects off his camera lens like a third eye. The lawn, freakishly green, sprawls out around you, and the blue spruce frames the scene, perfect by design. 
your descriptions are SOOOO good like theyre so Telling without being too wordy or needlessly purple-y like just a few sentences from you and i am #In it
You can see why people dote on him so much—his cheeks get round, and his eyes magically gain the sparkles that people pay for on Facetune. God really seems to have wasted a perfect face on him.
the thought of being fake-married to him is making me rock back and forth like actually Oh my god.... i unhinge my jaw and swallow him whole with my 8 rows of teeth.
He's just like anyone else, you tell yourself. You're at the club. They're playing Everytime We Touch by Cascada. 
CASCADA MENTION HELL YEAHHHH 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
“Shut the fuck up. Wait, is he actually coming?”  ”Dunno. Wouldn’t be very Mr. Worldwide of him to flake, though.” 
u are actually the funniest person alive. also i think its soooo like. even though you came back home to have semblance of your Old life back your thoughts inevitably drift to joshua again... trying to fit him into the familiar memory of your old life even though you know it's a little funny to imagine him with anything less than 100 year old wine in his hand... and when somi asks if she should invite him you say No even though you were clearly thinking about it . What does it all mean. the dichotomy of having a hot boring HOT fake husband... oh the terrors....
but you couldn’t let him walk away from that conversation thinking wet dirt was a normal, socially acceptable, scent for a bedroom. (—It said moss on the label! —So, dirt. —Moss is not dirt. Maybe you need to go back to school.) 
GWHMASFDLFSDK the parentheses format is so funny i'm stealing that /hj. also im soooo glad you added in this scene about seeing him half naked its so romcom-y... so shenanigans-filled.... pornhub title: HOT PRINCE WITH HUGE TITS CAUGHT NAKED!
Later, on the walk to the library, you reach for your lip gloss. Instead, you pull out q-tip number five and get mad all over again. 
like she's so funnyydfmdflk she's sooo me.
"I just have to know—how did you guys meet?" 
this entire exchange is so funny JSDFMLASDFK like i love when they're bickering and being annoying to each other i feel like they match each other so well also the little digs to each other to ruin each other's reputation... yn raccoon era. joshua stalker era.
Joshua doesn’t reply. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his gaze has shifted. You feel it land somewhere near you, but you’re too engrossed in the race to investigate further. Perhaps he’s admitted defeat preemptively, wisely so.  “You know your stuff,” he murmurs, the clamor of the audience almost burying him. 
oh man...... an ounce of sincerity is all it takes.... me when josh sees the girl underneath the Act.... starts howling.
You turn to Joshua and clasp his hands between yours, somehow less wooden now, and so, so human. The crowd cheers; they come alive. 
OOOUUUUUUUUUGGGHHHH WOLF TEARING OFF HIS SHIRT JPEG.
also next scene with josh and his damn HORSE PUNS HES SOOOO ANNOYINGJFDMLDF but also this is the first time we're really seeing him not be prickly and testy and being Lame so its like. you show me your cards ill show you mine... etc. he's just trying to make you comfortable cause you really are a Team rn... oh man. OH MAN.
You’re not asking for love—just a little bit of like. and, right now, you think you like Joshua Hong. 
rubs hands together like a little fly... all according to plan. also theyre just soooo cute oh my god...
“Do you want to keep this?” Jihoon holds up a choker that resembles a jock strap. “When did you even wear this? It looks like a cat toy.” 
NOOOOOOO
“Right,” says Joshua, and when he gets up from the bench, he doesn’t look back. 
i have a lot of things to say about this scene and All of them are good... i remember the first time you brought up Piano as a scene and i was like. Wrinkles nose. at it because of my own personal experiences with piano being used as a cheesy plot device But i told you this then and im telling you this again Now i think its so well done... the dynamic between josh and yn is so well done like. they're just starting to blindly feel around how to interact with one another now that they're not Enemies but theyre still forced-to-marry but also like. they're also starting to be friends, even if josh was being a tad insufferable After the derby. like i love that they're both fumbling around at the piano and for Once in this palace yn is leading josh on how to do something right... yn teasing him all in good nature ("buddy, left hand goes here.") and josh giving himself the leniency to be a bit of casual when no one is watching ("aw, what?" he whines. "see, i told you i was no good. give me a second.") like its all just so cute. like watching two puzzle pieces spin themselves around trying to click. Pajama joshua is better than prince joshua... but even pajama joshua is thinking of duty... duty the knife and the wound... and Of Course josh brings it up when they're having a cute moment like OF COURSE!!! rubs my temples. yn trying to change the topic again. josh opening up again about wanting to play guitar because this is Pajama Joshua who doesn't know how to read the ledger lines and makes silly puns and not Prince Joshua who looks at you with a firm press in his brow... like everyone else with a crown... Man.
“That's not really fair.” You absentmindedly play a few keys, all disjointed. “Taking guitar lessons doesn’t make you a problem child.”  “It's not about that, though,” Joshua says. He's avoiding your eyes. “It's everything, together. I couldn't just pick up a guitar and be someone else.”  [...] “Yeah, and you think I don’t think about that every day? How, maybe, if I had done something different, then we wouldn’t be here?”  You feel stung. You don’t know how to tell him that you’ve been trying to figure out the same thing your whole life. If you were a better daughter, you’d have spared everyone the trouble. Unfortunately, you’d gotten it wrong so many times, you stopped trying.
FUCK!!! like this whole exchange is such masterful character building . joshua who doesn't know How to give himself leeway and does whatever mommy and daddy tell him because if he disobeys one thing then its like a slippery slope and all of a sudden he'll let himself think he can be someone other than a prince. vs yn who doesn't see the big deal because what's one misstep when her entire life is just one purposeful fuck-up.... but it doesn't even matter!! because even if josh was rebellious and learned how to play guitar and not piano and if yn was the good little princess her parents wanted her to be they would still be here!!! both at opposite ends of the spectrum. DUTY THE KNIFE AND THE WOUND!
like the whole scene is just so push-pull... conflicting coping mechanisms... they see each other but do they really. they see but do they understand... things to consider....... anyway this is my favorite scene. i love character building.
“You ready to get stuffed?” 
GHWMAFSMLSDKVSLDFKSDVMLSDFK
“Yeah, although on second thought, maybe it’s a bad idea to bring the girl who’s gonna puke everything up anyway.” 
Just like me...
“Nope.” You pop open your compact. “I have to change, and I desperately need to locate a coffee. I will suck a fucking bean off if i need to.”  “I'm hanging up on you,” Somi whines. “It's too early for you to be gross and late.”   “As if you weren’t talking about getting stuffed.” 
THEY ARE SOOO FUNNY like somi really is the star of the show... if this was in the 2000s she'd be played by judy greer
“Don’t give me any ideas,” he replies. Under the bluebird sky of late morning, lips upturned and eyes bright, Joshua may be a sight you could get used to. Someday. “Brought you a coffee. I can’t have you sucking off a bean—the reporters would go crazy.” 
i love how his humor slowly gets more crude as the fic goes on HSDFJLSDFK like him laughing at you being the #top in the piano scene... JOSHUA HONG I KNWO WHAT YOU ARE. I KNOW THE PERSONALITY YOU'RE HIDING. also it's actually a skill to casually describe joshua in a way that is injected with so much Need but what else would i expect from husbandjoshi...
Instead, you circle each other in an unsure, clumsy dance. You can’t quite get it right. It's all the same now. The bite of a horse saddle not made for your body, the glow of your heirloom ring, now cheapened by your graceless hand, Joshua’s lonely, reaching palm as he disappears in the rearview mirror. 
aw man... i always feel so bad for her like she's always trying... all she does is try 😭😭😭 like that thing about the jeonghan play too... she tries and its not good enough and so it gets discarded anyway because what good is trying when its not good enough... better to pretend to be perfect than to try and be yourself. and whatnot. my shayla........ what a sad notion... to be perfect and lonely...
You also learn that you, paradoxically, might not know how to love Joshua Hong, but you sure do know how to kiss him. 
oh meow.............. MEEEEOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.............. you don't need me to tell you how good you are at writing intimate scenes you already know.... i also don't have much to say btw you look in my brain and its like tv static and the rainbow bars bzzzzzt bzzzztttt bzzzzzzzzzt
ok. obviously i have more to say. I will see you on the next part.
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title: royally screwed [m]
pairing: joshua x f!reader
wc: 30.8k in total; part 1: 15.4k, part 2: 15.4k summary: between remembering last night’s party and pleasing your unrelenting family, you think being a princess is hard enough. then you’re thrust into an arranged marriage to royal darling joshua hong—straight-laced, infuriatingly obedient, and everything you’re not. pretending to be the perfect couple? impossible.   notes: romcom + smut (part 2), modern royalty!au in which yn is the princess of cotria/joshua the prince of acros (both fictional), enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, quarterlife crisis/coming of age, very very slow burn. lots of swearing, lots of alcohol, lots of feelings. very special thanks to @meiozis for all their help with worldbuilding and @wuahae for bearing with me through the endless drafts, scene changes, second guessing, horrible word choices, etc. you are the only reason this got done, and i love you to the moon and back <3 [read part 2 here!]
Here, in the dark, there is just you. 
The strobe lights press into your skin with all the brilliance of the sun, there's half a Modelo running down your leg, and you think you kissed the stranger behind you last week, but if you close your eyes, it's just you. No rules, no five second curtseys, no talk about the throne or whoever's ass happens to be keeping it warm at the moment. 
Here, you're nobody, and it's perfect. 
"I'm getting more champagne," Somi says, her voice careening over the music. "You sure Jihoon doesn't want any?" 
You glance back at him. He's flattened up against the back wall, holding your purse, like a raccoon caught going through the trash. This is one of the many trials he's forced to endure for your entertainment, but it's his job–not as your closest friend, but as your legally employed bodyguard. 
"No, he's on duty." 
"Right," she slurs. "Sometimes I forget you're a literal princess." 
If only it were that easy. Five drinks in and you think you can still feel your mother's vice grip on your arm and all the little white crescents of her french manicure. 
You love this song–at least, you think you do. You're too drunk to tell, but it doesn't matter. The dance floor is muggy, sardine-packed with one warm body after another, and it's heaven. The crowd moves, and you move with them. Shakira waits for no one. 
Somi must have secured another bottle of Cristal already. Soonyoung, your other partner-in-crime, hands you a flute and you take it, the glittery foam already bubbling over the lip. 
"Cheers." Out of his too-drunk mouth, it sounds like a new word altogether, but you bring your glass to his anyway. 
Tomorrow, you have a meeting with your parents. This, unlike all of your other involvements, is actually important, they said, and their voices had wound around you like a snare. 
When it gets late, Jihoon will sling your arm over his shoulders and haul you back to the palace, still tipsy and holding your stilettos to your chest like a shield. Tomorrow will come, and it's then when you'll have to try to be good. It's a useless, stupid affair, but you'll go through the motions anyway. 
But tonight, there is you and the music and the wonderful laughter of your friends, and you don't have to be anything at all. 
"Cheers," you tell Soonyoung, and you drink. 
--
There are four large topiaries in the palace garden: all lions. They stand tall in their planters, majestic and hairy with French lavender. Today you notice that the rightmost one's nose has been pruned off by accident, and he stands, snoutless, staring at his green brothers and sisters. 
You know this because this is the view from the study, and it has never changed. There is only one study in the east wing, and it is small and useless and the perfect room for your parents to sit you down and remind you that you do not, in fact, own a single thing about your own life. 
There is nothing new about this ritual. Even as a child, when you were more desperate to please, you could never be the right kind of daughter to your parents or princess to your country. Again and again, you landed yourself here, in trouble once more. 
So you stopped trying–you would find these four walls anyway, no matter what you did. Why not enjoy your Fridays instead?
By now, you’ve memorized the carvings on the armrest of the chair you’re in (a knobby column, then underneath, the whorl of a seashell). There are thirty-four terracotta stones on the way to the fountain, all spaced perfectly apart, sanded down to the millimeter. 
The scene remains unchanged. Your mother now stares down at you over the bridge of her nose, with that tight-lipped frown you've gotten so used to. Your father paces near the window, either wondering why you can't be softer, more pliable, like your older brother Jeonghan, or, alternatively, why one of the lions is missing a nose. Maybe both.
"Enjoy yourself yesterday?" your mother asks. 
"Yes," you reply, out of other answers.
"Wonderful. Then our early morning briefing with PR was good for something. You should be grateful last night's pictures won't make it out of the darkroom." 
Her voice, bitter and incisive, makes the hangover bubble up in your stomach. You and the tabloids weren't exactly on good terms, but it wasn't your fault so many people seemed to care about what you were wearing or who you were out with. 
"What did you want to meet about?" you ask, hoping to change the subject. 
You can't put your finger on it, but there's a cloying, heavy energy hanging on you. You feel as though you're on the precipice of something, although that could just be the consequences of all that Cristal ready to reintroduce themselves to your digestive system. 
Your mother clears her throat. 
"We have arranged for you to marry someone." 
And all at once, it seems as though all the air has been sucked out of the room. There's a sharp pain lodged somewhere between your chest, your stomach, and your unhappy liver. The larks sing emptily in the garden. 
"What?" Your voice sounds like it's unraveling somewhere in your throat. Quickly, frantically, you grasp at the faraway possibility that it can't possibly mean what you think it does. Marry? You can’t even remember the last time you thought of going on a second date with someone. Now you might actually throw up. 
"Prince Joshua, of the Hong family. The crown prince of–" 
"Acros. I know," you interrupt, the words jumping out of you in shock and anger. 
Of course you know who Joshua Hong is–Acros is a tiny, unremarkable country nestled into the border of your much bigger one, and Joshua their crown jewel. If you were the nation's problem, he was their darling. A bland thing to coo at when life got boring, the walking embodiment of a media training session. Smile and nod, smile and nod. He might as well be AI generated.
You wouldn't last a day with him. Not with your impatience, your opinions, or that loud mouth your parents always scold you for. Your mind swims with the mental image of the two of you on a gaudy parade float, doing that stupidly slow wave everyone seemed to insist on.
"Wonderful. So you'll pack a bag? The Hong family will be thrilled to meet you tomorrow," says your father.
"Why?" you ask. Your voice wobbles, treading over that childlike waver you never learned to control. "Is this to punish me?" 
"My dear, your brother will be ascending to the throne soon," your mother answers, looking you dead in the eyes. "It’s his face that needs to be on the front page, not you in another abomination of a swimsuit. The Hongs will keep enough of an eye on you.” 
She's right. She's always been right. Maybe not about the swimsuit, but you haven’t exactly been the PR princess your family needed you to be. If anything, you would think it made Jeonghan look better by comparison, but you know that your parents would prefer you to make appearances in something other than Deuxmoi’s Sunday Spotted. But the royal charade never fit you well either; it clings and sticks and bunches up at the seams like a cheap Halloween costume. 
"The Hongs thought their country would benefit from our money. It was an easy decision, really," your mother finishes, as if that makes you feel any less like a silly, bikini-clad pawn in a game of chess you never asked to play. 
"Does Jeonghan know?" 
"He sees its purpose,” your father says simply, like that was all that mattered. “You will too, in due time.”
He nods solemnly, which is how he closes every conversation–just another turn of the silent knife. As your parents turn to leave, their silken garbs trail behind them like ink in still water. Business as always, especially with you. 
