#i literally cried in the first song so I don’t blame them

[iamchickenhearmesquawk]

Anyone whose still on their asses about all the crying in the interviews clearly haven’t held space for the ozdust dance scene smh.

[igotanidea]

Lollipop: Dick Grayson x kid!sister!reader

(part 1 of 4 for the batboys x sister!reader)

This was not supposed to end up like this.

At least at first, cause it was showing signs of impending tragedy.

He was only going to be gone for like 15 minutes with the best intentions of getting his little sister the biggest lollipop available at the fair shop.

And the fact that this beautiful girl was standing there casually, throwing glances his way had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Yes, he was flirty chatty, I mean – can you seriously blame a man with his look and charm? No right? No, of course not.

But, being the responsible older brother, he grabbed his sister and carried her piggyback straight to the shop, while cracking jokes and making the five-year old laugh softly, in the way only little kids can. Literally lighting up his entire world and having a great brother-sister bonding.

„So. Which one of the lollipops would you like Y/N?”

„That one!” she pointed her little fingers to the red and yellow piece of Candy on the display.

„Sure thing, little one, let me handle it for you.”

„Your daughter is so cute…” the girl Dick had an eye on, appeared next to him, flipping her hair flirtatiously, flashing him a bright smile.

Daughter?!

Shit.

Did he look that old that someone might take Y/N for his daughter?!

Was his hair going grey or something?

Did he have wrinkles?

He wasn’t even 30 yet and now he was appearing as a father figure?!

He loved that kiddo, he truly did, but this?

Too much.

„She;s actually my sister” he managed to say even though there was a whirlwind of emotions inside him.

WAS HE OLD NOW?!

„Oh, so cute. And you’re on the babysitter duties I guess?”

„Something like that.”

„Dick!” Y/N squirmed on his shoulders getting impatient and wanting her sweet.

Under any other circumstances in any other company that little word coming out of the word of a five year old would be completely Innocent and harmless, however Y/N had no idea what kind of reaction it may get from a – well- stranger.

“Did you teach her such language?!” the girl frowned in rebuke.

“What?” Dick chuckled nervously “No, no, you don’t understand, this is not a curse, it’s—”

“It sounds like one to me.”

“No!” Dick grinned “It’s actually my name!”

“Your name?” the girl raised an eyebrow “Are you for real right now?”

“Dick!” Y/N cried out again, wriggling so hard she almost fell from his shoulders, but due to some miracle he caught her safely, torn between wanting to smooch her cute little face and hiding her somewhere so she wouldn’t embarrass him even more. “Shh, kiddo. The adults are talking.”

“But I want –”

“I know little one, but if you could just give me five minutes—” Dick held his sister tight to his chest, whispering in his ear but she was not going to take his mysteriousness.

“Hi!” she turned around in her brother’s arms and called upon the girl “you’re pretty.” Her words were only as honest as a kid can be. No filter, no hesitation, no embarrassment and no overthinking.

“Well thank you. I’m Elle.”

“I’m Y/N.” the little girl reached her hand to the older one, squeezing it with the most stern face she could produce still being the cutest human being to walk the earth. “And that’s my brother, Dick. Dick! Come say hi to Elle!”

“That really is your name?”

“It’s Richard actually. But everyone just call me Dick. No subtext, I swear!” he laughed seeing Elle’s sceptic face expression.

“He’s my favorite brother!” Y/N clung to his legs, wrapping those tiny arms around them “yesterday he braided my hair and all the girls in the kindergarten were looking at me with jealousy!”

It was more likely shock, cause “braided” in Dick’s dictionary meant doing so many complex swirls that the complicated hairstyle seemed to stay on the head only by a miracle.

“And he watched all episodes of Dora the explorer with me! He even learned the song, come on Dickie!!” Y/N pulled his trouser leg “come on, sing with me! Jump in! ¡Vámonos! You can lead the way! Hey! Hey!” every exclamation mark was highlighted by the girl's joyful jump.

“Hey! Hey!” Dick grinned getting carried away by the cheerful melody and only after a while realizing that he must be making a fool of himself. “Yeah… um….”

“My brothers love that cartoon too.” Ellie smiled

“Oh, you have brothers?” now that was something the resident flirt could pursue “may it be that they are Y/N’s age?”

“Five and three. Do you think maybe they could hang out?”

“Oh, I absolutely think they could hang out.” Right, because it was all about the younger siblings. “Care to give me your phone number so we can arrange the da--… I mean the acknowledgement?”

Five minutes later Ellie said her goodbye and Dick was left with the very valuable number saved safely in his phone.

“Great job Y/N.” he put his hand up (not too high) so the girl could high (again- not too high) five him.

“Duh!” she scoffed with the face of a girl boss. “But seriously, you should up your game Dick!”

“Up my--? WHAT?! Where did you heard that?!”

“Uncle Wally—”

“Uncle Wally will not get fast enough to run from me now.” Dick hissed

“Hey, Dick?”

“Yeah, Yeah, I know, let’s get you that lollipop first, my little diva. You deserve it.”

He picked her up from the ground and spun joyfully in the air.

Who would have thought that he would actually be the oldest brother to such a tiny precious human, serving perfect role as her guardian angel.

[initiumseries]

again ship bangle all you like but angel is a predator and if you wanna believe his love for buffy reforms him great but that doesn’t erase his past crimes. that’d be like saying bill compton’s rapes are all ok because we didn’t explicit scenes or hear pam or lenora outright say the word.

"Anonymous asked:

It is implied many times and it’s confirmed in ats. when he was angelus he raped women, he definitely raped dru. and you don’t need to ship smudgy or sprusilla to know this you just need to like dru and not need to have shit that is implied several times spelled out for you"

Ok. I'm pointing out you did not answer my question. So I'll help you:

BTVS and AtS as shows are not particularly subtle even in their implications. A couple examples: in Lie to Me (s02 ep07), Buffy talks about how Ford's rejection of her meant she cried in her room listening to the song "I Touch Myself", and then quickly covers up that she didn't know what the song was about.

Everyone's moved on and then Willow realizes what the song is about without saying what it's about - that's basically how the show handles implication. Another example is in Beauty and the Beasts (s03e04), it's heavily implied that Debbie is in an abusive relationship with Pete. Her dialogue with Oz uses the language of an abused woman, as it does with Willow and Buffy when they confront her, and as so when Pete verbally berates Debbie and scares her, and she ends up comforting Pete while he still blames her for his outburst. They use Pete turning into a *literal* monster to supernaturalify the realities of abusive relationships for teens, and we only see Pete hit and eventually kill Debbie when he's in his monster form. This is how the show, especially when Buffy herself is still a teen, handles mature themes. Or silly one-liners like in Amends, when Joyce says "Angel's on top again?" the implication here is clear.

That being said, back to Lie to Me. In this episode, it's the first time we hear Angel's description of his torment of Drusilla. He very specifically says, he made her a vampire, but first he made her insane. Killed everybody she loved, visited every mental torture on her he could devise. And the day she took her holy orders, he turned her into a demon. He describes Drusilla as pure and sweet and chaste (and I think it's this word that's tripping you dingbats up), but that's not at all an implication of rape. Because a show like BTVS would be *a lot clearer* about that implication. Especially considering the context (uh oh a bad word) in which this confession about Dru takes place. It's called Lie to Me, and Angel had lied to Buffy earlier about staying at home when she'd seen him with Drusilla. Buffy is struggling to figure out who to trust and this moment is meant to be bring her and Angel closer - it's the first time she admits to loving him - by his being honest with her. Now does it make sense that if Angel is saying he raped Dru that Buffy would feel she could trust him? Let's use our brains.

Like this is literally the point of the episode.

Let's get back to the chaste thing. It's followed up in AtS when Darla brings Drusilla to Angel's attention, that she knows he likes them pure, because what sets Angel apart from other vampires is the psychological torture. When Angel singles out the maid in Amends (s03e10), he uses the language of rape to scare the maid into compliance. He hasn't revealed he's a vampire to her yet, and all she knows is that he's a nobleman looking to take advantage. In this context, that is psychological torture. How many times has she or maids like her, in this time, experienced something like this? And with her mistress distracted she's vulnerable. She knows that, he says it. And only when she realizes it's futile does she give in. Only after he sees that moment of acquiescing does he reveal he's a vampire. Then she tries to use her son. Angel says he'd make a fine dessert, then he bites and kills her. Buffy sees this. He kills this woman. He doesn't rape her. A business man as the First describes how Angel killed his children and then set their bodies up to make him think they were just asleep, to add to his trauma when Angel came to kill him (he also did this with Jenny in season 2). Because it's the psychological aspect he's after. When that same maid comes back as the First, shortly after that scene, she describes Angel as "different than other beasts. They kill to feed, but you took more kinds of pleasure in it than any creature that walks or crawls." Then his friend appears, and Angel killed him the week before the wedding, because of course he would. But the *implication* you love so much is he kills people and takes great pleasure in doing so. That's got nothing to do with rape.

Now let's take the description of him as his human self - Liam. The First describes him as a "drunken, whoring layabout and a terrible disappointment to your parents". This is later expanded in AtS, but the implication here is OBVIOUS. He was a drunk, and he did a lot of whoring and was feckless/jobless/directionless. Do you know what whoring means? In that time? It meant paying prostitutes for sex. Going to pleasure dens. He paid for sex with, to our knowledge, adult women who received payment for services rendered. That's...not rape. In AtS Darla finds him fighting and flirting in a tavern and loves it. He's not raping anyone, and the maid describes him as a man who basically whispers sweet nothings in your ear, you guys have sex and then he forgets all about you. Consensual sex. The idea here, is similar to when Buffy sleeps with Parker in s04. He says all the right things, she consents to sex, and then that's where he ends the relationship. So, if that makes Liam a rapist, did Parker also rape Buffy?