"Your brother will be coming home from his press tour this week," your mother says on her way out. "You mustn't ruin this for him. The car leaves for Acros in the morning." 
There's a mean, barbed feeling in your heart. You don't know whether to scream or to cry, so you do what your mother taught you to do. You sit, stilled by a feeling of hopelessness, and let yourself be emptied. 
--
When you were thirteen, you learned how to ride a horse. 
Not the impractical, side-saddle way drilled into you when you were a little girl, with your skirt billowing over the fender and catching in the stirrups, but how to really ride a horse. 
It was on a night much like tonight–indigo and starless. Your brother had climbed up the marble trellis, his teenage, noodle body a perfect fit for scaling the lattice, and threw a stone at your window, just like you had seen in the movies. Jeonghan was still young, then, rebellious and unchanged by the throne. 
It was him who laced up your riding boots, hoisted you on your first horse, and pressed the reins into your palms. You remember the unforgiving hold of the leather saddle, not yet broken in. You were so sore the next day, you were bed-bound–truly a punishment worse than death, if not for another reminder that everything you do ends up hurting you a little. 
"It's great," Jeonghan had told you, breathless and haloed by the moonlight. "You can just ride. nowhere to go and no one to answer to." 
You had spent the summer this way. Every night, you learned the sound of the forest at twilight, chasing Jeonghan's mud-splattered palomino. In the mornings, breakfast consisted of rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and whispering about whatever misadventure you had found yourselves tangled in the night before. 
That was before he had come of age. Before your father gave him the Throne Talk, and before he was whisked away into endless meetings and etiquette lessons and parliaments. Your inside jokes became foul, overripe in his newly coached mouth. He even learned to play golf, and he hated golf. 
Past August, you don't think you ever got your brother back.
You slide the oaken doors of the stables open, feeling your arms squeeze underneath your riding shirt. Here, it’s always quiet after sundown.
It hasn't changed since the day you first snuck in with Jeonghan. You let the green scent of the hay fill your lungs, the sleep-stir of the horses like music to your ears. Dokyeom has left the tack room open by "accident" once more, likely to avoid catching you picking the lock with a bobby pin like he had a few months ago. 
"Hey, you," you whisper, coming to the stall of your own horse. Astrid, a bay thoroughbred, was Jeonghan's gift to you on your 18th birthday, a wistful reminder of a summer now past its prime. "No surprise here, but I had a really, really bad day." 
Astrid, oblivious, noses at your palm in search of a nonexistent sugar cube. Somehow, this brings the anxious chatter of your mind to a crescendo—would Astrid come with you to Acros? When would that happen? More importantly, when were you moving? You think of a too-warm summer morning, the ridiculous, oversized brim of one of your mother's sunhats, and a moving truck. That, and a country ready to delete you from its ranks. 
It's now, with the bridle in your fists, that you hear the wheedling groan of the stable door as it slides open. Without thinking, you quickly push out the first excuse you have. "I apologize, I was—" 
"It's me." 
Jihoon. 
You would tease him about his fear of ponies—perhaps it's because he is quite literally the same size as them—but you think hearing another person tell you off would officially push you over the edge. You don't want to be dramatic, but you don't even know if Acros even had horses. 
That, and somehow he's both the first and the last person you want to see. The guilt feels a bit heavier when you know his life is about to change too, in no small part due to your own failings.
"Jihoon, I…" you start. There’s an apology that’s been sitting on your tongue, one you haven’t quite learned to spit up yet. You don’t know who it’s for—yourself, or everyone else—but Jihoon interrupts you before you can finish your thought. 
"You forgot your jacket," Jihoon replies. 
For once, you can't read him. You wonder if he's thinking about if he'd get along with the other bodyguards, but, more likely, he's probably pitying you. You're the last person in the world that should be in an arranged marriage, and even someone who kills people for a living could tell. 
"I'll be in the foyer." 
You don't exchange any more words. Jihoon knows that there is nothing he can say that will erase what's about to happen, and like always, he is right.
After you saddle up, Astrid takes you to the forest like usual. Honestly, you've lost count of the times you've come out here to cry, usually about a boy you don’t even like, or, worse, Jeonghan declining your weekly Facetime session again. But now, you think you both know this time is very different. 
"Astrid," you groan. "Joshua looks like a Ken doll from hell. He probably pronounces tomato like tomahto and has a closet dedicated to his tweed collection. I can't marry him." 
Astrid is none the wiser. You wish she was human for a moment so you could show her the crater-sized hole that "prince joshua google images" left in your browser history. 
"Do you think he only listens to classical music? I think a Kim Petras song would kill him instantaneously." 
The mental image of Joshua Hong being struck down by the first ten seconds of Throat Goat makes you laugh, but you still don't feel far away enough from the truth.
You remember your 21st birthday, a balmy spring Friday. Jeonghan had been helping out at the local youth theater, and the opening night of their production was coincidentally the same day. Jeonghan had never been one for theater (last time, he had fallen asleep during Mamma Mia, of all musicals). You knew the press turnout was expected to be huge, but the whole thing felt like one big charade to you. 
So you had planned your big birthday bash—you only get one 21st, after all—that day. The paparazzi fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. Unsurprisingly, drunk, hot girls made for a better story than Greek theater. 
You remember the raw, stinging look Jeonghan had in his eyes the next morning. He didn't even have to say anything, but you knew. The memory carves out an abyss in your chest. You knew you should have done better for your brother, but he didn’t even feel like your brother anymore. 
Still, actions have consequences, and this was a hell of a consequence. Even out here, the inconvenient reality of it seems closer than ever. but you're out of time. The night fades fast, especially ones like these. 
So you press your heart to Astrid's mane, the pale moon high over the both of you, and you ride. 
--
Late spring is kind to Acros. 
The tulips push their bright heads out of the dirt, winking and blazing in the daylight, and the green fields stretch so far they look like water. 
You had spent the car ride with your nose pressed to the window, watching all the sun-bleached buildings zip by. You mustn't ruin this for Jeonghan. It spins around in your head like an old pair of shoes in a washing machine. 
Now you stand in the grand foyer, your parents on either side of you. Jihoon hovers behind, holding the overstuffed duffel bag you had rushed to pack this morning. 
A hushed arrival such as this was unbecoming of your family, but it was necessary. your parents had stressed that the arranged part of the deal was not meant to be public knowledge because it was bad for optics. To you, the arrangement was actually the entire deal. That, and you and optics never exactly got along. 
Waiting for Joshua and his parents gives you a moment to observe what could be your new home, although you’re still waiting for the miraculous plot twist that will save you from your fate. 
That being said: you’ve set foot in plenty of nice places, but if HGTV ran segments for castles, this would certainly be the blueprint. It’s smaller than the palace in Cotria, but you like that—it’s cozier, less cold-seeming. 
The filigreed ceilings vault dizzyingly high, and the chandelier above the muraled walls is set afire with the noontime sun. the blushing azaleas cascade from their pots, and they line the hallways with joyous pops of white and pink. breaking the spell is the distant staccato of several sets of footsteps on marble, and you straighten your back, as if by divine command. 
Three figures approach you: Joshua and his parents. Even from a distance, you can see the trained walk of royalty, their shoulders straight enough to hold water. You’ll give credit where credit is due—they look even less thrilled to meet you than you are to meet them.
Unfortunately, up close, Joshua is more handsome than the cameras would betray. He's taller than you had imagined, too. without trying, it looks like he jumped out of a shitty Disney movie, one where the prince says two words and still gets the girl. More than that, you notice how his face is like glass—unwavering, cruelly still. One wrong move, and you'd break him. 
"Your highnesses," you say, lowering your head in a pronounced curtesy. 
Joshua bows in response, like clockwork. He reaches for your hand, then brings it to his lips to kiss the back of it. 
At once, you feel your hackles jump up, even though many a man has done far nastier to you. You can’t tell what pisses you off more: a, the fact that he smells like a hotel lobby, or b, that he managed to get his mouth on you in less than five seconds. 
"I'm elated we have the privilege of welcoming your daughter into our home," Joshua's mother says. Like him, she is staggeringly elegant and even harder to read. "She's beautiful." 
Fortunately, she has picked the one compliment that your parents can agree on without lying through their teeth. You watch them laugh and titter amongst themselves, and it's now that you notice Joshua has been looking at you this whole time.
You think look is too kind of a word, though. It's something colder than that, more clinical, and you really don't like it. Your stylist had spent upwards of two hours today in front of your vanity this morning, mostly in a losing battle with a pair of fake lashes, and you wonder if one of them is crooked. That, or Joshua is similarly wondering just how he will endure a life wedded to you. 
"Joshua, please," his mother chides, and you watch him almost immediately pivot towards her, like he’s on wheels. "Where are your manners? You should show the princess around. Get to know each other a bit before press tomorrow." 
Press. Of course. Your least favorite word. You vaguely remember your parents mentioning it in the car this morning, but it must have gotten lost among all the other terrible things they'd told you. 
Your head starts to hurt. Joshua keeps smiling at you, empty, doll-like.
"Yes, I'd love that," you say, feeling like a deflating balloon. You were hoping his company will be better than watching four grown adults fall all over each other, but you're starting to doubt that. 
Joshua offers you his arm, and you take it anyway. 
"We'll be off then," he chirps before bowing once more. His freakishly shiny shoe nudges yours to remind you to do the same. Begrudgingly, you listen, watching your shellacked, angry expression in the patina of his loafers. 
Not a good start, but what did you expect?
You tamp down your irritation and let him lead you into the Great Hall. It's a shiny, golden tunnel, studded with glossy oil paintings of his parents, his grandparents, then the next set of old people before them. Their eyes stare at you, pools of hazy paint in their moon faces. You briefly imagine your painting up there, with Joshua's hand hovering meekly over your waist, unused to being more than two feet away from a woman his age.
"It's nice to finally meet you," Joshua says. "I think I've only seen you in pictures." 
He's referencing the one of many “encounters” you've had with the paparazzi, a la yesterday night. They take trashy photos, overexposed and grainy from the camera flash, with your ass most likely in the frame. 
You choose to let it slide—you have no choice, really. At least you have an ass. 
"The pleasure is mine," you reply. "I believe you were at the cricket championships a few months ago, right?" 
"Correct. Do you watch? I don't believe I saw you." 
"No, but my brother was there." Your footsteps echo against the marbled walls. "Just trying to think of your last public appearance," you offer unhelpfully, since you and he both know those are few and far between. 
"That's right. He mentioned you were busy," Joshua replies. "Glastonbury was that weekend, was it not?" 
He's right. It was, but you don't like the insinuation he's making. You weren't at Glastonbury anyway—your parents wouldn't let you attend, and Jihoon was unwilling to come up with a cover story for you. Because you would rather watch paint dry than attend another cricket game, you instead spent it with takeout and reruns of Rupaul's Drag Race. 
"Can't recall," you answer. "Doesn't matter. I'm not one for cricket, anyway."
"Didn't know you had a choice."
You watch Joshua halfheartedly gesture to the Great Hall. The seemingly mile-long dinner table is empty now, save for a gratuitously piled fruit bowl. 
Your country frequently hosts guests, but the Hongs are notoriously insular. You imagine the four of you, crammed together at one end of the table, making horrendous small talk every morning over wilted danishes and raspberry preserves. Somehow, your mood worsens even more than you thought possible.
"Can I see the library?" you ask in an attempt to pivot. 
"Of course. Do you enjoy reading?" 
"A normal amount." You pass by another set of windows and take note of the rose garden outside, verdant with the May sunshine. Astrid has a bit of a penchant for eating roses, which would definitely complicate your plan to smuggle her in. No matter—you’ve done worse. "I studied political science at university, so I got a healthy dose of it." 
"Didn't we all?" Joshua chuckles.
He pushes the door open to the library, which is just as lavish as the rest of the palace. You wonder how well-worn it is, how many spines have creases in them, how many dedications were speckled with a funny annotation or two. But judging by first impressions, you wouldn't be surprised if all the books still had their dust jacket on. 
"I mean, I read an insane amount of Dan Brown," you reply. "Not many of us can say we've solved the Davinci code, you know." 
You hoped this would crack a laugh out of him, but his grin is thinner than an eyebrow from the 2000s. Truthfully, you would compare this conversation to a death by a thousand papercuts, but somehow that feels preferable to the guillotine of discussing the terms and conditions of your rapidly impending marriage. You feel as though that would be violating some rule you aren't yet aware of, and you're unwilling to endure the patent leather consequences of another faux pas. 
"I've heard of it," says Joshua after much thought. "My parents were shuttling me between meetings and private lessons, so, unlike some, I was quite busy during university." 
You're not about to explain that you were equally as busy as him. Something tells you that he'd be too prideful to believe you anyway. 
"How difficult. Surely you were able to have some fun," you say, your voice betraying your distaste. "Or were you too good for that?" 
Too far. 
"I did what my position allowed," is Joshua's terse reply, and you know you've crossed a line. Still, it dazes you that the man standing next to you may have never done anything for himself in his life. Even Jeonghan did, before your parents really tightened the reins. 
The air buzzes with a silence sharp enough to make you bleed. You wish literally anyone else was standing next to you, but you realize there are no more horses or emergency cabs or Jihoons to rescue you from this one. 
"How about I take you to our room? I hope you'll find it comfortable." 
You glance to your right to catch a glimpse of Joshua. He smiles, a dutiful press of the lips, and you watch it ripple.
--
"Jihoon, it is so much worse than I thought." 
You sit on the plush carpeting of your bedroom floor, amongst your small disaster of things. Jihoon examines you, one eyebrow raised, as he leans against the bedroom door. 
"He's not around, right?" 
Jihoon shakes his head.
"I don't get it," you sigh. "I go out. I get drunk. I have a little fun on the weekends. I don't see how any of this makes me a bad person." 
"You know how traditional your families are." Jihoon bends down to pick up a hair bow that jumped ship from the vanity. "It's just how it is." 
"He treats me like some high school delinquent. I tried, but he has no sense of humor. No joi de vivre. I think he would actually explode if he knew I went out two days ago." 
"Give it time," Jihoon supplies unhelpfully. "I don't know French, but he can't be that bad. You just met him." 
“Yeah. Usually that’s a good thing. I’ve fucked people i know less about.” 
Jihoon shakes his head and laughs, one of those little cackly ones he reserves for your company. 
"Well, you have been with worse," he tuts. "Definitely worse." 
"Jihoon, be serious. This is the rest of my life we're talking about." 
“I know." He draws his lips into a line, likely searching for the right thing to say. "This sucks. I wouldn't be good at this either." 
"You're talking to me. I don't think there's a single royal thing I can do right."
He's out of words, so he bends down to awkwardly pat you on the head, which, in all your years of knowing him, is the most affection he can muster. This is why you prefer horses to Jihoon for therapy, although you appreciate the effort. 
"I'd stay, but they want me to go to some meeting," he says, jerking his thumb towards the door. "I'll see you tomorrow." 
So he leaves you, desolate and linen-covered. Back to square one. 
The room seems to echo with how empty it feels. The bare walls are painted champagne, a rich, indifferent color. They soar to an arched ceiling lined with baroque crown moulding. There's a large window facing the garden, framed by deep green velvet. Atop the vanity cradled to the wall, the ivy of the wrought mirror curls at the edges, as if escaping. The chandelier hangs low, fat and pear-shaped, and its crystals douse the room in gauzy lamplight.
At least the canopy bed looks comfortable. It's the one thing keeping you from calling this place a veritable jail cell, which still seems like an understatement. For once, you miss your own bedroom. Granted, it didn’t look much different on the surface. but despite all the paneling and the heavy velvet, you still like to think it had some personality. You still keep your pillow pet on your bed (a horse named Robert). The back wall is chipped from a Gossip Girl poster your mom made you take down.  
Before you’re able to get too sentimental, the unwelcome sight of your future husband steals you from your thoughts. 
"Evening," Joshua says, stepping into the room. He's so quiet, it takes you aback. "Still unpacking?" 
"Sorry." You gesture around you. "I underestimated my ability to overpack."
"You should have told the staff," he says, surveying the damage. "Do you need help?" 
"No," you insist. Somehow the prospect of him getting on the ground to sort out all of your things upsets you, even more than him touching all of your unmentionables. "No. Please. Just ignore me."
"Alright." 
Joshua seems to take no issue with that, gratefully. He takes a seat on the chaise at the foot of the bed. He's got a copy of Anna Karenina under his arm, probably to weigh the pros and cons of cheating on you. You don't blame him—in fact, maybe it would make your doomed marriage exciting enough to be tolerable. 
"PR event tomorrow," you start, folding up a nightdress. "Bet you're excited for that." 
“As excited as one can be before announcing their arranged marriage," he replies dryly. "But surely you have enough experience with the press for the both of us." 
So that’s how he wanted to play. Fine. You wouldn’t let him walk all over you a second time. 
"Well, I'd hope all those classes you took would be good for something."
"That's rich, coming from the case study on bad media training." 
"Oh, please," you snap. "At least I know how to have a good time." 
"I was having a great time before I was informed this was happening." 
"Forgive me. I had no idea you were so invested in my personal life." You huff as you heave an oversized armful of clothes to the closet. “Think TMZ has any job openings?” 
"Very funny," he retorts. Joshua holds up a skimpy black dress that's fallen from your pile, one well acquainted with the midnight grease of one too many nightclubs. "You dropped this, by the way. I don't really think the nightlife here will be quite to your taste, though." 
"Oh right, because this is where happiness goes to die, huh?" You snatch it back from him, feeling the knot of anger in your gut flare. 
The room seems to pulse with an uncomfortable silence, red-hot with unsaid words. You recognize the all too familiar way Joshua sets his jaw back, and you're transported all the way to the study in the east wing, snoutless lion, terracotta steps, and all. He’s not any different from anyone else, so you’re not sure why you expected anything else. 
You do the only thing you can do—bite your tongue. 
"Look," you finally say, gathering the wherewithal to call for a truce. "I know that we didn't ask for this." 
Joshua laughs. Actually, it's the first time you've heard it since you've met, and it would be an otherwise tolerable, even nice, sound if it wasn't directed right at you.
"Right, because who doesn't want to have to babysit someone for the rest of their life?" 
You take a hard swallow.  You've both done enough damage for tonight, although you'd love to see his expression when you call him the live-action version of Frollo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Maybe another time. 
Instead you think of Jeonghan, stuck in his meetings and sunk into this new, starched form of himself that you find difficult to recognize. Still, he's your brother, and you'd hate to see him suffer for it. 
"Stop. I'll be good," you say. "I promise. I know there's a lot at stake for the both of us." 
You can hear Joshua's long, drawn exhale. The furrow dug between his brows flattens out, and he seems to be reminded of everything they taught you both in Conflict Resolution 101. 
"I apologize. I got out of line," he says. You watch the cogs turn on that unfortunately pretty face of his. You hope he finally reveals that he has a much better, kinder personality that he was waiting to debut, but he doesn't. Instead he picks up yet another fallen item from your stash and hands it to you (this time, a much more presentable blouse). 
"I know we don't like each other—" You hold up a hand to interrupt him from lying to you. “—but we can do our best for the cameras. Because that matters. Hate me all you want in private." 
"Okay." He gives you a defeated look, which is all you suppose you'll get out of him today. "Deal." 
That night, there are no more backhanded compliments, quips, or mean-spirited attempts at sarcasm. 
You sink into your side of the bed, a damask-woven vat of quicksand, and watch the spears of light dance on the ceiling. If you had known your last outing was the one a few days ago, maybe you would have drank a little more, stayed out later. Maybe you wouldn't have even gone home. 
Joshua has been reading on the other side of the bed, which seems like oceans apart. The metronomic turn of his pages would have put you to sleep if it wasn't for this new fear, a black, trembling one, that's now taken residence in your chest. It feels like you are further from yourself than you've ever been, and you don't know how to get back. 
"Is it too bright for you?" Joshua's voice, now tempered by the stillness of the evening, pulls you out of your thoughts. "I can turn the lamp off." 
"It's ok," you groan. "Can't really sleep. Don't worry about it." 
He doesn't say anything. Instead you hear the oiled pull of the bedside nightstand before he places something on the bed beside you.
It's a book. Specifically, one of those trashy romances that they only sell at the airport because no one would be brave enough to read them anywhere else.
"It's no Dan Brown," he says. "Hopefully still to your liking." 
You sit up against the headboard and flip through the pages. The prince of Acros owning a book with the words "juicy", "mewling", and "best friend's brother" in the first fifty pages are enough to tide you over for the night. Probably the next week, to be honest.
"Yes, indeed, your highness. Of the raunchy summer fling." 
Joshua smiles, and this time, you think it's a real one. 
--
You hate mornings. 
You thought this one would be different, probably due to the fact that you would soon be standing in front of a few too many cameras to announce your tragic fate to the entire world. Unfortunately, it's like all your other mornings—rushed, nauseous, and now with all the added anxiety of a semi-non consensual public appearance. 
"Five minutes!" you holler as best you can, a hair pin wiggling in the corner of your mouth. Rule number one of a hard launch: don't be caught looking complacent. Even if the other half of the launch would rather be with anyone other than you. 
Joshua's in the attached bathroom doing his hair. Like everything else he does, it is painfully calculated. He might be the only person in the world who takes "pea-sized" seriously as a measurement tool. 
But even as he so carefully measures his pomade, pump by pump, you don't miss the way his eyes skim over your figure as you lean over the vanity chair to apply your lipstick. Maybe it's because your ass is practically vacuum sealed into your sundress, or maybe he's just looking for another fight to pick. Either way, there's a small part of you that takes pride in this, even if just a little. 
"Ready?" Joshua asks, switching off the bathroom light. You hate to admit it, but he looks good in a sports jacket. You remind yourself that you had to literally rock-paper-scissors this morning to use the vanity mirror because you fogged the bathroom up after your shower. "It's not a pageant." 
"Shush. You are so rude. Never interrupt a girl when she's getting ready." 
In the mirror, you watch Joshua huff behind you. Then he procures a little black box from his pocket, and a crazy sort of feeling washes over you before you remind yourself to be normal. Ten-year-old you would have cried and threatened arson if she knew this is how you would eventually be proposed to, but you have no choice. 
You're sure Joshua feels the same. He was probably hoping for something classic with all the works, and instead he's got a pissed-off Jihoon and you, internationally renowned harlot. Funny how things turn out.
"Any minute now," bitches Jihoon from the other side of the door. 
You close your compact and turn around to face Joshua, who's still fumbling with the box.
"I'm sure this is not what you anticipated," he says, finally cracking it open. “But—" 
"No speech. Just put it on." You stick your left hand out, still glittery from last week’s manicure. "Not like it means much anyway." 
"Yeah."
And just like that, it is done. You feel the shock of Joshua's huge hands over yours, then the unceremonious bite of the cold band. He doesn't linger. 
You hold your newly engaged hand in front of you. The ring must have looked better in the box—on you, it seems out of place, gaudy, yet another thing you can't quite fit into. It squeezes your finger a bit, but it'll do. 
"Ready?" he asks. 
"Let's get this over with."
If romance wasn’t already dead, then it died here, today, in your prison cell bedroom. 
You have no time to lament this, as Joshua’s already half out the door. Quickly, he seems to shed his foul, argumentative inside personality and slip into a second-skin, one that is more poised, gracious, and luminous.
Today's objective is supposed to be simple: friendly, premarital pictures to accompany a written statement to the public announcing your engagement. No paparazzi, no journalists. Still, you're starting to see why your parents decided it was a good idea to stick you with this guy. 
In the foyer, your families await you. It's as if their gaze can slow time—at least four people approved your outfit, and still, the weight of their eyes on you, ever appraising, is crushing. Immediately, your mother starts rearranging the strands of hair on the top of your head and fiddling with the sleeves of your dress, like you're some sort of doll. 
"Come, come," a member of the PR team urges. "Everything is set up. We'll be quick." 
There's a frenetic, tense energy over the palace. It's clear that this marriage is a gambit no one is happy with, and today would make it very, very real. 
Outside, there is a lone photographer. The sun, morning-ripe, reflects off his camera lens like a third eye. The lawn, freakishly green, sprawls out around you, and the blue spruce frames the scene, perfect by design. 
"I just need you to stand next to each other and smile," he says. "That's all, right?" he directs this towards your PR team, about seven too many for a task like this. One of them whispers something in his ear. Your parents watch from the shaded doorstep like wax figures in a museum. 
You and Joshua stand shoulder to shoulder, yearbook photo style. 
"Bit closer," the photographer calls out, and you smush yourself against his arm, close enough that you can appreciate he's got some muscle on him. "Alright. Hold still." 
Click. You've always hated the flash, but you root yourself obediently to the concrete. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Click. 
Your mother interrupts her conversation with a staff member—likely haggling over the minutia of the statement—and says, "Look happier," as if you're in some dystopian advertisement for a new car. 
"She's talking to you," Joshua says through the grit of his fake, pink smile. 
"Right, because you're such a peach." 
You just want to go back inside and have breakfast. 
You place a tentative hand on Joshua's bicep and turn to him, beaming like you would at a hot bartender when there are five other people waiting for a drink. 
There's a glimmer of surprise in his expression before he matches you. You can see why people dote on him so much—his cheeks get round, and his eyes magically gain the sparkles that people pay for on Facetune. God really seems to have wasted a perfect face on him. 
"Move your hand up so we can see the ring." You obey, feeling the firm cord of his arm underneath you, and you wonder where the gym is in the palace. Joshua was certainly gatekeeping it from you. "Perfect." 
You stand there, living your America's Next Top Model nightmare, before the photographer hits you with, "A kiss for the camera, yeah?" 
All the blood drains from your face. You think you actually say Huh? aloud. Joshua opts to turn to his parents to intervene, which would be funny in literally any other scenario except this one. 
"You heard him," his father replies. "Act like you're actually engaged." 
Honestly, it was a fair request. No one wanted to take any chances. Plausible rumors of an arranged marriage would backfire spectacularly. Jeonghan wouldn't see the front cover of anything ever again, and the entirety of Acros would wonder just how deep in the shitter they were that Joshua was forced to marry you. 
Your parents were already so far into the conspiracy, you overheard them talking about using unpublished paparazzi pictures and rebranding them as times you snuck off to see your unfortunate lover. Point taken. 
"Okay, okay," you laugh nervously. "Of course." 
You face Joshua, steeling yourself, and lean in. The world seems to fall away, but not how you like—it feels as though you've been sucked out of your own body and dropped into a new one that doesn't know what a kiss is or how to do it. 
He's just like anyone else, you tell yourself. You're at the club. They're playing Everytime We Touch by Cascada. 
Soon all you know is the heat of your cheeks, the shaking flat of your palm over Joshua's shoulder, and the wet pressure of what feels like a pair of lips, soft but also very unwilling. 
Click. Click. Then it's over. Everyone huddles around the camera, like animals to a watering hole. Shame, hot and heavy, seems to drape itself over you. 
"Can we get one more?" the photographer asks.
Fuck. Your stomach drops. You can't even glare at Joshua. 
"Sure thing," Joshua says easily, unaware he was the reason it went so badly in the first place. 
You take a deep breath. You imagine a good Kylie Minogue song and a tall stranger with pecs that could fit into a bra, and your eyes flutter shut. 
You decide to go for it this time. Unfortunately, you and your inept partner are on entirely opposite pages again, and you almost miss each other by a mile. When you do get it right, it's messy, two teenagers fumbling in a closet with the lights off. 
Once everyone sees this massacre, it seems they resign themselves to the same conclusion you had long ago. Someone throws a thumbs up above their head, and everyone clears out so fast, it's like nothing ever happened. 
Soon, it's just you, Joshua, and your mother with a red pen and the manuscript. Your heart is still buzzing in your chest, even though you and Joshua are now standing at a distance that makes you believe in the cheese touch again. 
"Now that wasn’t so bad," she says, before escorting the two of you back inside. Perhaps lying cushions the blow of a bad decision, but you're already in too deep. The script, the cameras, even your mother's glossy words—your life is starting to feel like a permanent movie set, and you don't know how to clock out. 
The first thing you do is take off the ring. It's starting to look more and more like costume jewelry on your untrained, bumbling hand. Even still, you can still feel its ghost on your finger, see the glare of the camera flash in the laser-cut facets. 
Worse, you watch Joshua shrug off his sport jacket, likely wondering how exactly that went so wrong, and you can feel that same sensation, still warm, right over your lips.
--
"Save me, red wine, save me." 
Home, sweet home. You're back in Cotria for the rest of the week. This morning's stint was the only thing you had on the schedule, and you told Joshua you had some business to attend to at home. 
Said business was a Niçoise salad and half a bottle of wine, but no one had to know that part. Your struggle meals were your own business, and you think you will actually disintegrate on the spot if you have to sit through another conversation about World War II with Joshua's dad. The one you had at dinner last night was plenty. 
The restaurant you’re at is a familiar haunt, but not too familiar. The ass-kissers and the groupies have gotten good at keeping their heads on a swivel, and you’re not exactly planning on another encounter with a camera. But here, the crowd is quiet enough, the food good enough, the service fast enough. It’s enough, which you’ve come to prefer. 
That's the other thing about Cotria—there’s an overabundance of everything. Department stores, parlors, dog cafes, polished bars with overpriced cocktails. It’s almost a rarity to find a place like this, quiet enough to actually talk. 
"You must be in the fucking trenches," Somi says, shaking her head. "When's the press release getting published?"
"Next week," you groan. "The good news is that they want us to go to the derby afterward."
"Okay, miss horse girl," Somi says, clinking her wine glass against yours. "You betting this year?" 
"No, I shouldn't." You shovel another forkful of leaves into your mouth. "But I really hope I get to watch it instead of pretending to like a guy the whole time." 
"I didn't see you pretending in uni," Somi says, cocking an eyebrow up at you. "And those guys are ugly. This guy isn't." 
"Okay, wait," you protest. "Ugly cute. Don't get it twisted. And they don't act like sentient wet paint. This guy sucks." 
You're reminded of the moment before you left the palace this morning. Joshua saw that same black dress that he used against you make its way into your bag, and he gave you the dirtiest stink eye you'd ever seen. 
I'm not above tattling. They were the first words he'd said to you after The Incident. 
Good thing you won't have to, you replied. He didn't even see you out because no one was standing around to clap him on the back for being a good fake fiancé. 
"Whatever." Somi picks a tomato off your plate in exchange for some of her fries. "I wouldn't mind it, is what I'm saying." 
"You slept with the bouncer to get into Annabel’s." 
"Fuck off. He was actually really good. Club entry was just a bonus," she laughs. "That reminds me—you're coming to my birthday, right? Or do you have wifely duties now?" 
"Of course I'm coming!" you insist, feeling the word duty hit like an actual bullet to your chest. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." 
"Just making sure! You know I gotta have my people around." 