In AtS, part of what Angel likes about Dru is that she'll see him killing her coming. He'll have to use care in how he tortures her. So he tortures her by killing everyone around her. Which is what he said to Buffy.

We see what Angel described in BTVS. Drusilla is made insane, sitting around a pile of bodies, in the convent, while Angel and Drusilla gorge on blood. When they're done with that, they literally have sex - together, not with Dru - right in front of her. Dru was violated, yes. Mentally. But Darla and Angel having consensual sex on and/or near Dru is not raping her.

When he gets cursed, they describe the daughter of their tribe as special and innocent and that's Angel's type. He killed her because of those things. Because it's the psychology of it all. We spend the latter quarter of season 2 BTVS seeing what kind of monster Angelus is. He tortures Buffy by killing her classmates, attacking and threatening her friends, sending her roses and leaving pictures of her mom in her bedroom - to mess her up psychologically. He has a VERY clear MO and rape isn't part of that. Again, a show like BTVS would be explicit about that, but they weren't, because that's not a part of Angelus' characterization.

But, okay, so let's say, in some world Angel was a rapist. He gets cursed with his soul and feels remorse. He is banished by Darla and then is called to show his remorse and to actively repent by being a force of good. It's literally his whole thing. He's a Champion and he talks about the burden of the guilt. Spike though? Spike never feels bad for the Buffybot, never feels bad about attacking Buffy, shows zero remorse for what he did to Robin. For godsake he is STILL WEARING ROBIN'S MOTHER'S COAT AFTER HE GETS A SOUL. Spike does not repent, he does not become a Champion working to right his wrongs. He is forgiven without ever asking for or earning forgiveness, and we watched him be a monster in real time without AND WITH a soul. So miss me with this deranged shit honestly. Y'all stay making shit up. Like that anon said. Just say you like Spike and don't care he actually on screen and with ZERO implication, just straight facts, tried to rape Buffy and keep it pushing. Stop trying to equalize him and Angel in a pathetic attempt to take bangel fans down a peg with misinformation and flat out lies.

[heeseungsnewwhore]

The Jungwon affliction is hitting a different kind of hard today. I mean not any different for me this is what I feel on a regular basis but today I’m sharing- Continue reading at your own risk 🫶 it’s a little different.

They were innocent pictures.

So innocent.

Just adorable little bed selfies.

Like literally you just saw them, that’s exactly what they are. Except they’re not. Mm-mm. Not for these eyes. Imagine the irrational amount of horny rage lusting through you as you get the notification and now you’re hopping out of your bed.

Racing out of you hotel room and rushing to sneak into his. Quickly and quietly dashing in and carefully shutting his door behind you. You look around to see him still on his back as he raises his head up with curious and confused eyes, simply humming as he looks up at you.

“What the fuck was that?” You whisper.

“What?”

“You know what.” You squint at him and he chuckles.

Sitting up in the bed enough to prop back on his elbows. Tossing his bangs out of his face.

This man…

“What are you talking about?”

You don’t say another word to him until you’re crawling into the bed with him, softly cursing him as he only giggles and tries to block you with the blankets. Failing to keep you from nestling between his legs, and at first tickling him. The man wallowing and laughing, begging and swearing up and down through his laughter that he has no idea what you’re blaming him for so you’d let him breathe and simply explain:

“Those hot as fuck pictures you jsut posted. What the fuck?” You ask again and he looks at you with oblivious doe eyes.

“What do you mean, I thought they were cute?” He asks with a pout, before clicking his tongue. “Pervert.”

“Exactly. Think I’m just gonna let you go to bed after that?” You chuckle before leaning your head down to begin pressing kisses to his neck.

He doesn’t protest, not physically but he’s verbally scolding you for thinking such a way. But it’s not long before his words are dying away into moans and whimpers and he’s sprawled on the bed. Completely naked. Bangs clinging to his forehead. His hands gripping the pillow at either side of his head. Chest heaving as he’s not even trying to keep himself quiet.

“I-ughn~…O-oh.. o-oh my…f-fu…fuck~!”

He’s crying out. Your mouth around him and three digits inside of him too much for him to say much else. Or make any other noises.

He’d literally be writhing.

His moans would be a song of their own.

And they’re desperate. Jungwons moans are so needy and desperate, and it just drives you to keep giving him what he wanted.

He loved the edging. The drawn out collaboration of pain and pleasure that was ripping its way through every fiber of his being. The way your mouth hallowed around him and slowly devoured him. The way three fingers were burying themself again and again, curling, rubbing, spreading inside his puffy hole.

This is exactly what you wanted. It wasn’t anything for you to cum just at the sight of him like this. Admiring your pattern of purple hues over perfect skin. The contorted expression of pleasure on his face. The way his back arched and how he cries out like the desperate slut of himself he only shows you. On full display, shameless and letting you do whatever you wanted to him.

All of it was yours.

With every drop of his release that fills your mouth as he’s bucking his hips wildly in a sloppy rhythm. You still yourself some, letting him use your mouth to finish his messy release. A mixture of cum and saliva squelching out past your lips and ending up a mess around your mouth and cheeks until he finally comes down and his hips collapse back into the mattress.

“Th…Th-thank you…” He says in between the cutest little fucked out moans you’ve ever heard. “I-I’m-“

“Not yet~ But not until I’ve made you cum for every one of those ‘cute’ litttle pictures you posted.”

[nefariousghoul]

Mushy May Day 4- Wound Tending/First Aid

pairings: raindrop

word count: 1456

summary: rain is still fairly new to the ministry and feels constantly criticized by dew. after another mess up in rehearsals, dew gets upset. rain runs off to the lake, where dew unexpectedly approaches him.

content warnings: fluff w some angst. brief mentions of injuries/bleeding, brief mention of yelling, rain cries a little bit

thanks to @forlorn-crows for the prompts and @ghuleh-recs for the dividers!!

It’s a brisk autumn night at the ministry. The skies were full of stars and a few stray clouds. A gentle breeze drifts through, the water moving softly with it.

Rain had just been summoned a few months prior. He was still settling into life at the ministry. His room was still bare. Aside from the basic furniture it came with, all he had in there was his bass and a few rocks he’d collected from the lake. Rehearsals started becoming more frequent with the tour coming up, and they began to run longer.

Rain always blamed himself for rehearsals running much later than usual. He just couldn’t get the songs down. He wasn’t as confident as Swiss or Dew on stage. He’d fumble the notes during the same part of Miasma every time, and he would lose tempo, causing the whole band to stop playing.

Dew had become fed up with Rain’s mistakes, causing him to act out briefly. Yelling at Rain, asking him why he couldn’t get the rhythm down and if he was dumb, until he stormed off, leaving the rest of the ghouls on stage in a stunned silence. Rain's eyes began to burn as he quickly and quietly put his bass back in its case before leaving the room.

He didn’t understand why Dew was so upset with him all the time. Rain had only ever been kind. The rest of the pack had taken a liking to rain, all except dewdrop. No matter what Rain did Dew always seemed to be mad at him for it. He couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong, and it frustrated him beyond belief.

That’s where he found himself now. He ran and ran through the forest behind the ministry, falling a few times as he tripped on a few stray branches, until he reached the lake. He approached slowly, his chest heaving. He walked until he reached the edge of the dock, sitting down and letting his feet rest in the water.

He kept his gaze down, watching the water ripple as his feet swayed beneath it. He took in a deep breath as he focused on the water. Being in his element helped him calm down and made him feel whole. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, staring, before the tears started to fall. He brought a hand up to wipe them away when a voice startled him from behind, causing him to jump slightly before turning to see who it was.

“Are you okay?” Dew said. his hands fidgeting with the loose threads of his shirt as he tried to meet Rain’s gaze, failing miserably.

Rain quickly wiped the tears from his face, his brows furrowing as he realized it was dewdrop that had approached him. His heartbeat quickened as he felt anxiety begin to course through him. Why was dew here? Was he going to just get mad at me again? He thought to himself. He searched Dew's face and only found concern and maybe guilt..?

He cleared his throat slightly. “Uh, yeah, I’m fine,” Rain said, giving Dew a small grin.

It was now Dew’s turn to look confused as he gave Rain a once-over, seeing that his knees were bleeding. It appeared that they had been scraped at some point.

Dew sighed. “Rain. You’re literally bleeding. You are not okay.” he said, pointing to the water ghoul’s knees.

Rain quickly followed his finger to see what he’d been pointing at, and he saw that he had in fact been bleeding. His jaw dropped slightly as he realized it must’ve happened when he was running through the trees. He looked back up at Dew.

“Oh, yeah, I guess I am.” he let out a nervous chuckle.

“I’m okay though, Dew. You don’t have to worry about me.” He gave Dew a (what he thought was) convincing smile, but Dew saw right through it.

Dew rolled his eyes before reaching his hand out to rain; his face stayed unchanged from the slightly annoyed look he always wore. Rain looked up at him with furrowed brows. His palms began to grow sweaty as he tried to figure out why Dew had come to check on him. He hadn’t shown Rain an ounce of kindness since he was summoned.

“What?” Rain stuttered out, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes searched Dew’s looking for some kind of hate behind them, only to find a soft hint of genuine concern.

“C’mon. Gotta get ya back to the den.” Dew muttered. His tone was the same ornery one as always. “It’s getting late. i-“ he stuttered. “They’re worried about you, waterlily.” Dew’s cheeks flushed softly as he realized his little slip-up. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, missing the gentle tug at Rain's lips.

Rain's gaze fell to his lap once more as his cheeks flushed a light purple color. He met Dew’s gaze once more, moving his hand to grab Dew's own.