You had known Somi since you were in diapers. She's the cousin twice removed of a baron, or a count, or maybe even a viscount–you never were good at keeping track of those kinds of things. Even though you had seen her at countless brunches, coronations, and garden parties, you don't think you actually became friends until you ran into her at a college party in Mykonos. She sidled up to you, smelling like strawberries and the bleachy sting of hair dye, and handed you a cucumber margarita. 
The beer here sucks, she had whisper-shouted to you, right over the shell of your ear. Wanna dance? You were inseparable ever since. 
"It's going to be huge. There are, like, 200 people on the guest list right now. Soonyoung rented a villa, There's gonna be a champagne tower, and the music won't suck. Guaranteed." 
"That sounds perfect," you sigh. "Please tell me there's gonna be a pool. I need to show off my new swimsuit." 
"Duh." Somi rolls her eyes, glittery under her extensions. "The perfect opportunity to show the world that their hottest bachelorette is a bachelorette no longer. Also, we invited Pitbull.” 
“Shut the fuck up. Wait, is he actually coming?” 
”Dunno. Wouldn’t be very Mr. Worldwide of him to flake, though.” 
Pitbull or not, you think of the heat of the strobe lights, the electric trill of the too-loud speakers. You're dancing in a dress that looks like a chunk of the moon, with the little neon ties of your bikini top peeking out the sides. There's a peach highball in your hands and no one is telling you what to do, how to do it, or that you're doing it wrong. 
Then you think of Joshua. Maybe he'd loosen up after a few drinks. Maybe he'd dance with you, put those hands to use on your hips and kiss you like he should have earlier today. Maybe he'd even be good at it. The thought makes your cheeks sting.
“Should I invite Joshua?” Somi says, wrinkling her nose at how you immediately grimace. “What if he’s actually a blast?” 
"No! No. Absolutely not." 
“What if he’s—” Then she drops her singsong voice to a whisper. “Hung? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen those pictures of him in the Galapagos.” 
Unfortunately, you have. A lurid, glassy image of your soon-to-be-husband in a sleazy pair of swim trunks comes into vision. You push past the smile, the unfair pecs, and remind yourself of that horrible, self-righteous twist of the lips that he always has. 
Yes, that’s right. That’s the Joshua you know. 
You grab the wine from her and drink it right from the bottle. 
Of course it had to be the one time you’re not late to an event that you forget you had swapped everything in all your purses around. You double check your bag—empty. 
You’re already down by half of your worldly possessions (still at home, your real home), and you probably left the other half on Joshua’s bathroom counter. Yesterday, you got derailed mid-task by Joshua lighting the grossest candle ever. You never thought you’d ever fight over candles of all things, but you couldn’t let him walk away from that conversation thinking wet dirt was a normal, socially acceptable, scent for a bedroom. (—It said moss on the label! —So, dirt. —Moss is not dirt. Maybe you need to go back to school.) 
You fling open the bathroom door, still checking the pockets of your handbag, before you collide into a big, sopping wet wall. 
“What the—?” You look up. The wall is not a wall. No, in fact, it is your fiancé, bare fucking naked. 
Your heart jumps up to your throat. It feels like you walked right into a porno, and you can hear Somi’s self-satisfied, witch cackle right in your ear. His dark hair seems to fall into his eyes just right, a nice change from how he normally gels it up, and you watch the beads of water from the shower, torturously glittery, run down his jaw, the hollow of his neck, right onto his chest. 
Men should not be allowed to have bigger boobs than you, at least, not dowdy Joshua Hong, who normally has the sex appeal of an eraser. And God forbid your eyes travel downward and confirm Somi’s sick and twisted hypothesis, past the washboard abs, the v-line, the trail down his— 
“Sorry, did you need something?” You blink again and Joshua suddenly has a towel wrapped around his waist. And he’s eyeing you like you ate a million cloves of garlic and then proceeded to spit on him. “Or are you just going to stand here and ogle me?” 
“I wasn't—no!” You start snatching things off the counter, anything really, and throwing them into your bag. “I just needed to grab stuff for my… my thing. You’re in the way.” 
“Right, because you need four q-tips and my razor to read a children’s book,” Joshua replies, plucking the offending items out of your purse. “It's almost 12:30, by the way.” 
“Shit. Fuck,” you stammer. You can’t glare at him anymore because you know where your eyes will end up and it is not on his face. “Stop distracting me. Whatever.” 
“Have fun,” is the last thing Joshua tells you before you close the bathroom door, that portal to hell, right back up. 
What you can’t do is return the image of what you saw back to where it came from, the wicked, glistening form of Joshua and his B cup tits. He looked so good, it makes you angry. 
Later, on the walk to the library, you reach for your lip gloss. Instead, you pull out q-tip number five and get mad all over again. 
The car ride to the derby feels like your own personal Saw trap, if Jigsaw wore a ridiculous hat and was actually your mother. 
Your engagement was announced to the public just a few days ago. It came with no fanfare, no warning. You were sitting on your bed, making your way through the smut Joshua called a novel, when the news app on your phone kindly notified you that you were now a taken woman. 
To some degree, the media uproar fascinated you. The idea that people with actual journalism degrees were writing headcanons about your honeymoon when you hadn’t even seen Joshua since The Bathroom Incident was surely entertaining, to say the least. But, like everything, the unsaid pressure of being a perfect princess, now part of an even more perfect couple, hangs heavy over you. 
You remind yourself this is supposed to be fun. A real couple would be pawing at each other in the backseat, perhaps pregaming with champagne or fan-casting their pick for Spirit the horse. Instead, you’re stuck rehearsing your pitch to the reporters when they inevitably ask you about how the hell this happened. You wish you could tell them you’re not quite sure either. 
Silently, you look at Joshua. Joshua looks out the window. The world rumbles under you. 
[10:15 am, race 1]
The air seizes, swirls with clay-colored dust in the morning sun. The clubhouse is already heady with the low buzz of conversation—you watch the freckled sunhats and oily toupees bob up and down in the swell of the crowd, deep in the morning’s small talk. You wonder how many of them are talking about you, given how recently the news hit. You’re used to people ignoring your media appearances, not celebrating them. 
Someone, tipping their head down to greet you, hands you a program. Joshua elects to tuck his in his back pocket. People don’t come to the derby to watch the races. Instead, it’s an excuse to gossip, day drink, and gamble, which would ordinarily be a good time for you if you weren’t overly invested in the racing circuit. 
All the way from the entrance to your seats, you were met with a tidal wave of camera flashes, all hungry for a glimpse of your first public appearance as a couple. Alongside this, a decidedly worse flurry of congratulations paired with an overly familiar touch to the shoulder or a limp handshake. Joshua is quick to respond with either a smile or some trite platitude. Your least favorite: We couldn’t be happier. Now he’s just lying for sport. 
“We should find the reporters doing interviews,” Joshua says the second his ass touches the chair, unfazed by the onslaught of perhaps a million different people. “The Sun probably wants to talk to us.” 
You’re not listening—you can’t let on that this whole ordeal is mildly terrifying for you. He has enough reasons to dislike you, and stage fright wouldn’t exactly be a good addition to the list. 
The racehorses have lined up at the track, their manes catching the daylight like holy fire. You like the one on the end. He looks like Peanut, Jeonghan’s stubborn palomino. 
Joshua says your name insistently, curdled with the annoyance that you’ve now become acquainted with, and you catch a stray camera flash from the stands. You have an audience, and the audience demands a show, even if they’re second-rate journalists like the scum from The Sun.  
“Darling,” you reply flatly. “Relax. Let's enjoy the races.” 
The horses stretch their long legs, anxious for the thunderclap of the starter’s pistol. Joshua raises a tired eyebrow before the same realization dawns on him. 
“Absolutely.” He clears his throat. “Darling.” 
You wrap a hand around his arm—somehow he makes hand-holding seem like third base—and watch his shoulders sink with a sigh, like you just popped him. 
Likewise, your highness. Likewise. 
A shot crackles through the air, and you’re off to the races. 
[12:43 pm, race 2.]
"I just have to know—how did you guys meet?" 
You know the duchess of Pemarlia to be beautiful and unashamedly nosy, and she has yet to prove you wrong on either account. 
The last time you saw her was on the beach at Lake Como last year, where she spent the entirety of your conversation asking if Jeonghan was single (and peeking into your bag to see what brand of lipstick you were wearing). Like everyone, she always seems to have a look of appraisal on her face. What makes her different is that she never really bothers to hide it; instead, she wears it like an en-vogue accessory. 
She eyes you with an intensity, sizing up your dress, your tawdry sunhat, your ring. You wonder if she’d agree that marriage didn’t look good on you, but any shorter of a dress, your mother would call you a stripper. And God forbid you leave the house hat-less. 
Now she’s no minotaur. This shouldn’t be much of a problem, save for one very small issue: you actually hadn’t planned your answer to this. You had quibbled over it briefly in the car, but you were too focused on your interview pitch to worry about minor gossip. 
"Well," Joshua starts. Through his smile, you can hear the warning edge of his voice. “It was quite ordinary.” 
"Actually," you cut him off. Not only would his version of this story be boring, it would also be horribly out-of-character for you. You did not come this far for your cover to be blown by Joshua’s lack of imagination. "Josh's parents hosted a—" 
"Brunch," Joshua finishes. Whether his teeth are gritted because he's grinning or frustrated is none of your business. “It was Easter brunch, wasn’t it, sweet pea? Four years ago?” 
The pet name makes you want to puke. Now he’s just trying to piss you off, but you know this is his attempt to play along. He's annoying, not dumb. 
"Yes, we sat across from each other.” You playfully dig your elbow into Joshua’s rock-hard side. “He was giving me the eyes the whole time.” 
You watch your hapless victim giggle, her spidery lashes wide with intrigue. Joshua is a little less pleased. 
“If you could call it that,” he replies. “I think you had chocolate on your nose.”
“Which you so kindly wiped off for me, dear.” You try to peek around the flaxen billows of the duchess’s blowout to watch the horses behind her, but to no avail. “After a morning of staring, we had to do an Easter egg hunt, planned by Joshie himself. I had no idea he loved silly little games like that.” 
“It's because people like the princess get so competitive,” Joshua says, with his laser beam grin boring into your eye sockets. “I believe I found you rummaging through the trash for eggs, like some kind of animal.” 
“Oh my goodness,” the duchess laughs. “How...charming.”  
You feel your eyebrow twitch. Only you’re allowed to ruin your own reputation, but you suppose that’s just another thing your horrible fake fiance gets to take from you. 
“Not as embarrassing as seeing Joshua leer at me from behind the corner,” you retort. “He was so enamored that when I invited him to join me, he got right down on his knees to look through the trash together.” 
“Well, did you find anything?” 
“Yes—”
“No—”
“Well—”
Fuck. Luckily, the duchess is either stupid or wildly entertained by the clown show playing out before her. Maybe both. 
“Cute,” she coos. “You must have been too smitten to notice.” 
“Absolutely,” Joshua says, as if there is a gun held to his pretty head. “Among all the garbage and the girl next to me, I suppose nothing else really mattered.” 
“If that isn’t love, what is?” she asks blithely. 
If only she knew. 
[3:45 pm, race 3]
The sun descends on the stadium, swollen and yellow with the afternoon. 
Last year, you and your friends had a betting ring set up during the racing circuit. Obviously, you had won—not too hard when your competition included Soonyoung, who only bet on horses named after food (sadly, it was not Tater Tot’s year). Somi was no better, and your brother thought every horse deserved a participation award.
This time around, things aren’t so simple. But you’d hate to say that you spent a whole day at the track and didn’t bet on a single race. Life could afford you at least one win for today. 
Again, the horses take their positions at the starting line, wound up like a line of rubber bands. The air heaves with bated breath. 
“Joshua,” you say, folding your hands in your lap as you find your target. “I'd like to propose a bet.” 
“You must be a glutton for punishment.” 
You bite back a laugh as you watch your favorite horse, the palomino, ripple in place. Fans would call her a charity case, but you know better. 
“Pick a horse. Mine is number Three, in the blue.” 
“And if mine wins? What’s in it for me?” he asks. Still, he leans forward, corded forearms on his thighs. You watch him squint as he surveys the field with renewed interest. 
“You pick,” you reply. “Choose wisely. I personally cannot wait to call in a favor from you.” 
“The chestnut one. Number Nine.” So he is competitive. “And likewise. Perhaps I'll hold it over your head until the wedding.” 
Before you can reply, you hear the starting pistol rip clean into the air. The racehorses surge forward, as if a silken ribbon through air. 
“Nine makes sense for you,” you say, eyes fixed before you. “He's flashy, the crowd favorite. Spotless pedigree.” 
“I'm picking your punishment already.” 
“I didn't say he would win.” You feel the lilt of your voice rocking upward, the tremulous beat of your heart against your ribs. “You see, Three’s had a rough season. There she is, passing Four right now.” 
“Nine is still first, though.” 
“It’s not about that,” you reply. “She does this, she starts all the way out back and then flies up. No one suspects anything—it’s like she likes proving people wrong. The first couple races of the season, she was just stretching her legs; they were small, small fry. It’s this one that matters.” 
The saddles are just blurs on the track now. To the march of the hoofbeats, Three lunges past Five, Six. The crowd roars. 
“This will be her first win. I'm counting on it. She’s come really close before.” 
Joshua doesn’t reply. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his gaze has shifted. You feel it land somewhere near you, but you’re too engrossed in the race to investigate further. Perhaps he’s admitted defeat preemptively, wisely so. 
“You know your stuff,” he murmurs, the clamor of the audience almost burying him. 
“How can I not?” Three coasts past One and Ten like she’s flying, until it’s just her and unlucky number Nine. “Oh my god. Go, go, go!” 
You and Joshua rise to your feet, as if drawn by a string, now wholly invested in the race. 
“Still beating you, you know.” 
“Not for long! Come on!” 
You watch your darling number Three, against all odds, pull past Joshua’s number Nine, burning a trail past the inevitable finish line. 
From somewhere inside you emerges a joy that you hadn’t felt since this whole ordeal started. You turn to Joshua and clasp his hands between yours, somehow less wooden now, and so, so human. The crowd cheers; they come alive. 
[4:50 pm, races 4 and 5. mainly, the reporter from the sun.] 
The smaller races take place shortly after the headliner, for better or for worse. This forces you to finally face the music—the music being a dull-eyed, greasy journalist ready to sink his teeth into the public’s new favorite topic. 
Joshua is a good sport about it, or at least, he’s good at pretending to be one. 
“It was great,” is his answer to a question you didn’t hear. You’re busy going over the parts of the script that you remember. Your media team spent the better part of the morning repeating it back to you, which was helpful until it wasn’t. You weren’t sure how to tell them you’ve actually never been good at speaking to the press, since you had spent the better half of your life doing the exact opposite. 
“And what did the princess think? It’s not often we catch you for an interview, you know.” 
The eye of the camera seems to pierce through you. You can see your shellacked figure, long and distorted, in the reflection. 
“I—um,” you swallow hard. God. Pull it together. You can already hear the lecture you’re going to get on the way home today. “Yeah, big day today.”
“She’s had to really rein in her excitement, you know,” Joshua adds, chuckling. 
Briefly, you feel his hand brush against yours. Ordinarily, you’d pass it off as a fluke, but you feel the steady, insistent warmth of his palm again, first, to the inside of your wrist, then lower still. Before you’re able to really process what’s happening, he then takes your hand in his all at once, as if to say, I’ve got this. I’ve got you. 
You figure he’s cashing in his favor early–he’d much rather leave you out to dry, let you flounder a bit so you learn to read the PR memorandums the night before. I told you so, he’d say. That’s what everyone else would say, anyway. 
“The races are sure exciting, but I'm sure you’re even more excited about your upcoming wedding.” The reporter grins at you, as if he smells your fear. His hair looks like it’s glued to the top of his shiny head. “If I'm going to be honest, you were one of the last people we’d expect to tie the knot this year. We are all dying to hear more.” 
What? You force yourself to breathe, feel the air fill your lungs, to avoid making an expression you’ll regret. 
“Well, yeah, I'm sure it looks like it all happened quickly,” you answer, feeling your tongue trip over the words. Mostly because it did, in fact, happen quickly, but you can’t let them know that. “But Josh and I feel strongly about, uh, this whole thing, and—”
“Please, don’t spare us the details.” 
Telepathically, Joshua squeezes your hand. This, you understand. He’s telling you to lean on him, and you trust that. 
“Hold your horses,” he cuts in, almost too quickly, which makes the corners of your mouth twitch upward. He was definitely looking for an opening, but you, bizarrely, don’t mind at all. He turns to you and smiles. “What's the fun without a little mystery? It's been a wild ride, but I'm loving every second of it.” 
It’s this one, the lamest and most embarrassing dad joke of them all, that gets you. 
You laugh: a real one, big, loud, and unafraid. It's here, caught in the glare of the camera flash, where you find yourself hoping, even just a little, that this wasn’t just a favor, that this was a sign you could actually survive this arrangement. 
You’re not asking for love—just a little bit of like. and, right now, you think you like Joshua Hong. 
In the evening, you find yourself in the oaken parlor nestled away in the back halls of the Acrosian palace. 
There's a piano there, gathering dust. It's a Steinway, spindly and chestnut, almost identical to the one you have at the palace in Cotria. 
You and Jihoon had been unpacking your hodgepodge of things (unsorted, since the act of sorting would have forced you to stomach the fact that you were actually moving), when he had found your old lesson books. 
You should break in that piano, he had said. Either that, or wait for your fiance to find you. He seemed ok at the derby today. 
I guess. 
What Jihoon hadn’t seen was all the photographs you had to take after your interview with The Sun, where Joshua decided to remind you that you were supposed to hate him. By that, you mean that he managed to make every single one unbearable. (A tap of the foot: Stand up straight. A careful brush of the elbow: Let’s link arms. A discerning, tactful glance at your chest: Pull up your dress. That, or he was no better than the average man.) 
You and he hadn’t talked much after that. Hopefully, he’s fled to your cold, dark dungeon of a room to read, so he can finally leave you alone.
“Remember when your parents invited all their friends over and asked you to play?” Jihoon says, perched on the loveseat while he sorts through an old jewelry box. 
“Yeah, and I literally forgot everything?” you laugh. “Freaking Jeonghan had to check on me because I locked myself in my room for 24 hours straight. And then he had the nerve to laugh at me.” 
You thumb through the fattest book of the pile. The binding is soft; the pages now yellow and fuzzed over by time. 
On page 5, Chopin's Waltz in A-flat major. three four time or whatever, you had scrawled in defiant red ink. Page 37, a thick black line through Debussy's name on Arabesque No. 1. This is because you would always laugh at it during lessons, and you wanted to save yourself the trouble. 
“Do you want to keep this?” Jihoon holds up a choker that resembles a jock strap. “When did you even wear this? It looks like a cat toy.” 
You ignore him and start to play. You were never excellent—competent would be a better word. Still, it was enough for you. Soonyoung would ask you to play during drunk karaoke, and you could still keep up with Jeonghan when he played one of his overcomplicated duets. 
Your hands remember the velvet thud of the keys, the glide of the pedal. When you turn the page, there’s a scrawled in BITCH! next to a heavily circled allegro. Piano was one of the only things that your parents forced you to do that you actually liked. The kicker was that it didn’t even do you any good. You weren’t as talented as your parents would like you to be, meaning that, to them, you weren’t talented at all. 
It’s then that your fingers slip, and you miss a chord. In your defense, you have a fresh manicure. Always blame the nails. Your mom hated when you kept them long, even more than your hardass tutor.  
“The prince is helping with the theater production this year, right?” Jihoon holds a single earring up to the light. You think you lost the other one in Ibiza last year. “You gonna help out again?” 
“Maybe.” Another wrong note. You’re losing steam trying to read all the ledger lines and your smeared, illegible writing next to them. “I don't know. He probably won’t even want me to. I'm choosing a different piece, by the way. Bored of this one.” 
The truth about your 21st birthday was that you did actually intend to spend it at the youth theater. It was your idea before it was Jeonghan’s idea, but, at the time, you both still were a package deal.
You were on piano; Jeonghan was on whatever else he pleased. He'd always been indecisive like that. At the bench, you’d hoist the little ones on your knee and regale them with the classical version of the opening song from paw patrol. Jeonghan stole prop masks from the back, mostly to hide behind the curtains and scare people, you included. You’d both stay up late, paint spackled on your palms, trying to Michelangelo a backdrop with the combined artistic talent of a TI-84. 
The production became your thing, just you and him, no cameras, no press releases, no parents. But like everything else, neither you, Jeonghan, nor anyone else was able to keep those inevitable truths apart. The set pieces were repainted in Italy, the finger-painted fields turned luminescent with varnish; the pins and needles in the costumes swapped with mother-of-pearl; and, finally, you, replaced by a classically trained pianist from Juilliard. At least he was hot. 
Everyone knows the rest of the story—the red carpet, the empty seats, and the puffy pink balloons outside the mansion in Saint Tropez. 
“Oh please,” Jihoon wheedles. “You and I both know he wanted you there.” 
“Then maybe he should have fought harder.” You flip to a random page, this one marked up in pink gel pen. You remember it bled through all the pages behind it, making it a pain to read but awfully funny during lessons. “It doesn't matter. There’s probably wedding stuff i gotta deal with.” 
Jihoon lets you play this next piece uninterrupted. It’s not that it’s a sensitive subject for you—there were plenty of other things that filled the wedge between you and your brother—but it certainly didn’t help. 
You let your fingers wander over the stubborn keys. It feels good to play, even if you’re almost unforgivably rusty. You reach for the page, when you hear Jihoon again: “You know, you’re allowed to come in, your highness.” 
Immediately, your hands freeze. Like a scolded child, you become aware of how your fingers teeter over the keys, the stumbling, awkward clacking of your nails, the one or two missed quarter notes from the last measure. 
You turn to face the door, where Joshua stands, leaning against the frame like a sleazy model from an Abercrombie catalog. He probably came from the gym. Seeing him dressed down is still very weird, mostly because you can’t decide if it’s because he looks good or if it’s because it reminds of seeing your teacher at the grocery store. 
“Anyone teach you manners?” you ask, unsure if your hackles should be raised. 
“No, I was raised in a barn, just like those horses you like so much,” he laughs. “I didn’t want to interrupt. You’re not bad, you know.” 
“Thanks.” You eye him skeptically. “Thought you were gonna comment on the nails.” 
“Do you want me to?” 
“Preferably not, but it’s not like you‘d listen to me anyway.” You look for Jihoon’s reaction, but he seems to have conveniently disappeared. “Let’s play a duet. I’m cashing in my favor.” 
“Sure,” Joshua replies. “I'm no good, though. Might be more of a punishment for you.” 
You slide over on the bench, and he sidles up next to you. He smells like Le Labo and sweat, the sting citrusy and bright, close enough to linger. 
“No good?” You pick up another fat book from the stack atop the lid: The Joy of Duets. “Me neither.” 
“You have no idea,” he chuckles. “And trust me, I tried.”  
“I’ll do top?” you announce. 
Joshua snickers, and you kick him under the bench (really, just a tap of your foot). 
You spend the next two minutes tripping over a Schubert piece. Terribly, this is endearing to you. You make somewhat of a couple—you, with your horrible form, and Joshua, now squinting at the key signature like it’ll make it easier to read.
“Buddy,” you exclaim. “Left hand goes here.” Laughing, you reposition his hand mid-chord to an octave below. You feel it tense beneath you before yielding to proper technique. 
“Aw, what?” he whines. “See, I told you I was no good. Give me a second.” 
You watch him puzzle over the next few lines, pretty brow furrowed. You conclude that Pajama Joshua is decidedly better than Prince Joshua. He’s funnier, kinder, warmer. Even his hands feel softer. 
“Also, about earlier today,” you start. The words are starting to dry up on your tongue, but you figure Pajama Joshua is an easier target than usual. “I didn't know they trained you in stand-up comedy.” 
“We laugh in this country too, you know.” When Joshua says this, he grins, bumping into your shoulder like you’d been friends for a long time. For once, it feels easy, natural. 
“Well, thanks anyway.” 
“I couldn't leave my fiancée out to dry.” The word must sound ridiculous even to him, because he laughs just the same as he did when he unloaded his ridiculous puns onto the unassuming world. “No really. We’re in this together, unfortunately. It’s my duty.” 
Duty, both the knife and the wound. You can’t say you’re surprised he’s only nice to you out of obligation. So is everyone else, and you don’t know why you thought it’d be any different, especially coming from him. It’s not like you’re wearing your ring now either; you suppose you’re just as guilty. 
“You cross over here,” you tell him, changing the topic. You slide your hand over his, and it bends to you. “Thumb under. Sorry, I couldn't help but notice.” 
“It's ok,” Joshua replies. “I only learned piano because I had to. When I stopped going to lessons, I forgot everything. Now I feel like I put this piano to shame.” 
“Really? Not to stroke your ego, but you strike me as the type to be good at everything.” 
“No,” he chuckles. “Only when I have to be. I actually wanted to learn how to play guitar.” 
“No way.” 
“Yes way. I wanted to have one of those woven guitar straps, get a little pick collection going, be able to play any song from the Beatles discography. All the cliche stuff.” 
“Well, why can’t you?” you ask. “Minus the Beatles thing. Pick better music.” 
“Back then, it never occurred to me. We all learn piano.” 
“That's silly,” you blurt out. “Who cares?” 
“That's a little rich coming from you.” 
You frown, feeling all the usual unpleasantries bubble up through your skin. 
“That's not really fair.” You absentmindedly play a few keys, all disjointed. “Taking guitar lessons doesn’t make you a problem child.” 
“It's not about that, though,” Joshua says. He's avoiding your eyes. “It's everything, together. I couldn't just pick up a guitar and be someone else.” 
“Someone else? You mean you? The real you?” 
“Yes,” Joshua presses. “That's the point. I can't just do whatever I want. Sometimes the real you is more trouble than it’s worth.” 
“Someone’s dramatic. If you do everything the same, nothing will change. Maybe getting into a little trouble isn’t such a bad thing.” 
“Forgive me,” he says, mid-chuckle. “You wouldn’t call this trouble?” 
He’s got you there. Childishly, all your pride hardens to a lump in your throat, one you’ve never learned to swallow. 
“Your family needed our help too, remember?” 
“Yeah, and you think I don’t think about that every day? How, maybe, if I had done something different, then we wouldn’t be here?” 
You feel stung. You don’t know how to tell him that you’ve been trying to figure out the same thing your whole life. If you were a better daughter, you’d have spared everyone the trouble. Unfortunately, you’d gotten it wrong so many times, you stopped trying.
What's worse is that he doesn’t even sound mad—you watch his fingertips ghost over the keys of a C-scale, rhythmically, methodically. Piano scales, this marriage, everything: just things to do on his never-ending list. 
A hesitant knock at the door interrupts any possibility of you coming up with anywhere close to the right thing to say. 
“Prince Joshua, the king and queen need to speak to you.” It’s an aide, probably sweating bullets deciding when and how they should intrude on this wonderful conversation of yours.
“Right,” says Joshua, and when he gets up from the bench, he doesn’t look back. 
“You ready to get stuffed?” 
Good fucking morning to you—Somi’s voice, fluorescent through your phone speakers, seems to be enough of an alarm clock for you. Joshua, in the doorway dual wielding a coffee cup and the morning paper, raises a tired eyebrow.
After the events of last night, you’d wondered if he would somehow disappear at nighttime in an effort to avoid his eventual fate (you). Instead, you found him on his usual side of the bed, drinking his usual mug of chamomile tea, in his usual silence. 
You've heard that couples shouldn’t go to bed angry, but no one said anything about indifferent. Then again, you and Joshua are hardly a couple. 
“Ew,” you laugh. “No. Maybe? Should I be scared?” 
“Absolutely. You’re eating your weight in food today because I need your opinion on catering.” 
Smushing your phone between your cheek and your shoulder, you watch the mirror as your wavering reflection puts on a layer of mascara. 
“For your party?” 
“Yeah, although on second thought, maybe it’s a bad idea to bring the girl who’s gonna puke everything up anyway.” 
“My IBS is none of your business. Besides, the real food critic is Jihoon,” you reply. “Sometimes I feel like that’s the only reason he still works here.” 
“You’re coming in an hour, right?” 
You check the clock. No, you are not. You’re only halfway through a full beat and if you don’t get any caffeine inside you within the hour, you will commit a crime. 
“Nope.” You pop open your compact. “I have to change, and I desperately need to locate a coffee. I will suck a fucking bean off if i need to.” 
“I'm hanging up on you,” Somi whines. “It's too early for you to be gross and late.”  
“As if you weren’t talking about getting stuffed.” 
“Whatever.” Click.
At this point, you feel like Somi’s party is both the proverbial and literal light at the end of the tunnel. No expectations, no rules, and no semi-arguments between you and your doomed fiance. 
Then you notice that Joshua’s disappeared from the room—he probably couldn’t stand listening to your end of the conversation. Briefly, you wonder where he is. Off running an errand for his dear parents, perhaps, or maybe at the gym you still haven’t discovered yet. Even from the hefty distance he keeps you at, you can still appreciate a man who looks like he’s touched a dumbbell. 
It's only when you’re halfway out the door, almost an hour later, juggling your purse and your phone and the distinct absence of a caffeinated beverage, that you find him. 
“Come to ruin my day?” you ask, maybe three-fourths joking. 
“Don’t give me any ideas,” he replies. Under the bluebird sky of late morning, lips upturned and eyes bright, Joshua may be a sight you could get used to. Someday. “Brought you a coffee. I can’t have you sucking off a bean—the reporters would go crazy.” 
Jihoon, hovering by the car, chokes on his water. 
“Oh!” The surprise knocks the sound out of you. “Thank you. Really.” 
“Gladly,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.
He holds all your stuff as you clamber into the car, before handing it back to close the door for you. You’ll admit it’s nice, but as Jihoon starts to drive, you feel a familiar twist in your chest.
“Interesting,” he remarks. “Didn’t know you were on a coffee order basis.” 
“We’re not,” you answer. You pop the lid open. It's a cappuccino, made the classic way, milk foam bubbling out the top. Not your favorite, but it’ll do. 
More than that, it’s an olive branch. Yesterday did get weird, but you’re getting the impression that it’ll always get weird. Undoubtedly, there is someone out there who’ll get Joshua. His schedules, his straight-backed obligation, the polished photo ops and the cappuccinos made to a perfect one to one to one ratio. You know this because this is the world you came from, one that should be home to you. 
Instead, you circle each other in an unsure, clumsy dance. You can’t quite get it right. It's all the same now. The bite of a horse saddle not made for your body, the glow of your heirloom ring, now cheapened by your graceless hand, Joshua’s lonely, reaching palm as he disappears in the rearview mirror. 