Dew's eyes shot open when Rain’s hand grabbed his. the cool temperature of the water ghoul’s hand against his own making his stomach flutter. He gently tugged on Rain's arm, helping him stand before letting go, already missing his cool touch. Dew’s gaze fell to the floor as Rain slightly towered over him due to his height.

They both began making the short walk back to the ministry in an awkward but comfortable silence. The pair both stole shy glances at each other while the other looked away.

As they approached the door leading to the ghoul den, Dewdrop opened the door, bowing dramatically as Rain let out a giggle at the gesture. Dew quietly shut the door leading rain into the room. His cheeks still had a slight blush to them since his slip-up.

Dew opened the door to his room, letting rain enter first. Rain paused as he entered, taking in the contents of Dew’s room. It was cleaner than he expected and very organized. There were a few band posters here and there, a mess of music sheets piled along the desk, and his bed was made.

Dew paused, turning to face rain.

“You alright, rainy?” His blush deepened as he saw rain looking around his room.

Rain met his gaze, blushing slightly. “Oh, yeah sorry. I like your room.” he said sheepishly, walking towards him. Dew gave him a curt nod as a shy grin made its way onto his face before continuing to walk towards the attached bathroom.

“Thanks, Rain.”

They entered the small but spacious bathroom. To the left, there was a large shower. Next to it was the toilet, along with some rugs littered across the floor. To the right was a small vanity, which Dew was hastily tidying up. Rain smiled to himself as dew seemed to be becoming flustered.

After Dew had cleaned the vanity off, which had been pretty clean before, besides a few hair products left out, he turned to face rain tapping the countertop.

“hop up here. gotta clean up those scrapes.”

Rain blushed, ducking his head slightly as he hopped up on the counter. He let his feet dangle as he glanced over to Dew, who had placed a first aid kit on the counter.

Dew crouched down and faintly grabbed Rain’s leg, inspecting the wound. Rain flinched slightly as dew got a little too close to it.

“Sorry,” Dew muttered.

“It’s okay.” Rain whispered back, not meeting his eyes.

Dew grabbed the first aid kit, opening it to grab a few bandages and some alcohol pads. He looked up Rain.

“Alright, it doesn’t look like you’re gonna need stitches, so that’s good.” He patted rain’s calf softly.

“I do need to clean these up though. It might sting, just don’t bite me, alright?” He said it with a slight smile.

Rain let out a chuckle before nodding. Dew began cleaning the scrapes along Rain’s knees. Rain let out a quiet hiss as the alcohol burned against his skin.

“Almost done.”

He placed bandages over them before standing up. Rain had a shy smile on his face as he kept his gaze on the floor.

“All done, Rainy,” he said, putting the first aid kit back in the cabinet below.

“Thank you, Dew,” Rain said, glancing down at him.

“For what?” Dew said, standing up.

“For helping me and for coming to check on me.”

Dew’s blush returned as he avoided Rain’s gaze. He let out a nervous laugh, toying with the edge of his shirt.

“No problem, just don’t tell anyone, or I’ll have to kill you,” he said jokingly, as his expression fell flat.

Rain let out another chuckle as his smile widened and his eyes twinkled.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Dewy.”

[gosmigenergy]

FEELS LIKE CHRISTMAS / Maxwell Lord (Lorenzano) x F! Reader

Summary: Celebrating Christmas for the first time with Maxwell.

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Mostly holiday fluff but turns explicit, holiday stress, mentions of family, mentions of Christmases alone, mentions of food, drinking, sixty-nine dude, oral - male receiving, oral - female receiving, P in V, unprotected sex (use protection irl please), language, no use of Y/N

Word Count: 5.9k

Author’s Notes: I did plan on making some continuous fics about Bunny and the Boys but I work in retail, have just come back from Iceland (panini delayed holiday) and I’m going to Norway to visit my sister over Christmas. When I was considering what to do because I really wanted to post something, I found this unfinished Maxwell Lorenzano seasonal story hidden away on my computer.

Anyway, enjoy!

You normally loved the season, you basked in multicoloured lights, engulfed by the smell of roasting chestnuts, ears ringing with the constant playing of hymns and cheesy pop songs.

However this was the first year you and Maxwell chose to celebrate Christmas, with him came Alistair and with him came the pressure of presents. For Maxwell, they had to be perfect even though he wasn’t loaded with fake Black Gold money, he had to give his son what he never had, the one gift every kid was asking for.

The Ghostbusters Firehouse was proving to be one of the most desired toys of the season, it had been since Halloween.

Alistair had dressed as one for the school disco, you’d found a jumpsuit and dyed it brown, found an embroiderer who made the name tag and spent hours building a Proton Pack from cardboard boxes. All that effort was worth it, to see that kid running up the steps with several other Ghostbusters in similar attire, be it triple the price.

“I love you,” Maxwell said, beaming with a lopsided grin and tears framing his eyes.

In that moment, you felt a warmth that you’d never quite felt before, one that was reflective of a proud parent.

You didn’t feel that right now.

After hours of following the herd, going into what felt like every toy shop in DC and coming out empty handed each time, you broke.

“Alistair is back in two and a half hours, I just want to go home,” you cried. You were literally crying on a bench, cheeks hot with the freezing air.

Maxwell’s smile had disappeared long ago, replaced with a straight line.

“Fine.”

He huffed into the space next to you.

The bus ride home was quiet, Maxwell keeping his emotions to himself, his grip tight on the shopping bags. You’re grateful as the tension seemed to drop a little when you rest your head on his shoulder.

“Please talk to me.”

The pair of you had finally stripped yourselves of your winter accessories and coats, abandoning the gifts in your bedroom to stop prying eyes, yet neither of you had said a word.

“What’s there to talk about? I’m a shit father who couldn’t get a present for his son.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

“Maxwell Lorenzano,” you walk to him and place your hands on his cheeks so he couldn’t look away. “You are not a shit father.”

His deep brown eyes glossed, his chin crinkling as he tried to stop himself from having an absolute meltdown.

“I can’t even get my kid the one toy he wants, what am I going to do?

“What are we going to do? I’m not letting you blame yourself for this. This is companies exploiting Christmas, making people feel shit for things out of their control.”

“Don’t you love Christmas?”

“Yeah but not this. Not making a father feel guilty for not getting his son a toy, that’s not what this is about. I love everything around that, the delight of snow and the rush of having to get outside.  The warmth of a hot chocolate settling in your stomach, nights on the couch wrapped in copious amounts of blankets with It’s a Wonderful Life on the tv…”

Your heart twinges.

“The smile on the face of someone you love getting something unexpected, the voice on the other end of the phone as you wish them happy holidays.”

That’s what it always was for you. Your family far away, you unable to afford to get home.

“Mi amour.”

Maxwell brought a thumb to your cheek and caught the tear that had escaped.

You sigh, “It’s just been a long day.”

“I know.”

He pulled you close, resting his slopping nose on top of your head, breathing you in. You hold each other for a fragile moment.

“I need to go and have a think, ok?”

He kissed your forehead.

You nod before looking around your shrinking space, somehow the apartment the three of you shared was getting smaller.

“I’ll get this place in order before Alistair arrives and start on dinner.”

“Thank you, baby.”

He walked away almost defeated.

“Hey, you better not go in there and make some elaborate plan to make everyone’s deepest desires come true.”

“That was one time.”

You giggle.

A while later, the knock at the door interrupts your flow but you couldn’t stay mad for long when that wide smile greets you.

“Max, Alistair’s here!”

You’re almost knocked back as he throws himself at your legs and in for a hug, you squeeze his head to save yourself from falling.

“How’ve you been?”

“Good.”

“How was your mom?”

You didn’t really care, you were just making pleasantries to try and pretend you didn’t find the woman absolutely insufferable. When he lets go and gives you a shrug, you take the hint.

Ok, you mouthed.

“Alistair,” Maxwell appeared, his smile matching his son’s as he fell to his knees to embrace him enthusiastically. “I’m so happy you’re home.”

“Me too, mom said she wants to talk to you, she’s downstairs.”

“Alright, why don’t you help with dinner?”

“Ok!”

Alistair ran to the kitchen.

You guessed what this might be, the exchange of presents from ‘Santa’ as discussed between them. Alistair was going to be away from his mother for the holidays, not that either of them seemed to mind. You and Maxwell would have him until New Year so you had plenty planned.

“I’m sure you can keep him distracted for a while.”

“Of course,” you winked.

---

“Why is your tree so small?”

Alistair cocked his head to the artificial tree placed on a side table next to the television.

“Oh, I got that tree when I first moved to DC. I couldn’t afford much but I was desperate for some sort of Christmas decoration and there it was, last on the shelf at Goodwill.”

“Were you on your own that Christmas?”

“Yeah, my family were all back home.”

“Have you ever been back?”

“No, I’ve never had the chance. Though I’ve had loads of good Christmases here with friends and neighbours, Mrs Zonana gave me the biggest chocolate log you’ve ever seen.”

“Really?! Do you think she’ll make one for the party?”

“I’m sure she will.”

“Have you ever wanted a big tree? Mom had one that almost reached the ceiling.”

You shrug, “I’ve never thought about it, it’s just been me but, yeah, I guess something a little bigger would be nice.”

“And colourful lights for the window?”

The more he inquired, the more excitable he became and your smile grows.

“Colourful lights would be good too.”

“How’s everything going in here?”

Maxwell wrapped his hands around your waist, the chill prominent from his trip outside. He rested his chin on your shoulder and looked down at the carnage of flour, butter and cheese, Alistair’s hands coated in the ingredients.

“It’s gonna be later than expected.”

He pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“It’ll be worth the wait.”

---

“Can I just sleep here tonight?”

Alistair’s eyes were heavy, belly full from dinner and his body warm from a combination of flannel pyjamas and a fleece blanket.