On your arrival home in the evening, you return with two things: a few extra kilos and an absolutely horrendous copy of the Daily Mail, courtesy of Somi, who saw it at the grocery. 
"Great showing from the couple of the year," you say, shucking your copy at Joshua. "It looks like we're in Shark Tale." 
Even from a distance, the cheap ink-spackled cover shows more than enough. LIP LOCK FLOP!, it reads, although you wouldn’t really call it a lip lock. 
It was at the derby—Quick, they’re looking at us, you had said. Then what you would call a nun’s version of a kiss: you, already halfway out the door, and him, lips hesitant and pursed, as if he was asked to smooch his withering, dusty great-grandmother. 
"I'm not even going to ask what you mean by that," Joshua answers, voice level. "It's not that bad." 
He puts his book down to pick the magazine up, holding it at a distance like the image will jump out of the page and bite him. You see his expression flicker, and that's all you need to confirm your suspicions. 
"Ok, it's a little bad." He places it on the nightstand next to him face-down. "It'll be alright. It's not like the wedding will be called off over one bad picture." 
"You know that's not the issue." You sit on your side of the bed, about a full meter away from him. You kind of want to look again just to see how bad it is, but you're sure it'll be inescapable by the morning. 
"Since when did you care what the press thought of you?" 
"Since it mattered." You stare at your lap, eyes fixed on the too-new, wiggly hem of your pajamas instead of him. You can tell he's still looking at you, though–you think those big, watery eyes have some sort of flashlights in them, and you don't like it. "It seems wrong if our mistakes take up space." 
You hear him make a small noise of agreement. Joshua still won't admit that you're right, but you suppose you like that a little. At least he'll be stubborn about something, even if it's about clearly not liking you. 
"What do you suggest?" he asks, putting his book down. “We didn't choose each other, so I'm not surprised there's no attraction." 
"Ouch." He's right, but you'd rather be the one saying it. "I'm a good kisser. You aren't." 
"I'm just not good at kissing you," he retorts. 
"Evidently." You shimmy towards his side of the bed, where the sheets are cooler under your thighs, the pillows still neatly arranged on the headboard. "What I'm saying is that we should at least try to look more realistic. Like–" 
"Are you saying we should practice?" Joshua looks at you over the frames of his glasses, incredulous. 
"Yeah," you say, now too far in it to back out. "Like exposure therapy. For unwilling couples." 
The room gets quiet, as if it wasn't unbearably so before. You watch Joshua pick up his book again. He puts the bookmark in, two-thirds from the spine of the book so as to not ruin the binding, and places it over the doomed tabloid. 
"Okay." To your surprise, he turns to face you. The lamplight catches the lens of his glasses and makes his eyes look warmer than they truly are. "How should we do this?" 
The way Joshua's gaze settles on you makes you feel like you're being evaluated. An exam in Kissing 101, except the test would rather not have anything to do with you at all. For the first time in your life, you let your eyes wander to his lips, rosy and full, and you feel the pit of anxiety in your belly grow wider. Somehow he's managed to take all the fun out of one of your favorite activities, but you'll be damned if he walks away from this thinking it's you who's the problem. 
"Just...let me lead," you say quietly, now leaning closer to him. You have to ease yourself into it. You let your body respond, feel the skip of your heart, a heady flush wash over your cheeks. He smells like spearmint and clover. 
You've kissed a lot of people. None of this should feel new to you. His eyelashes skim against your cheek, and you can hear the breath he takes, quivering, gentle.
Despite all this, the first kiss is no better than any of the other ones. his lips meet yours, hesitant before they start moving. He's shy, and it would almost endear him to you if he wasn't so annoying. But then the charade is over. His nose clocks yours and it startles you both enough to draw away, ever so slightly. 
"Not my fault," you murmur. You're so close, you can see your reflection in his pupils, glassy and dark. 
"Thought this was practice," responds Joshua, unfazed. 
So you lean in again, giving it another go. Two is better—sweet and succinct. a first date type of kiss. You can taste the berry of your lip balm on him. 
Then again, except this time it's him who goes in, chases your lips. 
The scary thing is that you thought this would be much harder. You had stood in the bathroom, looked yourself in the mirror, and psyched yourself up to do the impossible. 
But the moment you meet him, now so close there's no room to breathe, you feel an impenetrable, unshakable desire crawling up your bones. Your palm finds the flat of his chest. Even under the silk of his ridiculous pajama top, you feel the heat of his skin, the restless quick of his heartbeat, and your stomach flips. 
Four, five. You're losing count. Joshua's hand trails up your arm to cup your cheek, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel your breath catch in your chest. 
He's warm, so warm. When your other hand finds the back of his neck, he makes a small sound in his throat and you like it.
It's at this point you realize there is no point in pretending. Maybe you don't want to kiss Joshua at any other moment during any other day, but you do now. You really do. 
When your tongue meets the seam of his lips, it feels all too natural. At first, predictably, he buffers a bit. For a split second, you envision him pulling away and saying you've gotten more than a lifetime's worth of practice in. 
But he doesn't. Instead, an arm winds around your waist and that's all it takes for your body to stop listening to you altogether. Lips still connected, you lift yourself to straddle his lap, right over the folded up covers, and his hands, devastatingly strong, find your hips to keep you rooted there. 
You're starting to think he isn't such a bad kisser after all—maybe he really was holding out on you, but there's something weirdly rewarding about him waiting until he liked you just a little more. Whatever that means. 
You learn that his hair is soft, really soft, at the base of his neck. You learn that he likes when you bite his lips and you learn that his spearmint mouthwash does, in fact, taste as good as it smells. 
You also learn that you, paradoxically, might not know how to love Joshua Hong, but you sure do know how to kiss him. 
--end of part 1--
[part 2 -> ]
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maladaptivewriting · 7 hours ago
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since the tiktok ban, i've been seeing a lot of stuff where people blame americans for jegulus and i can't stop thinking about it. i don't know why people feel this way, but i am prepared to make an argument. so please allow me to make my case.
[also this is completely based on generalizations. i know americans that hate jegulus and love jily, and i know british people who hate jily and love jegulus]
so i've never been a jily girl. even years before i found jegulus, i never cared about that ship. i straight up didn't even know that people wrote fics about them specifically. (i actually still don't know if people do write fics about only them because i would never seek out something like that).
originally, i'd thought it was just because i only cared about the golden trio characters and occasionally sirius and remus, but the more i got into the marauders era, the more i realized that james and lily together were the standouts, i just really didn't care for them.
it got to the point where i only read fics that referenced jily if they were extremely background to the story (which they almost always were bc there is just not that much to say about them) or preferably if both of them were already dead and it was just remus, sirius, and harry who remained.
shortly after i really started getting into the fandom and writing for jegulus, i spoke to someone who hated jegulus and loved jily, and i told them that i'd always felt like james and lily were on the road to divorce before they died. this person was SCANDALIZED. they could not understand why'd said that.
now granted, this person was in their early twenties and in my experience, if you haven't lived long enough to see a lot of your friends go through divorces, then the idea that james and lily might divorce may seem crazy.
however, and this is where the american thing really comes in, i realized after this conversation why i felt that there was no way that james and lily were going to make it and that was specifically because of growing up a conservative christian bible belt ass place.
do you know how many couples i knew in high school who started dating their senior year even though they seemingly had nothing in common, had sex one time and didn't use protection because sex education is extremely limited down there, got pregnant, and had to have shotgun wedding?
so. fucking. many.
do you know how many of them are still married?
only one.
so when i see jily, two characters who have nothing in common beyond being gryffindors, get together, have a kid, and get married (not necessarily in that order) all within like two years, i know that the odds are not in their favor. those two aren't staying together. don't play with me.
now i don't know how people feel about young marriages in other parts of the world, especially in the uk, but i've spoken to a lot of americans, especially ones from the south, and so many of them have had the exact same experiences with their peers. i just can't help but wonder if that lends itself to less people being interested in jily.
i have other arguments to this, like that jily is not as entertaining as almost every other ship that james or lily could be involved in and americans being partial to entertainment above all else, or the american (and christian) obsession with the concept of redemption and self sacrifice making regulus a more compelling character than one that lived and died good (lily and james), but this was the one i wanted to focus on today.
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illubean · 3 days ago
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Nerd!Gojo x Goth!Reader
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Characters: Satoru Gojo Type: College!AU, Oneshot, Gn!Reader
part of a mini series of oneshots :3 lmk if you want a p2
Warnings: none? reader wears makeup/dresses but is still gn
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For someone with the hobbies and interests of the likes of Satoru Gojo, he was pretty popular around campus. Men and women alike often talked about his looks, or the fact his family owned a large corporation, but what they didn't care to talk about was that Satoru Gojo was a complete loser.
Despite how popular or known he is, he only has about four friends and is the captain of the varsity E sports team for crying out loud. Not only that, but he was a computer science major..
Let's just say they're not really...known for good things.
Despite how nerdy and awkward he is, he still managed to draw attention to himself, whereas you preferred to separate from the masses. There was no doubt your dark, elaborate outfits and heavy makeup turned some heads while you roamed the corridors and quads, but other than that you've kept a relatively low profile. Though most people never really paid much mind to you aside from an initial glance, you managed to catch the eye of the aforementioned varsity E sports player.
He thought you were stunning.
From your flowing black dress and large boots to your eyeliner sharp enough to cut a bitch, the white haired boy was completely and utterly enamored with you. And when a dopey smile forms on Gojo's face and his head gets all spacey, that's when Geto and Shoko realize he's spotted you somewhere across the field. Despite almost everyone preferring the weekend, Gojo's favourite days were Mondays and Wednesdays.
The days you sat in front of him in creative writing.
He spent most of the class periods staring at the back of your head, leaning against his palm with hearts in his eyes as he fantasized about what it would be like to be yours. He would watch as you scribbled away in your notebook, perfecting your story for next week, which he always looked foreword to reading during critique. Gojo has never once had the courage to approach you directly, though. Your ethereal beauty scared him; there was no way someone as perfect as you would even spare him a passing glance.
So, his friends got to listen to him sigh and daydream about you with no end.
"Did you see their outfit today? That lacey corset compliments them so well. And that dark lipstick. I wonder if it's flavored-"
"Holy shit can you shut up? We get it, you like the goth kid," Shoko complained, taking a drag from her cigarette.
Geto chuckled at her annoyance before making a remark of his own.
"Instead of spending all this time wondering, why don't you actually go talk to them."
'You know I can't do that! They're just...they're just so cool," Gojo whined, shrinking into himself and resting his head against the table they were sat at.
"Tough luck then," Shoko said, putting her cigarette out before gathering her belongings and standing from her spot.
"I have to get to my bio lab."
"I should head off too. I have civics in 10 minutes. See ya, Satoru."
And with that, Gojo was left alone having already finished the last of his classes for the day.
Damn it. What do I do now?
Gojo pouted while he continued to sulk for a moment, pondering what he could do with the rest of his day. After a while of sifting through his options, the snowy haired male picked up his bag and made his way to the library.
Maybe I can check out the new VR center.
Gojo's mind began to wander as he thought about all the things he could try on VR. He was lost in thought, feet taking him down the halls of the library before stumbling into someone, the sound of books thudding against the floor snapping him from his thoughts.
"Oh, sorry about that," a soft voice spoke.
Upon raising his head, his eyes came in contact with a pair of (color) ones, his cheeks heating up slightly upon realizing who he just bumped into.
After a beat of silence, his eyes widened as he scrambled to help pick up all of the books you dropped, noticing one in particular that he recognized.
“...'Mythology of Ancient Civilizations’?” Gojo asked before realizing how silly he must have sounded.
You raised an eyebrow. “You familiar?”
Gojo nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, I’ve read it like… five times. I mean, the whole concept of storytelling through myths is incredible. The gods and monsters… They’re like the first fantasy novels, you know?”
Your mouth twitched into a small smile, intrigued at his words.
“Huh. I didn’t take you for someone who’d read stuff like this.”
“Yeah, I guess I don’t look it,” Gojo chuckled, scratching the back of his head nervously. “I’m usually more into… y’know, video games and stuff.”
“I could tell,” You comment, motioning towards his street fighter T-shirt. He looked down towards what he was wearing before his face flushed with embarrassment, sinking into himself as you chuckled at him.
"Gojo, right? You're in my creative writing class. I assume you like story telling, huh?"
The male's face lit up at this, before going on a tirade about the topic.
"I love story telling! I'm a computer science major and I'm trying to be a game dev which is why I'm taking creative writing. My favorite types of games are RPGs, like the LOZ franchise or Final Fantasy. They're not just about shooting stuff or solving puzzles, but they're interactive worlds that should matter just as much as books or movies! I'm actually working on a game right now about-" he cut himself off, seeing you now had a sly smirk stretched across your face.
Feeling shy once again, he cast his gaze down before saying "Sorry. I kind of went on a rant there..."
You let out a small, melodic laugh at this.
"It's okay, you're passionate about something. I think that's cute."
His heart fluttered at your words while his blue eyes wandered everywhere but to meet yours. He realized he was still holding on to your books, and he rushed to hold them out to you.
"Uh- sorry again. Here."
You gently took the books from him, fingers slightly brushing past his, setting off the butterflies in his stomach.
Their skin is so soft...
"Well, I'd love to hear about your game sometime, but I gotta get going. You free friday?"
Gojo couldn't believe his ears. You were asking him to hang out!?
"Um- yeah! I have practice from 1-3 though..."
"And by practice, you mean playing League of Legends for 2 hours?" you teased.
He nodded, slightly embarrassed by this.
"Meet me at 4 then. See ya!"
You sauntered past him, waving as you made your way towards the exit.
No way.
I have a date!
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Teach a Bot to Kiss: Ratchet PT2
Tumblr made me post it in two parts
Part one
"Frag." He cups his servo behind you and leans close, trying to see if there was any permanent damage. "Damn Ratchet!" you rub the spot , already turning red, "It was just a joke." "Sorry." He uses his thumb to brush your hair back, "You okay?" "Yeah…. well`" You chuckle. He doesn't like the gleam in your eyes, "It hurts. Can you kiss it better?" Cheeky.
You're too busy chuckling at his reaction to realize him leaning closer. Ratchet is a Medic so he is used to being careful. Delicate procedures, delicate patients. The press of his metal mesh to your forehead cuts your chuckles off and you go still till he pulls away. The thumb under your chin isn't meant to feel so intimate, but he feels your hands rest on it as he raises your face to look at him. You stunned. Sensors noting the heat in your cheeks. "There. Better?" You swallow, fingers flexing their hold on him, "I dunno… I think I may need another." Oh… cheeky. "I suppose that means humans heal with kisses?" Ratchet scoffs and presses another to your forehead. Your hand on the edge of his helm stops the Medic from pulling away. You couldn't really do anything to stop him, but Ratchet indulges you. Remaining close. This tenderness seems to wake something in you. Or breaks something. You seem so tired before him now. the humor gone from your eyes and replaced with a longing. For what, he couldn't say. "I… I don't know if you really feel anything for me Ratchet," He can see your eyes watering. Lip trembling, "I don't know if I feel anything for you. But I'm really far from home." Ratchet knew what you were saying. Asking for, without asking. Comfort. Being so far from what you knew, from those you knew. Not handling it as well as he thought.
He vents softly, digits curling around you. This didn't need to mean anything, he thinks to himself, metal lips pressing to your cheek. Kissing away the first tear. You turn, lips pressing to the corner of his mouth, seeking. Ratchet remains still. It's delicate, barely felt, like your weight in his hand. This doesn't have to mean anything but comfort. Nothing but soothing an ache, he tells himself as the opposite cheek receives another kiss.
He's never kissed anyone before, Bot or human, but he saw enough media while on earth. This seemed the right way to do it. Cheek, cheek, forehead. Servo wrapped around your body. It's not a lot. You don't need a lot. The last kiss to your forehead lingers and you sigh as he pulls you against his chassis. This doesn't need to leave this room. This didn't need to mean anything. Just a bit of comfort.
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zeamaysblog · 2 days ago
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I see people saying this but I don't think Donovan necessarily has to know Twilight is a spy at this point. Consider if his powers work like Anya's, it means he can only read people's surface level thoughts, and only on activation.
If you go back to Chapter 38 (Loid & Donovan's first meeting) you see Donovan doesn't really seem that interested in what Loid is saying, kind of blowing him off until after Loid agrees with him that "People will never truly be sympathetic with each other." After that point, Loid doesn't have any more thoughts about 'how he's a spy,' so if we assume Donovan didn't start reading his mind until after Loid said that, his identity is actually still safe.
Donovan as a politician probably gets hounded by dozens of people every day, I doubt he goes out of his way to read the minds of every single person he meets, after all.
This would also explain why Loid's cover hasn't been blown yet, as the alternative explanation is that Donovan knows Loid's a spy (or at least a conniving man trying to extract information out of him) who's infiltrated Eden's schools and for some reason Donovan chooses to do nothing with that information, not even seeming a little bit interested. For a man characterized as being "careful," that seems like a rather careless action to take.
That's all the Watsonian explanation of course, but the Doylist one is that having Donovan already know Loid's identity basically invalidates the entire plot of the story and renders everything that's been done so far pointless.
Here's how I see this going down: Anya realizes that since Donovan has telepathy, Operation Strix is almost instantly doomed, and Loid interacting with Donovan again is sure to get him killed. Anya then hatches a plot to convince Loid telepathy is real and possibly teach him a way to counteract it like Demetrius does. This might end up requiring an Anya identity reveal, but maybe not. We might also see some flashbacks from Anya's time at Apple and how she came to get telepathy.
Well, seems like something that was just a theory before has come very close to truth...
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Because of this major revelation, I wanted to take a deep dive into what we know about Donovan so far and how hints throughout past chapters could indeed indicate that he can read minds. While we still don't have concrete proof for this other than Melinda's word, I don't believe there's anything that discredits this idea, either. In fact, many things throughout the series support it.
First we have Loid's encounter with Donovan way back in chapter 38. I always found it strange that we never got insight into Donovan's thoughts throughout that whole exchange. We always get to know what characters are thinking, even without Anya's mind-reading support. It's not an uncommon storytelling mechanic in general after all, especially for manga. Yet, Endo chose not to give us any insight into what Donovan was thinking. I figured this was simply to avoid spoiling anything about what his exact plans and motives are for future stories (also why Anya was absent for this). But now it seems like this could have also been to hide the fact that he can read minds. If he can read minds, certain things he said during that exchange take on a more ominous meaning. For example, what he said below about how people can never truly understand each other.
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It's been a headcanon of mine that the reason why Anya, and perhaps Donovan, were given mind-reading powers, stemmed from the desire for world peace...the idea being that if people could read each other's minds - in other words, always know what others are thinking and feeling, sympathy and understanding would abound.
We learn later on that Donovan had ideas like this even as a kid when he made a similar comment during his debate competition speech. He said that it's impossible to know the true intentions of others so people will forever doubt each other, thus war is inevitable.
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We also have the little detail in today's chapter that Donovan did not have the scars on his head during Melinda's flashback (of course, he didn't have them as a kid in chapter 99 either).
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Now this is totally my theory, but if we take Melinda's words as the truth, without any misunderstanding, then sometime in Donovan's adult life after he married and had a child, he was experimented on and was given mind-reading powers, perhaps by force but most likely by choice. Now that he has these powers, his laments about people not being able to understand each other are no longer true, at least not for him. Perhaps the experiments done on Anya were preliminary tests that he put together to perfect the mind-reading implementation science before actually doing it to himself. Again, totally just speculation, but not out of the question.
Then we have Demetrius...we learned in chapter 93 that Anya has trouble reading his mind.
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If we put that together with Melinda's comment in today's new chapter, that Demetris also took note of Donovan being able to read minds...
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...then perhaps Demetrius conditioned himself to think in ways that would make it difficult for his mind to be read, specifically to thwart the "alien" that's impersonating his father. I mentioned last time that I don't think Donovan is actually an alien, and that this description is the only explanation Melinda could come up with to explain his mind-reading powers. If this is true though, it really does make the Desmond dinner scene all the more telling...that throughout all those panels without dialogue, Donovan was absorbing the deepest inner thoughts of his family members (and again, no insight into his own thoughts, just like in chapter 38).
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But if the "Donovan can read minds" theory holds true, then the most disturbing idea of all is that Donovan knows that Twilight is a spy. He knows that he's the target of Twilight's mission, and that Twilight seeks to thwart him. Not only that, but depending on what he's read of Damian and Melinda's minds, he knows that they're fond of Anya and Yor, respectively - people who are close to Twilight. Mind-reading powers in the hands of a child are one thing, but in the hands of a shrewd and power political figure...I'm both excited and anxious to find out what Donovan's next move will be!
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coffeebooksrain18 · 2 days ago
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Just saw this post and wow I'm disgusted.
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So usually I don't do this type of thing as I find it weird but I wasn't gonna reblog this person because I'm someone doesn't want drama. Also for anyone wondering I have blocked them because I don't like their page and mostly because of this post.
So let's start!
Viserys didn't get "bad vibes" he was a neglectful father who forced these children onto his 14 year old wife and then left her. I don't want want here that he was king or that they weren't Aemma’s. Because firstly we know Viserys was there for Rhaenyra so obviously he can find time for his children he just chooses not to do so with the green children. Also the whole they weren't from Aemma argument is funny to me as in the book it is heavily implied Viserys was cheating on Aemma with Alicent (also implied she didn't want it) so obviously it isn't that they aren't from Aemma.
Next this sentence alone shows how TBs can't understand Aegons character. They hate Alicent for hitting him but then want him hit more? Make it make sense. Also yes Alicent hitting Aegon is awful. But you need to keep in mind each time she does she's in high stress situations and we see she wants to hurt Viserys instead. Ie Rhaenyra trying to betroth Helaena to Jace, Aemond losing his eye, Aegon raping a maid. I'm not excusing these actions as they are wrong, I'm only stating you need to see the whole picture before judging the painting.
I truly believe Luc shouldn't have taken Aemonds eye I don't care how scared he was it was cruel and uncalled for. I don't care if he was 6 he had enough time to notice Jace threw sand into Aemonds eye before slicing Aemonds face. Plus he didn't even try and aim for a arm or leg because he could've from where he was on the ground. He chose to stand up and slice Aemonds eye as he already couldn't see to defend himself and I will always say Luc is in the wrong and should have been punished for what he did.
I have made many posts about Helaena, in fact I made one today. But let's go over this again. Helaena had no reason to run to Rhaenyra. She had no reason to trust her nor did Rhaenyra have reason to trust Helaena. Helaena is MARRIED to Aegon, that is her Brother, her Husband, and the Father of her children. I don't care how you all think it was Helaena did the right thing. She chose the people who loved her and cared for her over a woman who in book bad mouthed her and ridiculed her and her siblings in front of all the court.
Now I am done with my rant have a nice day.
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kurohe · 8 hours ago
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Things you can do to actively participate in the revolution
Here's the list ! I know some of those will look really silly, i promise they are not. And obviously, this is not a checklist, you don't have to do everything. But they're steps that you can absolutely take if you wish to, and they WILL help.
1) Let's start off with a very easy one you can do right now: stop using Chrome. It's a google owned browser, and it sents all of your data towards it. Mozilla is a very good replacement, but almost anything will do, really. This may sound a little dumb, but you are revolting against capitalism as a whole, and this is a good first step ! 2) Start stealing things from supermarkets and malls. I am not kidding. Little things, that aren't really monitored: a can of food, a lighter, a pair of socks. Condiments are particularly easy to hide in bags or pockets. Steal hygiene products, steal food. Remember that you should have access to those for free, and you don't because a few rich guys don't want you to. Additional tip: airports and train station stores are very easy to steal from, because they're so busy. But don't put yourself in danger. Check beforehand if they check bags at checkout, look out for employees that might notice what you're doing. Don't be reckless. 3) In the same line, if you see someone stealing anything from a big store, no you didn't. 4) I know a lot of people are scared of disrespecting rules. By fear of being caught, or by guilt. My advice is: start disrespecting stupid, meaningless rules. I don't have specific exemples, but you'll encounter them and wonder why you're doing that. Stop doing it. This will train you to be able to disobey autority way easier. 5) Put stickers everywhere. If you already have them, go ham. Especially on public property (lamposts are amazing). If you don't, buy them from artists or independant stores, not big brands. If you cannot afford them, remember that you can simply write stuff on an A4 paper and plaster it to walls. Or even post its ! 6) Carry a sharpie with you at all time, the big black ones. If you see propaganda, scribble it out. Keep a look out for terfs stickers, maga posters, etc. Also good for getting rid of transphobic and sexist stuff written on public restroom stalls ! 7) Buy locally. This means going to the market or small stores, and thrifting your clothes. If you can't for money or accessibility reasons, try trading with your friends, family and neighbours. Get communication going in your circles, and you'll realise there are a lot of things that you can simply trade with or buy from people around you. Like a jar of jam against some eggs, or a pair of socks for a t-shirt you don't wear anymore !
8) Learn how to sew. I know, that sounds dumb ! But i promise you, not only will it be amazing to trade with other people ("i'll sew back ur shirt and in exchange, you give me a can of peaches !"), corporations also haaaate when you know how to fix your clothes. Because they want you to buy more. You'll spend a lot less money if you know how to fix em 9) If you have the space and the money, grow your own food, and share it or sell it around you. Be careful, some assholes will call the FDA on you. Do that with people you trust. Additional tip: growing vegetables and fruits can be a real nightmare. You can absolutely start by just growing some basil or mint :) 10) Organise. Join leftist groups online, even if it's just to see what's being said, you don't even need to interact. Follow creators, repost and share their content. By doing that, you'll stay informed on group movements like strikes, protests and boycotts, which you can then participate in. It's very important you're connected to other ppl and the movements that are started ! 11) Unionize. I'm very sorry I don't know the exact way unions work in the US, but if you can, join one. They will help you in times of needs, especially if you're a student or a worker. If you're not sure how to do that, absolutely ask around to people you know are very active politically, around you or online. People will help. 12) Stay. Informed. Follow independant papers and news outlet. If you can afford it, give them a dollar or two. They are fighting everyday for access to unbiased information for all, and sadly, their independance means that they rely almost entirely on donations and people simply engaging with what they put out. If you can't access those: do not get your news from TV. Ever. Or anywhere else that has been bought by the far right. Sadly, the majority of TV channels are just the worst. And, most importantly: fact check. All of the time.
13) Share that information. Talk to those you trust and who are ready to listen to you, and tell them about what's happening. Get angry with them. Revolution stems from people coming together and realising that they're being used and profited off of. Share videos and posts relating to politics, especially informative videos. 14) Go to protests ! If you've never been, i know it can be scary. But you can stay in the middle (don't go all the way to the front, that's where stuff can get heated) and scream and walk with everyone else. You'll meet people who, like you, want things to change. Capitalism wants you to stay as unconnected to others as possible, and that's a great way to fight that. Sometimes, there are sites that have a planning for all protests happening in a city. Look up if one exists for yours 15) Create and strenghten community. I know i really struggled with this one, because it's so vague. But here's a few places you can start: -Go and introduce yourself to your neighbours, if you deem it safe. Give them a little gift if you can afford it, like a pack of pasta. -Make new friends, even if they aren't deep friendships. You need connections. Online or irl, both are fine- don't stay isolated. -If you already have community, go check on them right now. Ask your friends how they're doing, and if they need anything- ask how they're being impacted by what's happening right now politically. 16) Look for ways to fuck over the institutions in easy ways. One example that went around tumblr a lot is letting dandelions grow in your backyard, because landlords fucking hate it. If you work in retail or fast food, cheat. Accidentally forget to scan the diapers. Put in 7 nuggets instead of 6. 17) Engage in art. MAKE art. Music, shitty paint drawings, craft, anything as long as you're being creative. Share it. If you feel like you can't do that, then support artists. Make a point to look up cool illustrations, and new music. Go to the cinema. If you're an artist currently in an underpaid office job, please, by the love of god, be creative during office hours. You're underpaid, they do not deserve your full time and attention. Take 30 minutes to write that snippet you've been thinking about. (and actually, if you're underpaid at all: do the minimum required. So that you can't be fired, but that's it. Any more effort is not worth it. Companies will never be thankful for what you do.) 18) Look up books that your state banned, and go read them. You can get them secondhand, or as pdfs online. (if anyone needs ressources, i will glady look for and share them.) And, actually, read books in general if you can. Yes, fanfics count !
19) Seek education. There's a lot of youtube channels out there talking about educational subjects in a fun way. Some things the rich assholes who run the country specifically don't want you to learn more about are: biology, history and archeology, social and economic sciences. GO LEARN ABOUT THOSE. The people in power don't want you to be educated. It's why they eviscerated the education system. 20) PIRATE. I cannot stress this enough, anything you can pirate (that isn't from small, indie creators, except if you absolutely can't afford it) do it. Download music illegally, torrent movies and games. If you want access to academical studies and papers, some writers will give them to you for free if you email them about it. There are also ways to go around paywalls. 21) Don't fall for the traps of "progressive brands". Lately, i've seen a lot of praise for Ben and Jerry's for openly supporting lgbtq rights and being globally anti-trump. They are still a brand. Avoid buying from any big names when you can. That being said, if you have to, check beforehand which ones and what their history is. Some are more evil than others. Additional tip: a lot of brands you see in stores are actually owned by bigger brands. One prime example of this is Nestle, who are fucking evil, but they own a shitload of other big names. Be careful what you buy. 22) I hate to say this, but be prepared to defend yourself. Revolutions are never peaceful. You will get in danger. If you can, get in ok physical shape. If you can't, buy a gun. (Remember Alabama has a 99% acceptation rate, you can get one in 10 minutes.) I hate firearms, but the enemy will have them too. Arm yourself. If none of those are available options to you, please, make sure you have someone around you that will be able to protect you, or a place where you can be safe. Whether you are disabled, a minor, or anything else. Don't put yourself in more danger than is necessary. 23) Last but not least, be kind. When someone cuts off a woman speaking, interrupt and give her the floor back. Shame those who think it's right to say bigoted shit in public. Listen to those around you. If you can't act, then remember to always have empathy for the homeless, for drug users, for immigrants. Understand they are people just like you. You are not immune to propaganda and prejudice, no matter who you are. Always question yourself and your biases. (if you've read this far, please repost. We need this to reach as many people as possible) I want to remind you that you're not alone. I know things seem hopeless, but the simple fact that you're reading this is proof it's not. I don't live in the US, but i'm supporting you as best i can from where i am, and sending you strenght. If you have any questions, do ask away. I'll end on this image that's very dear to me:
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arc-misadventures · 9 hours ago
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Friends AU side story: How does Jaune react to a Whit thanking him for the advice for his date with Fiona, and how are the Happy Huntresses dealing with a bubbly Fiona bragging about her date with Whit?