“No, we all need to go to bed.”

Maxwell was the only one moving, he’d cleaned up and offered to make special hot chocolates, two of which would feature alcohol. He handed his son a mug brimming with whipped cream and marshmallows.

“But it’s comfy here,” he moaned.

“I can’t disagree with him.”

You were stretched on the couch, waiting for Maxwell to return to fill the space he left behind. He was your headrest, allowed you to snuggle within the crook of his arm and listen to his heart beat slowly. Once he was back, you were asleep for sure.

“Everyone is going to bed,” he reiterated.

He remembered the last time the pair of you fell asleep on the couch, his cricked neck played up for almost a week.

“Boooo.”

“Careful you two or Santa won’t bring you presents.”

Alistair laughed.

“Oh dad, Santa isn’t real.”

“What makes you say that?”

You try to deflect, Maxwell was hoping for another year of illusion at least.

“Jake told me.”

Curse you, Jake.

“Well, it’s not that he’s not real, it’s more that you’re old enough to allow Santa to bring joy to another kid. He’ll make sure this year’s extra special, I’m sure of it.”

His expression scrunched, “That sounds rubbish.”

“Oh no,” Maxwell shook his head, “it’s very true.”

Alistair’s eyes flitted between both of you and you knew the game, keep a straight face just long enough for him to believe you.

“That’s cool.”

He continued to watch the Christmas special on the tv. Maxwell handed you your hot chocolate and slipped into his spot. He let you settle back before leaning down and kissing the top of your head.

His words were soft, “Thank you, baby.”

You had gone to check on Alistair one last time before heading to bed.

“He’s out of it.”

Maxwell was already cosy under the duvet, glasses on as he read a battered copy of A Christmas Carol. Closing the door gently, you tiptoed across the room and slide into the other side, resting your fuzzy head on the pillow.

“How are you not dizzy reading after that drink?”

“Because I didn’t put an extra shot in mine.”

“Max!”

“What? You deserved it.”

You huff, you can’t stay mad at his stupid face, his wide toothy smile looking down on you.

“How did it go… with the present swap?”

He put his book down, “Fine.”

Maxwell was a man of little words when it came to his ex wife.

“You know you told Alistair that white lie about Santa Claus? Well, lucky for us, she managed to get that firehouse.”

“Of course,” you scoff.

The moment Maxwell lost his ‘wealth’, his then wife dropped him for someone who could pay the lifestyle she was after.

“Paid triple the amount for it.”

You let out a singular laugh.

“At least Alistair will be happy.”

“Do you think he’ll like what we got him?”

“Why do you ask?”

Maxwell’s brows furrowed, maybe he did make a mistake putting another measure of Irish cream in your hot chocolate.

“He knows we’re not necessarily as well off as his mom but I don’t want him thinking that we don’t love him as much because we can’t give him that.”

“Alistair knows we love him, maybe even more than his mother does.”

“We got him underwear,” you throw your arms up as you spoke.

“He needs new ones.”

“I know he does but we’re giving them as a present.”

“I was very happy when I got underwear one year.”

“You’re lucky to have a kid like him.”

“I’m lucky to have you too,” he said, cuddling closer. “Not every girlfriend would go from toy store to toy store trying to get a present for a kid that isn’t theirs.”

“You both mean the world to me.”

“And you’re everything to us.”

He cupped your cheek, feeling the heat seer through his palm before his lips met yours.

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

You can’t remember falling asleep, only Maxwell gently shaking you awake. In your groggy state, you could sense it was still dark out yet you rolled over to see him fully dressed.

“Alistair and I are heading out,” he whispered. “He forgot to get a present for his friend.”

“I’ll get dressed.”

“No, don’t get up. Have some time to yourself, ok baby? We might be a while.”

“Ok,” you immediately roll back over.

No offence to Maxwell but it was way too early and you were far too hungover to kick up a fuss, he told you to stay and you wouldn’t put up a fight about it.

The phone started to ring the moment you stepped out of the shower.

After a lie-in, you visited Mrs Zonana ahead of her Christmas party, hosted every year in the apartment complex’s courtyard. You offered to help in some way and after much persuasion, she had you and another neighbour putting up the gazebo and decorations. Then you got back and knocked up some cookies for the evening before getting ready.

“Hello?”

“Hey, baby.”

“How’s your day going, Max?”

He groaned, “It’s gone fine but we’re running late, we’re waiting for the next bus. Do you mind if we meet you at Mrs Zonana’s?”

“Not at all, can’t promise there’ll be any food left.”

“It’s Mrs Zonana, she’ll save us a plate.”

You hum sarcastically.

“Don’t deny it, she loves me.”

You roll your eyes, “Am I being replaced?”

“Of course not,” the phone crackled, “I’ve got to go, love you.”

He hung up before you got the chance to reply.

When you finally made it downstairs, the outside was already buzzing. You made your way through the throng of your neighbours, stating you’d catch up later before reaching Mrs Zonana.

“Oh, I’ll make the boys their plates and keep them warm in the oven.”

“You don’t have to, they’re the ones running late.”

She battered you with a tea towel, which you were unable to decipher whether it was meant to be playful or if she really did want it to hurt.

“Sorry we’re late!”

Everyone practically cheered at Maxwell and Alistair’s arrival. You swiftly apologise to Nico to ensure you got to them first.

“Finally! Where have you two been?”

You jokingly put your hand on your hip and pout, Alistair giggling at your phoney expression because you, of all people, were never mad.

“Sorry, baby.”

“It’s not me you have to apologise to,” you smile wickedly as you sense Mrs Zonana’s presence.

“Alistair, come get yours and your father’s food.”

He runs away immediately.

“Did everything go ok?”

Maxwell hummed.

“You look exhausted.”

“I know but it’s all with a good intention.”

You rubbed your thumb along his cheek, warm in a rush to make it back, the faintest sensation of whiskers from lack of shaving.

“How have I not been greeted by my man yet?”

“Hola, Mrs Zonana.”

Maxwell slipped seamlessly into Spanish around her and you always prayed that they were saying kind words when your name popped up. You drew your attention to Alistair for a while and listened to him talk about his day with his father.

Occasionally, yours and Maxwell’s eyes would catch across the courtyard and you’d exchange the softest of smiles throughout the rest of the evening.

“I’m tired.”

Alistair was valiant in staying up, most of the other kids had gone to bed. He flopped onto the edge of the garden box with you and Maxwell, who had escaped another lecture on ancient artefacts from Mr Fennec.

“We should probably get you boys to bed, huh? It’s been a long day.”

They both groan, playfully collapsing their heads to your shoulders.

“Come on,” you ruffle Alistair’s hair.

After saying your goodbyes, the three of you strolled up to the apartment.

“I have never seen a boy this excited to go to bed,” you laugh.

Alistair had run ahead the moment you reached the walkway. Maxwell brought you closer, locked an arm around your waist and breathed you in.

“Don’t think I can blame him.”

The holidays were always tiring even when you were on your lonesome, you were always invited somewhere with someone and keeping up appearances was the norm. You spent years coming back, crashing onto the mattress before getting up to do the whole thing all over again. It was nice that the building party was the only real big deal this year.

Maxwell chose to do his office party by himself because why would you want to be surrounded by drunk, obnoxious salesmen for the evening? You were better off with Alistair baking cookies, watching a film and secretly helping him wrap presents for his father. Then Alistair’s mom took him to the school party and to meet Santa, attending the Christmas light switch on was the one event you happily obliged.

“Why are you taking so long?”

“Because we’re old,” Maxwell shouted as he and you approached.

“Did you hang mistletoe on the door?”

Your inquiry was met with a shrug.

“You do realise that I don’t need a Christmas tradition for an excuse to kiss you?”

“Ew,” Alistair fake barfed.

Maxwell rummaged to find the key in his pocket, refusing to let go of you. Alistair snatched it out of his hand as soon as it reemerged. Maxwell’s hand came to your jaw and gently, he eased you to face him. He stared at you with his brown puppy dog eyes, bringing his other hand to meet your cheek.

“Shouldn’t we be under the mistletoe?”

His face was illuminated by an orange glow as Alistair made his way inside.

“Too much effort,” he smiled before clashing your lips together.

It could be because he’s tired or the alcohol or the fact he was trying to make the kiss more of a pantomime for his son to endure but Maxwell was messy. He practically pinned your face to his with both hands, slipping his tongue passed your lips sloppily, forcing your body to turn backwards to the door.

You gasped for air when he finished.

“I like the enthusiasm.”

You take a couple of steps back to see his expression soften, he knew what he’d done, chose not to say anything.

Then you notice something out of the corner of your eye.

Wait, that wasn’t there when I left.

And suddenly the room seemed to fill with pinpricks of every colour.

“Merry Christmas!”

Alistair leapt from behind you and slowly, inch by inch, you took everything in. You didn’t utter a word, couldn’t even scream as your chest began to heave.

The tiny desk tree had been replaced with one triple the size, overloaded with baubles. Every wall was lined with string lights, the kitchen sill decorated with ornaments and tinsel and the focal point, three stockings hanging from the breakfast bar, embroidered with golden letters.

“Do you like it?”

You fall to your knees and squeeze Alistair hard. You put every ounce you had in you to hug that boy and kissed his head multiple times.

“I love it, Alistair, I love it so much,” your voice cracked.

“You’re crying.”

“They’re happy tears, I promise,” the words were catching in your throat.

“Let me take your coat, baby, Alistair’s got more to show you.”

“There’s more?”

Alistair was beaming up at you, nodding passionately.

Maxwell helped you pull yourself out of your coat, your body shaking as it failed to follow basic instruction. He trailed a hand down your spine as you attempted to get it together, wiping the tears that were already falling.

Taking your hand, Alistair showed you what else they’d done. The old tree had now taken pride of place at the end of the corridor between your rooms. There was more lights along the ceiling and the pictures on the walls had changed to winter scenes of snowfall, ice skating and carollers.

“I can’t believe you’ve done this just for me,” you smile, more tears forming.

“Well, I said about it to dad and he said he overheard us talking yesterday and felt like we should do something,” Alistair said. “Also I didn’t have any money and I couldn’t get up high so I needed some help.”

You couldn’t help hugging him again.

“I couldn’t have asked for a better surprise.”

“Really?”

“Oh, I’m going to remember this one forever.”

Alistair excitedly returned to Maxwell to pass on the good news. Of course you were going to love it, Maxwell knew you would. Luck aligned for him, there was still some money left in the budget you two had built, Mrs Zonana gave a hefty contribution and Suzanne from the other block let him and Alistair hide whilst they also played look out.

Plenty of people loved you more than you realised.

He automatically hugged you when you came back, “You good?”

“There aren’t any more surprises are there, I don’t think I can cope.”

“Not from me.”

You laugh into his chest, “Thank god.”

He ran a hand through your hair, squeezing you a little tighter before reluctantly letting you go.

“Can I have another one of those hot chocolates?”

“Sure.”

“And me,” Alistair chimed in, “please.”

The three of you rested on the couch, Alistair retelling the day and how each decoration came to be. It felt like your heart could burst, he was so overjoyed. Maxwell’s arm was draped firmly over your shoulder, chest rising and falling slowly as sleep tried to take him.

You knew you spent too long in the bathroom, you worried Maxwell may have fallen asleep before he even got chance to see your gift. It was a risk you were taking but you hoped it would pay off.

“Maxwell. Are you asleep?”

“Just resting my eyes,” his head lulled against the headboard.

“Oh because I was hoping I could give you one of your presents early.”

He opened one eye, “Really?”

You hum, fingertips playing with the tie on your fluffy dressing gown.

“Well, you’ve been such a good boy these past couple of days,” you pull open the knot, “and I think you deserve it.”

You shrug your shoulders and let the fabric fall to the floor with a light thud. Maxwell’s head snapped up, both eyes wide with the delight of seeing you dressed in nothing more than a see-through babydoll in bright red, nothing left to the imagination. Your bush freshly trimmed and nipples pert.

His smile brought the dimples to his cheeks. He leaned forward, gesturing with both hands.

“Come here.”

You saunter to the edge of the bed and he moves to you fit perfectly between his legs. His hands run up the backs of your thighs, fingers burying into your ass as he pressed his forehead to your stomach, the refreshing scent of your favourite perfume catching in his nostrils. He moved his hands to your hips before looking up at you drunkenly.

“How long have you been hiding this from me?”

You hum, biting your lip sheepishly.

Whilst in the mall, deflated from toy shopping, you excused yourself to go to the bathroom, leaving Maxwell amongst the other male shoppers in the seating area. As you walked, your eyes caught something in the window of a shop.

You only treated yourself to lingerie when it was a special occasion and after the day you two were having, it called for it.

Dress up wasn’t something you and Maxwell chose to do so, even though the enthusiastic sales assistant tried, you gravitated towards the little red number you wore tonight.

“I shouldn’t have got you tipsy last night, should I?”

You cup his face in your palms.

“It didn’t help.”

Brushing aside his stray hairs, you lean down and kiss him deeply, his back straightening to attention. You both part, catching your breaths.

“So, are you one of Santa’s naughty little elves or…”

Maybe you should have got the costume. You look at him, your eyelids low as the corner of your lips curled.

“I’d much rather be Mrs Claus.”

The smile grew back on his face.

“Now it’s time for you to go back to bed.”

Maxwell happily obliged. He made sure to look at the view in detail one more time before slipping his hands off you. Pushing back on the mattress, he rested on the pillow, hands tucked behind his head.

“Are you coming to tuck me in?”

You climb on the bed and crawl over his body, your index finger trailing along his underwear where his hardening cock was becoming visible.

“Not until…”

Your faces meet and he waits in anticipation for your next line, it doesn’t come easily. You think of all the seasonal puns but they’re all ridiculous - candy cane, north or south pole, Christmas has cum early?

He breaks first, a singular laugh ruining any chance of you being a seductive Mrs Claus.

“Hard to keep up the charade?”

“Yeah,” your expression scrunches. “I don’t think ‘not getting rid of your south pole’ does what I want it to do.”

He snorts at the terminology.

“Want me to take the rein?”

You thought he was going to make some sort of sleigh ride joke but nothing came after. He calmly brushed the hair from your face, breathing and heartbeat steady, his expression soft. Maxwell didn’t usually take control but this time, he seemed so sure.

“Ok.”

Then something changed, his pupils blew a dark black.

“Turn around.”

You listened, swapping your legs over each side. His hands travel up your legs before they claw your ass apart and you instinctively arch your back to offer him a better view. His cock twitched beneath the cotton fabric.

“Wet as always.”

“Always for you.”

He hummed, glad you were facing the other way round because he could feel the temperature rise in his cheeks.

You kiss the skin above the waistband of his underwear then lick in one motion, sending a shiver along Maxwell’s spine. He returns the favour, kissing the creases that joined your legs to your butt before spreading his tongue over your folds.

You shudder, leaning back further to try and catch the tip of his nose.

He knew exactly what you were doing, “Behave.”

You grumble, pouting your lips as you glance over your shoulder. You couldn’t see much past the sight of your ass but you caught each other’s eye.

Your fingers play with the elastic before you gradually peel his underwear off, inspecting his throbbing bright tip, precum glistening. To behave would be to not take the top in your mouth and spread your tongue over but you were going to get him back for his little remark, that and you were hungry for him. Dampening your lips, you took Maxwell in your mouth, rewarded with his lengthily moan.

“Oh fuck,” he says as you take him further, “you are not behaving.”

He felt your soft laugh against him, the vibrations pleasing enough to have him creeping closer to the edge.

There was only one way to play this game.

Swallowing hard, he spreads you wider before teasing you along your outer lips, soothing with his tongue after a gentle nip. You breath with a sigh and just as he gets you into a false sense of security, he buries himself into your weeping cunt.

You pull up, Maxwell’s cock falling with a slap to his navel as you gasp and whimper.

“Put me back in your mouth, baby, I don’t want you waking up Alistair.”

You massage his balls lightly and the air hisses through his teeth, he was going to blow if you weren’t careful.

“And what about you?”

Maxwell was the most vocal lover you’d encountered. He didn’t respond, returning to your cunt with more finesse, his tongue working against your blooming clit.

You let out a choked whine before wrapping your lips around his tip and sweeping around with your tongue. You felt his groan run through every nerve ending, your walls clamping round him. Slowly you took his length into your throat and back up again, picking up the pace according to his movements.

You couldn’t tell how long the pair of you were locked like this, in this pure unadulterated bliss.

He only came up for air to sing your praises and for his final admittance, “I’m so close, baby.”

You already knew that.

His hips had bucked a few times to get his cock further into that little throat of yours, the sound of you gagging sweeter than any music. His body was tensing, his grip on your hips making them numb, he was forcing himself not to cum out of the want of making you cum first.

“This is your treat, Maxwell,” you say after releasing his cock with a pop. “How do you want me?”

“I want to watch you bounce on my dick until we both cum.”

You smile coyly, turning yourself to face him, “Now that’s some Christmas magic I can do.”

Straddling his hips, you kiss him squarely on the lips and force him to lay with his back firmly on the mattress. Slipping your tongue into his mouth, you taste the tang of your arousal before pulling back, teeth nipping his bottom lip.

You lift yourself up, taking his cock in your hand as you line it up with your entrance. Eyes focusing on him, you slowly sink down, Maxwell releasing a choked gasp when just his tip slides between your folds.

His eyes flick up and down your frame as his palms trail your thighs, encouraging you to take his length.

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you lower yourself, a soft hum as he fills you. His cock twitches, his head falling back, eyelashes fluttering shut as you held steady.

“Fuck,” he sighs.

You sit for a minute, inner walls pulsing as your aching pussy readjusts to the stretch of his girth. All this time together and you still hadn’t gotten used to how heavy his cock was. He feels fingertips grazing the skin of his chest and opens his eyes. You’re gazing down at him, eyelids low but he could still catch the glint in your eye.

“I thought you wanted to watch.”

Oh, he did but he fucking adored how you felt around him, he could stay like this all night if you allowed him. But you started to raise your hips, your other hand lifting the fabric to your waist so he could see the drag of your folds.

He groaned, not too loud yet not too soft, just enough for it to hit your ears.

“Like that?”

You tease as you drop back down, knocking the air out of his lungs. He can’t answer, can barely move his head because his mind is solely on your pussy around his cock. You gradually begin to pick up the pace when your legs stop protesting, the slap of your skin against his getting stronger, his fingers digging further into the flesh of you.

A squeaking moan escapes you every time you bounce from him, lips sealed together as you try to keep the volume down. You can still hear Maxwell, his hushed praises blending into his second language, his throat bulging as he tries to contain his grunts and groans.

Your walls were tightening, your hips stuttering when the tip of his cock hit somewhere new as you rolled your pelvis forward. His lips crashed into yours, swallowing the honeyed groan that came deep from your chest. He held you in place, your legs shaking with anticipation.

You could feel your arousal spilling between your thighs, preparing you for the final chase, the spark igniting low in your belly.

Maxwell coiled his arms around your waist, removing his lips from yours as he nudged his nose against your cheek. You catch your breath, fingers drawing circles over his shoulder blades before you finally looked in his big brown eyes. Always soft and sincere even though you were about to ruin him, he would happily take it.