The New Hot Couple
Jaune was at the, Schnee Manor, he was waiting on, Whitely to come by to check on his progress on his new exercise regimes. But, he was tacking a while so, he decided to do some warmups by doing some simple pushups.
Jaune: One... Two... Three... Four... Fi...?
Whitely: Jaune!
Jaune: Whit, you're late, where were you? Ten... Eleven...
Whitely: Oh, sorry... I-I was just talking with, Fio.
Jaune: Oh? Fifteen... Fio? Sixteen... You mean, Fiona right? Seventeen...
Whitely: Yeah, I meant, Fiona. She calls me, Whit, so I call her, Fio. I thought she would be upset when I called her that, but she really likes it when I called her that!
Jaune: Forty... Pet names? Forty one... You better be careful, Whit. Forty two... You may be rushing into things, you don't want to jump down a hill only to realize you've jumped down into a gorge now do you? Forty eight...
Whitely: We're being slow. We don't want to rush things, sure we're at second base, but we're no where close to going to third base.
Jaune: Fifty...?! T-Third base? Whitely, you two have only gone on two dates, and you've already kissed her?!
Whitely: W-W-What!? We haven't kissed?! We haven't even held hands yet either!
Jaune: You haven't...?! Haa... Oh gods, Whitely... If you two haven't kissed yet that means your not even at first base!
Whitely: Wait, kissing is first base?
Jaune: Yes. Fifty two...
Whitely: T-Then what's third base?
Jaune: Fifty three... Second base is physical touching... Fifty four... Typically above the waist. Fifty five... Third base is physical touching, only this time it is below the waist. Fifty seven...
Whitely: B-Below the waist?!
Jaune: Or, more commonly know as getting laid. Fifty nine...
Whitely: Laid? What does that even mean...?!
Jaune: Sex, Whitely. Sixty one... Third base means you had sex. Sixty two...
Whitely: S-S-S-SEX?! W-We even haven't held hands yet?! Let alone kissed?! W-We're no where even close to having sex!?
Jaune: Sixty four... That's obvious, ya blushing virgin. Sixty five...
: SEX?! Whitely, what the hell are you talking about?!
Whitely: Ahh, it's nothing!
: Jaune! What is he talking about?!
Jaune face was mostly stuck on watching the ground as he was doing his push ups, but he didn't need to look up, and see who was emanating that cold icy rage.
Jaune: Seventy two... You better tell her, Whit. Seventy three... It won't hurt as much if you tell her yourself then it will if, Weiss finds out by accident. Seventy six...
Whitely: Okay... W-Weiss...?
Weiss: Yes?
Whitely: I... I have a... it's only been two dates... Does this count as having a girlfriend?
Weiss: A girlfriend?!
Jaune: Eighty... Ask her first if you're her boyfriend. Then you can say she's you're girlfriend. Eighty two... After the third date... Eighty three...
Weiss: Who is this 'girlfriend' you're talking about?
Whitely: Her name is, Fiona Thyme she's a sheep faunas, a huntress, a Happy Huntress actually, and she's she's really... She's really cute...
Weiss: What?! This is bullshit!
Whitely: What's bullshit about it?! I'm dating a sheep faunas, what's wrong with that?
Weiss: It's bullshit because my brother has a girlfriend, and my sister has a boyfriend, and I got nothing?!
Jaune: One hundred... Technically, Winter, and I aren't dating... One hundred, and one... I'm not sure what we are honestly. One hundred, and two...
Weiss: It still don't change the fact, they've had more action than than I've had!
Jaune: That's on you, but you don't hang out with other people to ask out on dates. Unless your secretly gay for, Ruby, or something. One hundred, and seven...
Weiss: Preposterous! I have no interest in the female form, much less, Ruby's! Although... Yang's on the other hand...?
Whitely: She's just a girl I have a crush on who I've asked out on a couple of dates. We actually have another date today this afternoon.
Weiss: You do?!
Jaune: You have another date? Then start your exercises! You need to work on building some muscles you twig! One hundred, and twenty five... And, count off out loud so I can here you!
Whitely: On it! O-One...
Weiss: ...
Whitely: T-Two...
Weiss: ...
Whitely: T-T-Three...?!
Weiss: Well, considering he never had to do any hard labour before... this is to be expected.
Jaune: Yeah, he's improved at least. One hundred, and thirty... He's capable of doing a pushup, before that... yeah. Hopefully he'll be something like me one day... One hundred, and thirty one... Granted I just keep upping the number of pushups I do because It's so easy. One hundred, and thirty...?!
: If it's so easy for you, then allow me to give you a challenge~!
Jaune: Huw? What are you planning to... GAH?!
Jaune grunted out in surprise as he felt a sudden weight upon on his back. He almost buckled, and fell when this sudden weight was placed upon him. He turned his head, and out of the corner of his eyes, and he saw what this sudden weight upon his back was, or more accurately: Who.
Jaune: What the...?! Winter, what are you doing?!
Winter: Giving you a challenged: Now start counting, Specialist Arc.
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Jaune: Grr...! Yes, Ma'am! One... Two... Three... Four... Five... Six...
Whitely: Is this flirting?
Weiss: It's certainly looks like flirting... or, at least some kind of flirting?
Whitely: Do you think I could do this one day?
Weiss: Try to get at least one proper push up done, before you plan on picking up a girl, little brother.
Whitely: What? I could totally do it!
Weiss: Not unless you're as buff as, Jaune is. I mean look at him! He's doing push ups without sister on his back, and he's barely breaking a sweat!
Winter: What?! Are you taking this easy, Specialist Arc?!
Jaune: Twenty... No, Ma'am! Twenty one... Twenty two...
Winter: Then why isn't this more of a struggle for you, Specialist Arc?!
Jaune: Because, Ma'am. Twenty four... My grandfather told me that to be a, Huntsmen is to hold up the weight of the world on you! Twenty five... It's just...
Jaune turned his head to smile at, Winter.
Jaune: He never told me that the world would be so light~!
Winter: Eeep?!
A fierce blush spread across her face as she reeled back in shock.
Winter: W-Where do you get off saying something like that?!
Winter smacked, Jaune's head, startling him, and causing him to loose his balance, and drop down on his face.
Jaune: GAH?!
(Smash!)
Winter: Oh no?! Jaune?!
Whitely: Oh? That was smooth! I should remember that line...
Weiss: What?! Winter gets that kind of pick up line?! Where was this when he was flirting with me back in, Beacon?! This is totally unfair!
~~~
Back at the, Happy Huntresses 'secret' base a trio of, Huntresses watched as their resident faunas, a sheep faunas named, Fiona Thyme humming a too as she skipped about with a smile across her face.
RJM: ...
Fiona: Hmm~! Hmm~! Hmm~! Hm-Hmm~!
May: Sus?
Joanna: Sus.
May: Sus.
Robyn: Very sus.
The trio of huntresses walk towards their resident faunas, and fanned out, around her coming in from three separate angles of attack.
Fiona: Hmm~! Hmm~! Hmm...? Oh! Hey guys~! What's... what's up...?
The sheep faunas, lived up to their nature as she cowered under the gaze of three angry wolves staring down the defenseless little lamb.
Fiona: G-G-Guys...? W-W-What's wrong...?
May: She's happy...
Robyn: Too happy...
Fiona: Uhh...
Joanna: It reminds me of when, Robyn was happy...
May: Happy... Just as happy when, Jaune kissed her...
Joanna: But, even more so...
Fiona: Uhh...?
Robyn: That means she is happy because of something romantic...
May: Something romantic with that, Schnee boy.
Fiona: Uhh...?!
Joanna: But, the question remains then... Why is she so happy?
Robyn: A date...
May: Hmm?
Robyn: She's so happy, because she has a date~!
Fiona: UHHHHHHH?!
RJM: Tell what's going on!
Fiona: EEP?! I have a date! I have a date with, Whitely later today!
Robyn: I knew it!
May: She has a date?!
Joanna: Okay, lady spill the beans!
Fiona: H-He asked me on a date, a-and we're going to the carnival being held in, Unity Square! He's never been to a carnival before, s-so he asked me to go on a date with him to the carnival! A-And, I haven't gone to one in years, so I'm looking forward to this date with, Whitely!
Joanna: Okay... second question: Why, Whitely Schnee?
Fiona: Huw?
Robyn: Yeah, that's a good question. I still don't understand why your so... enamored with a, Schnee?
Fiona: Whitely! His name is Whitely!
May: She's defending him, and with such vitrail at that?
Joanna: She's fallen for him hard~!
Robyn: But, why? I mean... Whitely Schnee is the son of that bastard, Jacques Schnee? Why are you so interested in him?
Fiona: He may be, Jacques Schnee's son, but he is not his father! He may have been influenced by his father at first, but he is growing as a person, and is a kind, caring person. He wants to know what is afflicting the people of, Mantle so he, and his mother can help them. The SDC is getting ride of all the corruption it once had, and are now working to better help the people. And, Whitely is the heir apparent to the, SDC so he is making, Mantle, and Atlas a better place!
Fiona: He's kind, sweet, and a caring person! Sure I may be a bit older than him... but, he is more mature for his age! And, he's really cute little skinny twig~! I like, Whitely for who he is, not what he stands for! And, as angry as you, and others may be, I am going to keep dating him for as long as I wanted to!
Fiona: Besides... It's kinda nice to know that the worlds enemy of all the faunas son is dating a faunas... Honestly... I find that kinda hot~!
RJM: ...
Robyn: Fuck, she's got it bad...
Fiona: Huw?
Joanna: You got it bad for him girl~!
May: And, it is kinda hot that the enemy of all faunas son is dating one.
Robyn: Can you imagine it, the two of them get married, and the next head of the SDC is a faunas! Talking about pissing all over, Jacques' legacy!
Joanna: Oh gods that would be the peak of petty revenge!
May: The bastard would be rolling in his grave!
Fiona: A faunas as the head of the, SDC...? Having, Whitely's baby...? W-We're a little young for that guys!
May: Uhh, what?
Fiona: It's a little too fast for that too! I mean... I haven't held his hand yet, we haven't had our first kiss yet?! And, your recommend that I should have his babies?!
Joanna: N-No, Fiona! We're just saying how funny it would be if a faunas became the next head of the, SDC!
Fiona: But, Whitely is so cute~! Having a little mini version of him, with sheep ears... Oh, that would be so adorable~!
Fiona cupped her cheeks as a blush spread across her face as her mind ran wild with adorable little fantasies. Leaving the rest of the members of the, Happy Huntresses to look on in utter bewilderment.
RMJ: ...
May: Oh shit... she's gone baby crazy...
Joanna: Way to go, Robyn.
Robyn: Wha? Why are you blaming me?!
May: You are the one who lost it when you learned, Jaune was a father!
Robyn: N-No I did not.
Joanna: You two got into a heated debate with her on who would get his next kid!
Robyn: You heard that?!
May: EVERYONE DID?!
Robyn: Oh... Ohh shit...
///
I've done it, @lar-mx took a while, but I made a post with this photo! I even edited so his eyes would be blue!
Side note: What would be a good ship name for, Whitely x Fiona?
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dunmeshistash · 16 hours ago
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ive always wondered if milsiril's overprotectiveness of kabru was less because of infantilisation (although she def like all elves has that problem) and more so out of guilt. she was a captain of the canaries during the Utaya incident I believe and she witnessed what happened and she couldn't stop it. and she left the canaries because of it and took in the kid who was the Only survivor, raised him in extreme comfort so he'd never see the horrors again and didn't want him anywhere near the dungeons! like i think learning self defense for defenses sake would have made her hesitant but she would have obliged but because it was specifically for the dungeons she was so against it. also like he must have had a rough few years dealing with that trauma as well which doubled her protectiveness
I believe it's a mixture of both, I don't think you can really take away the guilt (actually unsure if that's the best word to describe it) nor the race relations from how Milsiril sees Kabru.
I am the Milsiril apologist ™ but the fact she see's Kabru as a child even now is a big part of their relationship, she's a mother that can't grow up (both for being an elf and for her own issues) and that has to cope with her children outgrowing her fast
Putting a read more cause as usual when it's about Milsiril I talk too much
We can see in every way Milsiril acts that she sees Kabru at most as a toddler during his time with her, she's hand feeding him, has him in a room full of toys and talks about him like he's a cute baby.
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I think people are too mean about this side of Milsiril tbh. I think it makes her interesting and it's clear (to me at least) that she does her best to provide for her children even if she doesn't truly understands them. Even in that first interaction with Kabru where she's trying to hand feed him they were *already* training with swords beforehand.
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Milsiril also talks to Kabru in a way that kinda seems to expect him to understand more than what a small child would like we can see in the AB extra
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So her infantilization doesn't extend to underestimating him at least, rather I think that's how she shows affection (which is still bad 😭)
Anyway, about her trauma with the dungeon and guilt (or maybe shame? Fear?), I do think that was one of the motivations for her to take Kabru in as I said in this post (beware I am a Milsiril apologist and I am VERY biased in seeing her in a more positive light, doesn't mean it's true) but I think that side of her manifests in her sudden switches from crybaby mom to ruthless master
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Milsiril is very emotionally unstable from what we can see, she's really trying to convince Kabru not to go into dungeons and when tears don't work she switches into training him so hard he'll give up on his own. I've seen people call this her "true colors" or say she was using "crocodile tears" but in my opnion both the tears and the threat are genuine, I don't think it's a planned switch but rather the fact she's unstable to begin with, both the crybaby mom and the scary swords master are her true self.
Anyway! I think both guilt and infantilization are intertwined in her love towards Kabru, I've said this before but she's a flawed caretaker in a world where she does not have the resources to become a better one. She's traumatized she's depressed and she's an elf, but she's the only one (that we know) willing to at least *try* to treat the people she cares for the correct way. If it wasn't for Milsiril Kabru would have been raised by elves like Rin was (and we know that went very bad, they traumatized her), and Mithrun might not have received the proper rehab he needed to go back into the canaries (He might have managed but we see Milsiril put in the effort to help him cope besides being the one to tell him about Utaya)
That is all to say: Milsiril is still flawed!! It's part of what I love about her, and it's the reason so many people dislike her too. I'm saying this cause sometimes when I go on my Milsiril rants I get asks putting down Kabru to raise her up and that's like, very uncomfortable lmao. Even if she did her best he still was the one that to deal with all of her shortfallings while being raised and he's still the one responsible for getting to where he is, she just made is easier than it could have been.
Disclaimer as is usual for my Milsiril posts: I'm a Milsiril fan, my interpretations of her are very charitable because I often see people being way too uncharitable about her. Please read the original material and make up your own interpretation, this posts only contain what I think it's relevant for my point not an objective view of the whole. I've also already made several posts about her and I don't want to keep repeating myself so if you think I glossed over something important that's probably why.
Edit: thinking more about it, maybe rather than feeling guilty herself she might blame "elves" as a whole for the failure in Utaya, it does say she left it "in disgust". It's not that clear how she feels about it.
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I still think it's shared trauma though, I don't think it's possible for Milsiril to not have been affected by what happened there and I think it's part of why she doesn't want Kabru to go to dungeons again. But her way to cope is to turn away from it (and blaming "elves" might be part of how she copes) while Kabru's is to face it so it doesn't happen again
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