You kiss his lips, palms moving to settle on either side of his neck. Lifting your ass a little, you let him shuffle his legs closer to boost you up before you rolled your hips.

A moan escapes you as your clit grazes the hairs above his cock. He sighs, lips parting as he focuses on your movements, your walls twitching around his aching cock. His broad palms fall from your waist and over the curve of your ass, fingers sinking into the muscle as he guides you up his length.

“That’s it,” he says breathily.

And when you get going again, you feel the tingle as it dances along your skin, your belly warming. Maxwell’s hands following as you bounce, legs locking beneath your weight.

Both of your hot and heavy breaths trickle down your flushed chest, his soft grunts seeping into your ears. Your hands trail over his outline, the shiver shooting up his spine as your fingertips tease.

His head fell forward and you pulled him close to your body, nestling his face in the crook of your neck. Keeping on hand on his back, you draw the other to his hair, the colour no longer a fake blonde. Your fingers delve into his thick roots and tug gently, the noise he makes having you close your eyes, riding his cock as fast as your ceasing legs would allow.

His hands grip tighter, his tongue so loose he can barely get the words out to warn you as his balls recede and he coats your walls. He manages to hold you down as you hiss through your teeth, body trembling as your own orgasm surges through your body.

“Shit, Max,” you choke.

Your cunt pulsates, milking him for every last drop before your muscles relax. He groans your name passionately, his body going limp, back hitting the mattress with a loud exhale.

You keep your eyes closed, your hand reaching for his chest as it rose, filling the lungs with much needed oxygen. Your legs shudder with an aftershock, his hand coming to your wrist. You blink, the room coming into focus and you catch his lopsided grin as he gazed up at you in a blissed out state.

“Best present a guy could ask for,” he chuckles.

You giggle, brushing the hair from your face with your free hand. Lifting your hips, you slide off his cock, thick white cum dribbling from your folds before you crawled up the bed to settle next to him.

He snakes an arm under your neck, across your shoulders to draw you closer to his chest. You snuggle to his frame, draping a leg in between his, hand fixed to his chest as his heartbeat slowed.

Glancing up, his eyes are already closed. You knew he was exhausted, all the rushing around, trying to give everyone the best Christmas, making up for all the ones he’d missed. All you wanted to do was tell him he didn’t have to but he wouldn’t listen.

Maxwell wouldn’t have it any other way.

When he came to in the morning, your side of the bed was empty. He could hear life outside of the door, the faint strip of sunlight breaking through the curtains. Stretching, he tried to find his t-shirt before guessing you borrowed it when Alistair came to wake someone.

In the now cramped living room, he saw you and Alistair on the couch, huddled under a blanket with mugs in your hands. The pair of you had soft smiles and were whispering to one another, you attempting to understand what was happening on the kids show you were watching. A few more presents had made an appearance under the tree, sugar cookies filling a plate on the coffee table.

“Morning,” his voice sounded groggy, vocal cords not quite ready to talk.

“Morning dad!”

“Morning, coffee’s fresh if you want some.”

Your smile grows at his arrival before he comes down and kisses you. He continues to watch you both while he wanders round the kitchen, semi listening to what was happening on the tv. Returning with a mug of coffee, Maxwell leans over and grabs a handful of cookies, met with a little groan from Alistair who had to tilt sideways to see the screen.

“Sorry, sorry,” he whispers before sitting down.

You wriggle to make room as he slumps into his usual spot. After he’s got comfy, you nestle back against him and he drapes an arm over your shoulder. His lips come to the crown of your head.

“You ok?”

“Perfect,” he strokes your cheek as you drop your head back. “Feels like Christmas.”

[not-the-coffee-machine4]

Rating Performances from the last hour and a half of the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert as I watch them

Tie Your Mother Down (Joe Elliott& Slash): yesss

I Want It All (Roger Daltrey & Tony Iommi): also yesss I liked this

Las Palabras de Amor (Zucchero): very pleasantly surprising ngl, I thought it was pretty

Hammer to Fall (Gary Cherone): I literally just watched it and somehow can’t remember it. I’m blaming that on the Covid I’m stuck with rn

Stone Cold Crazy (James Hetfield): YES

Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Robert Plant): better than Innuendo (which isn’t even on this recording lol). Not bad, not amazing

Too Much Love Will Kill You (Brian): honestly almost cried. 9/10 (nothing beats his studio track but this was damn good)

Radio Ga Ga (Paul Young):…..no

Who Wants to Live Forever (Seal): this is a hard song and he actually did it loads of justice. Am impressed

I Want to Break Free (Lisa Stansfield): hell yeah! Extra points for the vacuum lol

Under Pressure (Annie Lennox & David Bowie): THEY 👏🏼DID 👏🏼THAT👏🏼

All The Young Dudes (David Bowie, Ian Hunter, Mick Ronson (also Joe Elliott jumped here for some reason): when the hell did David Bowie learn how to play the saxophone. Anyway yeah that was a good time

Heroes (David Bowie): YES 🙌 (bonus points for “god bless Queen” that’s so real my guy)

‘39 (George Michael): SLAYYYYYY

These Are the Days of Our Lives (George Michael and Lisa Stansfield): AGAIN SLAY

Somebody To Love (George Michael): HANDS DOWN THE BEST ONE I LOVE THIS PERFORMANCE SO MUCH 10000/10

Bohemian Rhapsody (Elton John & Axl Rose): I’m so happy they put this song with, Elton he really did a good job

The Show Must Go On (Elton John): DAMN I was a little skeptical at first but that was FIRE

We Will Rock You (Axl Rose): I don’t really like Axl Rose live that much but he kinda ate

We Are the Champions (Liza Minnelli and everybody): I really want to like it but it falls a little short for me. Not bad though. Everyone on stage at the end was really nice I loved that part

[here4theheartbreak]

I can’t imagine there being a gay bar here hosting monthly kpop nights. In fact, I can’t even imagine there being a gay bar...!  😅

The cup sleeve itself looks so nice, and so do those pretty decorations! I'm so glad these events are a thing. I think it really builds a sense of (wider) community. 💕

Bouncy definitely has a 'kpop' vibe. The first time I heard it, it felt simultaneously like the least/most ‘Ateez’ Ateez song to date. But I know that was their plan. They’ve been saying for a while that they want to try and capture the interest of KR at large — whilst also being themselves and respecting what they already have. Which, honestly, I think they’ve done. It’s a nice song to just ENJOY and have fun with. 🌶️🔥🐐🥊🤠 

That’s a lot of songs you made your way through over the weekend! I’m impressed. There were a few songs I wasn’t sure about at first...but now I’m actively adding them to my playlists, soooo yeah... 🌟✨

A miniseries would be great!! I’d love it if it was like the MV’s and the teasers — where there are just subtitles and sometimes voiceovers. That’d be pretty cool. I hope they do it. Or that they do something similar! KQ are clearly not afraid to splash a little cash on locations and cinematography. 

Ohhh, I read the new Diary storyline/pages on twitter somewhere. It’s definitely on there if you don’t want to wait!

The Atiny and Ateez relationship is sooo good. Surprisingly good, actually. We’re really lucky that nothing significant has happened to create distance. Especially given how some fans are so invasive and overly familiar sometimes. Still, I think Atiny are mostly chill, and there’s not much guilt involved in supporting them either. Not everyone can vote every single time, or stream all day long. From what I’ve seen, it’s always just been a case of if you can, please do. And, yeah, it doesn't always work out. There have been a few heartbreaking losses on music shows, for instance (the one where they all had glasses of orange juice on stage to celebrate, but then they didn’t win, springs to mind 😭). Still, it’s like San always says, we can support Ateez with our whole hearts, but we should always be the most important people in our own lives!

JFC. YES. THERE'S SO MUCH CONTENT. I can only wish you luck because that is quite a mountain to climb! 😅

Wanteez is so good! I especially loved the latest drinking episodes! Poor drunk San! Someone save him, our tipsy tomato~!

Ah, I also love Woosan! 🦊☂️⛰️ I love their energy. I love that they bicker. I love that they cling. I love that they have matching friendship tattoos. I love: 'we're not always good, but we always choose each other.' I love: 'the best luck I have experienced in my life was meeting you.'

They’re super cute, and silly, and funny~!

I’m really glad that San is someone you can have as a bias — even if it felt impossible for you at first. He really has such a good heart! Just like Wooyoung!

Honestly, I think people often forget that about Wooyoung, because he’s loud and he’s hilarious. I mean, yes, he's always messing with the members and causing chaos on screen and on stage.... but he’s incredibly kindhearted.

Hongjoong literally said that when Wooyoung gets hurt by other people, he blames himself rather than them. He blames himself for trusting them in the first place, rather than them for what they’ve done to him.

Alsoooo, when that whole Ateez vs Vata dance plagiarism thing happened he was so visible in standing up for their team. Adding the 'driving' move to his The Real dance breaks. Calling out the copying. What a guy.

And then there's that time he called out a sasaeng for continually phoning Jongho when they were doing a vlive together. He's not afraid to speak up and it's such a strength.

Oh! Annnnnnd there's the fact that he cried after Yeosang's ending ment last year because he'd overheard Yeosang talking to his mom about a surgery she was having.... but YS hadn't told anyone in Ateez about it, including WY even though they'd been friends for 8 years. And WY had been so worried about YS's mom but he didn't know how to ask him about it. So, he ended up in tears when YS brought it up on stage.

Really, Wooyoung cares so much. I could list soooo many different examples of him feeling so much, and caring so much, about those around him.

In fact, I could probably do that for all the members! 😂💖

(/you have reached the end of my unplanned Wooyoung rant 😂)

Ahhh yeah, absolutely none of them can stay in their lanes. They're always swerving all over the place. Right now, Yunho is coming for me. The way he laughs shyly into his hand? Let me live, puppy~ 😩

Since day one, my bias has been Kim Hongjoong! I saw our tiny captain rapping with his pretty hair, looking full of passion, painting his clothes and his nails, telling off the younger members like a stressed-out dad, and I was like 'ahhh, there he is. He's the man for me!'

My bias wrecker is Seonghwa. So, I'm all about Matz~! 😂 But I literally love them all so much!

Well, I recently got an Ateez tattoo- lyrics from Promise. So, I recommend the Promise video from 2019 - although the 'Band Live Concert' version is the one I actually like the most, the 2019 one is just the one from when I first got into them, so it has nice memories attached to it!

Don't Stop is a great MV that people sometimes miss because it's not on KQ's channel.

I still recommend Treasure Film because they have to do a bunch of fun tasks - Jongho has to arm wrestle guys at a gym, Yeosang has to conquer his shyness and say hello to people on the street (🥺) etc etc. And there's a really sweet section near the end where they have to call their moms and tell them what they're thankful for. It's so good because they're actually exactly like their moms! 💖

There's also their cover of Black Cat Nero. Both the Immortal Songs stage and the subsequent MV are good!

And there's the song they did for Pepsi with Monsta X (and others) - Summer Taste. It's worth a glance. Changkyun coming in after Hongjoong?? Yessss, please. 😍

Talking of MX, Choi Jongho has got to be the most successful Monbebe of all time! What a king~!✨

Sorry about this being an essay length ask.... 😩😂

Honestly the production quality that KQ has when it comes to their mvs is insane! Right away I asked my friend who owned these guys - given the horrid history with certain companies, there’s some I’m just not comfortable supporting even in a small way - when she said they were fully indie I did not expect much at all - so I was absolutely FLOORED. They know where their cash cow is and they treat them well, it seems.

I actually ordered another copy that should be here sooner of the diary version! Should be here next week I think, so sooner than mid-July lol; I have a friend who is getting into the group with me so I’ll just gift them the extra copy (they don’t collect PCs or anything, so I often end up passing along my spare copies of albums that I don’t wanna tangle with selling 😂)

I sat down today and tried to go and make a list of all their different variety shows and things they appear often on (like their hello82 stuff, etc) and I was floored by just how much there was. Every time I thought I completed the list I scrolled and found yet another show or mini-series I had completely missed 😩 - how does this group have so much?? Do these kids SLEEP? 🤣

I have seen clips of the drinking episode and am so tempted to skip forward to it because it looks so genuinely hilarious, who the hell let them get that drunk 😂

My God I can’t talk enough about Woosan. I’ve always been preferential to bias pairs who have that tom and jerry soulmate energy but I genuinely haven’t had a pair that embodies it SO perfectly. The people you look at and you’re like, yeah, those two were always meant to find each other, it wouldn’t matter how many miles separated them, they’d wind up stumbling over each other in some way. 
“We’re not always good, but we always choose each other.” - the way I almost burst into tears, I watched that episode just last night actually. Or the recent show - when San was asked if he regretted the tattoo and just, entirely unhesitating “never” even tho they’d been sniping at each other all day 😭😭😭

And truly! I didn’t think much about Woo at first; I kinda assumed he was just another dancer/visual type but since San wouldn’t let me breathe without Wooyoung RIGHT THERE I ended up looking more into him and he’s so sweet. My God, he’s such a caring, gentle person. Definitely the embodiment of more than meets the eye in so many ways. And he’s so mindful of all the members, he knows exactly how to play with each of them, even if sometimes it’s a little chaotic, you just know he’s always gonna be the one there if they need something.

I heard about the Vata thing! That took some real nerve on his part, calling him out so publicly - good for him though, there needs to be more people in the industry like him, it might become a little less corrupt and nasty if there were. If more weren’t afraid to call out the bullshit maybe people would be more mindful of not starting this shit.

And frankly his TALENT. Jesus. When I told my friend I’d picked him as my split bias for sure, she explained some of his past and being picked on by other fandoms, etc - it was heartbreaking - he’s got so much talent and deserves the world 😭

I mean honestly - all of them; I’ve never seen a more shining example of a group of just genuinely well meaning people who try their best to do the right thing, and so talented on top of it - like… How did I miss them for so long??? I got into kpop as a whole literally six months before they debuted?! I could have picked them up from day one! The way I’m kicking myself for it 😩

Yunho! Jfc that guy. He was the member I didn’t really notice right away but this comeback and as I watch more variety shows - he’s so cute?! And he’s got such a funny personality, bahh- I figured I’d be safe from him but nah, he’s climbed right up there. Instead of a list of 8 places 1 through 8 this group is more like 1, 2, 2.5 — Woosan; Yeo and Joong; then the other 4 - there’s no least favorite 😭

Ah! Tattoo! That’s so cool; I love it; my friend has an Ateez tattoo from Star 1117; I’m thinking I will probably add one to my sleeve as well, I’ll wait until after I go to a concert, maybe, unless I’m super inspired. I haven’t seen that video though! Another one to add to my list lol - but I have seen Don’t Stop! That video was insane, I loved it sm and the song was great. I remember sending it to my friend when I watched it with the comment “the sweet little criminal mastermind pirates” (honestly the number of nicknames this poor group has ended up with - my favorite was for Jongho, “the softest insurrectionist you’ll ever see” - and I stand by that. 😂)

Also omg Black Cat Nero - so this video is funny (in another I’m kicking myself square in the ass way) bc I’ve seen it pop up on my dash ever since it came out (the Halloween m/v specifically); and every time I saw it I almost clicked on it bc it looked interesting with San’s makeup… And I didn’t because it wasn’t a group I was into so I just… Ignored it. For two years YouTube has tried to hand me this damn group.

(Also no need to apologize for the long asks lol - I’m sure my non-atiny friends are so so sick o hearing me ramble for hours about these guys so I 100% do not mind 😂😂😂😂

[lyrker]

1 n 3 n 19 n 31 n 50 for the oc asks !!!!

THIS GOT SO LONG IM SO SORRY HAVDJVS

1.First oc ever ?

I’m gonna have to pass this one to good ol’ Leader Decrose. I REFUSE to get into the backstory of how he came about, but in this old world I never dive in anymore, he’s like ? A refuge i suppose ? A set of four characters (including my self insert) were based on cards and his was the diamond.

3.Have you ever adopted a character or gotten a character from someone else ?

Odd situation but I GUESS ?? There’s a few but one I like is named Polaris and they’re like. a dying star. And their big brother figure is Cyrus, aka cc who thought the key to transitioning was dismembering yourself and using dark magic on a lifesize frakenstein doll he made.

They work in a fucked up lab but like, fucked up as in goofy as hell. They’re so silly (:

19.Introduce a character that means a lot to you and why

*SLAMS JACE IN FRONT OF YOU* I love him an insane amount.

Jace Luong was away when the apocalypse striked, lost his daughter thag he blames himself for (but he could never save her anyway), accidentally shot a guy and had to step down from his military position, more for his mental sake than anything, ended up using his best friend, and that last one sounds so bad. and it is. But it is for this Reason that makes me shake him like GRRRR I LOVE YOU. WHY DID YOU DO THAT oh yeah i’m the author loll !!

Because the point of Jace is that. He wants to help so fucking bad but he keeps Messing It Up. He is not evil and I cannot say that enough—he is very “the means justifies the ends” but that does Not mean he doesn’t feel bad for using Noah as a lab rat. When Noah came back to KILL HIM he cried because someone Came Back For Him, even if it was to kill him.

I don’t wanna take up too much space but it’s because he’s not evil just severely fucked up from losing his daughter and the life of being in a world filled with zombies that he’s trying to rush to make some sort of cure, so he can save people, so that people can live again instead of just survive, but he goes about it in a horrible way that, honestly, was probably inevitable.

He’s special to me because he’s a fuck up, but he’s genuinely really really trying. He is not a good person, though.

(also if he was a tma avatar he would be of The Lonely or Eye and that’s so silly)

31.Pick an oc and explain what their Tumblr blog would look like.

I’m going to go with RAYNE because he probably DOES use Tumblr, knowing him. His layout is green but also he’s probably using the Goth/Rave color pallet because he thinks the colors are nice and he’s a 3 am user so that dark mode comes in handy. His pfp is like, his favorite pokémon but with a ditto face.

He reblogs pokemon stuff—screenshots, fanart, memes, etc and he’s Definitely gotten into discourse abt the best game. Also he’s totally a Nightvale listener so throw in some Nightvale posts. I think he reblogs a lot of shitpost art but also just art in general.

And of course, the occasional cat photo and tumblr trademark textposts.

50.Give me the good ol’ oc talk.

I WAS GONNA TALK ABOUT NOAH & CO. BUT I ALWAYS TALK ABOUT THEM so here’s the MoMOF crew, named after the lemon demon song “Mask of my Own Face”

It’s a classic high schoolers sci fi horror story, think stranger things except without mike bc i hate him (did not finish watching stranger things)

Basically, six kids, Rayn, Rowan, Alex, Ash, Zach and Winston are friends ! Yippee ! Average middle/high schoolers.

And one night, Rayn and Rowan (dating) are just hanging out. Rowan is conked the fuck out at Rayn is gaming on his DS, and then he gets a text from Alex saying “Dude, why tf are you outside it’s like 2 am ???” and Rayn is confused outta his mind.

“Wdym i’m literally at home rn.”

Alex attaches a photo, a shot looking thru the blinds of their window of what looks to be Rayn.

Rayn sends a selfie back of the Charmander he just leveled up and Rowan fast asleep.

And it Can’t be him if he just sent that photo, because the beanie he always wears was handmade by Asher himself—whos this guy ?!?

naturally, they text everyone, everyone’s yelling in a vc and was NOT asleep like they should be, and Rayn gets the FANTASTIC idea to go and see who the person is. Alex is yelling that they will personally stab Rayn if he does.

He does anyway.

and they’re too far away now for Alex to see, but they’re watching their phones and when Rayn finally approaches the other Rayn the camera flips and it is missing Half Of It’s Face and then Rayn hangs up.

And they Cannot Find Him.

So for weeks they are searching for Rayn and are scared out of their wits about Why there were Two and they told the police, but they don’t believe them all too much.

But Rowan finds him one night, at the edge of the forest. Half of his face looks tk have been torn away and his hat and coat is gone and he looks run ragged but oh. Oh no.

That’s the real Rayn.

And it turns out, the Rayn they’d been staying with recently was a clone.

And he’s babbling about something, saying they “Can’t trust Winston”

And at the same time, Rowan gets a call. And Zach sounds like he’s running for his life, because Winston cannot talk, let alone sing, and Zach heard them whispering the lyrics to a song he doesn’t know, and ran for it.

So, while they found Rayn, they now don’t know where the real Winston is. And it’s kinda all about not trusting each other but also wanting to stay together because What If Someone Else Gets Taken, and they can’t trust anyone at All because they won’t believe them, and they could be more clones.

Other stuff happens; Ash is going kinda insane, Alex, as the eldest, feels like they have to be the parent of the group because god they’re falling apart and they can’t stand to see it, Zach doesn’t know if the things he’s catching on camera are real or not, and there’s also an almost murder and also arson !! Both by the kids (:

It’s a fun world i like to play around with because the kids dynamics are all super fun <3

[meiozis]

teehee its me

reading this again felt like meeting a dear friend after a while of not being able to catch up <33 but im writing this as im reading so lets gooo

Shakira waits for no one.

SO REAL shes the uniting force

y/n being a horse girl is something that can be so personal…

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

please 😭😭😭

everything about y/n’s inner monologue is so. like she gets it. also shes mad funny

DEATH BY A THOUSAND PAPERCUTS !! when i first read this line it infiltrated my brain and i have genuinely not been able to stop saying it ever since, like its literally part of my vocabulary now

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.

i wish i could add a voice memo of the way i laughed out loud at this

He might be the only person in the world who takes “pea-sized” seriously as a measurement tool.

get his ass

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.

and she would be so fucking right to do all that too

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

i just feel like y/n gets me and i get her. like you know how sometimes it’s like ‘i would NOT do that’ when you’re reading x reader fics. but this time i feel like im reading my diary from an alternate universe where joshua hong stares at my ass while im putting lipstick on the way the entire family treats her like she’s disposable and just an asset in their life, not their literal child is using my last nerve as a jumping rope but in a way where it makes me wanna read faster and get to the point where she’s finally happy

God really seems to have wasted a perfect face on him.

another line thats entering my vocab after this

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

arguably the most romantic song of all time

i would love to imagine that the skimpy black dress that gets mentioned is just Diana’s revenge dress

"The perfect opportunity to show the world that their hottest bachelorette is a bachelorette no longer. Also, we invited Pitbull.”

STOP i actually screamed vfdkhbgfd

The car ride to the derby feels like your own personal Saw trap, if Jigsaw wore a ridiculous hat and was actually your mother.

i desperately need u to know that im in love w the way ur brain works but also… SCREAAMMM the fact that the derby scene actually made it into the fic!!!! im actually getting a little emotional ngl… also obsessed w the way the whole part is executed, i love watching them bumble through the whole thing in an incredibly endearing way

“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.”

like come on this is everything to me. when will someone say this about me also Josh rapid firing horse puns is so dear to me

“Well, why can’t you?” you ask. “Minus the Beatles thing. Pick better music.”

the only reason no one likes her (in royal circles duh) is because shes always right

“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.” 

your comedic timing is so impeccable i wish this was a book so i could scribble all over it and slap it on my knees when im laughing at one of ur jokes and im Serious

OKAY hold on i need to go to part 2 asap i’ll see u there :-)

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 -> ]

[erodasfishtacos]

The Brits Dilemma

” Prompt: Harry & Y/N go to the Brits. It’s the first time they’ve been away from their baby. Y/N is struggling but doesn’t want to ruin the night for her husband.

Word Count: 1.8 k +

Warnings: Depictions of breastfeeding

+++++++

The award show was going well. It was the first time Y/N had been out in nearly three months besides a few brunch dates and grocery shopping.

Usually, she was pretty confident in what she wore to accompany her husband to all of these flashy events - but not tonight.

Her bump had deflated but she was still attempting to get rid of the stubborn pouch that stayed after the baby had been born. It wasn’t anything out of the norm - just still trying to lose it.

She was breastfeeding and her breasts were much larger than before. They felt heavy and too big for her body. Not to mention, they were constantly swollen and achey. Pads were a must so she doesn’t leak through the tight satin black dress.

The dress was a beautiful custom design by Gucci that complimented Harry’s sharp suit but nothing felt right. It was digging into her sides and made it hard for her to sit on her chair.

The Brits were held in the O2 Arena which wasn’t very far from their London home but she felt like she was lightyears away from her baby. Even though she knew Sasha was in good hands with Anne.

Y/N was so proud of Harry for being up for five - yes, five different awards. It was a record for him and she didn’t want to let him down by complaining. It was his night. He’s been such a devote father - he deserved a break too.

So she swallowed down the anxiety she was feeling about being away from their little newborn for the night along with her worries about her changing body.

There was milling about between the tables before the show got started. Harry had people coming up him constantly - congratulating him on the album, the nominations, the baby.

Married life and fatherhood suited him well. A dazzling wedding band on his left ring finger, a necklace with an S for his daughter, along with her name freshly inked on right above his butterfly tattoo.

The open jacket he wore with is his barely buttoned dress shirt displayed it proudly. It was beautiful, done delicately in a timeless cursive. The font match his wife name that was tattooed on his hand.

He couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t excited to have a night out with his wife. He had Jeff booked a hotel for the night to have some alone time with you while his mum got to enjoy a night with her only grandchild.

Y/N was counting down the hours up until tomorrow when she could go home to see her baby. She should really tell Harry that she wants to go home and not out to a club and the hotel.

But the it just slowly starts to deteriorate further when a bald, plump business exec comes to greet the two of you. He gives his warm wishes about the birth of your child before smiling at Y/N and stating, “The baby weight will come off soon enough.”

Her throat closes up a bit and she self-consciously tries to push her chair closer to the table. It was the last thing that she needed to hear. Confirming all of her worst insecurities.

Harry glares at the man before turning to his wife, “Hey, you look s’perfect, my love. I’m so bloody lucky you’re mine.”

He’s truly trying his hardest to bring a smile to her face but he notices it’s never quite meeting her eyes. 

It get even worse when Harry gets his first award, male solo artist of the year. 

As she’s standing and clapping for him - she realizes she’s beginning to leak through her nipple inserts.

Y/N excuses herself in the middle of his acceptance speech to rush through the string of tables - out into the corridor. The last thing she wanted to do was for it to show up on a very expensive dress.

The echo of his voice can still be heard, “Love to thank my beautiful wife who makes writing sappy love songs easy and was the main inspiration for my recent album. She also just gave birth to our beautiful baby.....”

She feels awful when she tunes him out, finding the bathroom and hurriedly rushing in. There’s a gorgeous woman standing at the sink, washing their hands. 

Fucking Taylor Swift.

Any other time it’d be awkward and uncomfortable - running into an ex who wrote multiple songs about her husband.

But she couldn’t careless right now, “Hi, erm, this is really weird but could you unzip my dress? I’m leaking and - shit that was way too much information.”

But Taylor smiles kindly, “No! It’s okay, totally. No worries. Congratulations on your baby - you look so hot tonight.”

Y/N laughs and thanks her for unzipping the dress before going into a stall and locking the door. She slides her bra straps off her shoulders and disposes of the soaked pad in the sanitary bin.

Luckily, she has a clean burp rag that she gently swipes at her breast - wincing as it brushes against her swollen nipples. Even the soft fabric felt too rough on them.

It’s a minute or two before the bathroom door swings open, “Y/N? Lovie? Are you in ‘ere?”

She feels guilt at the panic in his voice. Managing to croak out, “I’m in here,” before leaning forward to unlock the door.

Harry waste no time in sliding into the stall before latching the lock again. Taking in the sight of his wife in front of him.

“I-I started leaking, M’sorry,” Y/N whispers, she has no reason to feel embarrassed but she is. “I missed your speech.”

“None of that, baby. I’ll give more speeches for you to hear - I only care that you’re okay. I’m sorry y’leakin, lemme help you, pet.”

In true Harry fashion, he takes the rag and turns on the sink - running it under warm water before carefully cleaning his wife up.

“Are they botherin’ you? They look irritated and super swollen, darling,” Harry frowns, a very gentle thumb coming to brush against her nipple. Then cupping her swollen breast in his hand, thumb rubbing at the pink skin.

“Just a little bit,” She lies, they’re absolutely on fire with chafing and skin irritation from the bra she’s wearing. She never thought she’d miss her nursing bras and sports bras this much.

He nods and helps place new inserts in her bra. Who’d think this is what Harry would be doing between accepting awards. Everyone unassuming in the arena.

**

Harry has been four for four thus far into the ceremony. They’d only had him go up and give two acceptance speeches. His hand firmly planted on his wife’s thigh throughout. 

When he went up for his second award, the camera zooms in and the crowd coos are he plants a kiss on his wife’s lips before pulling her into a hug - whispering something into her ear the audience can’t hear.

He was much more focused on his wife. He could read her fairly well - he’d like to think. Enough to know she’s having much fun. But he didn’t want to bring it up and make her feel bad.

Harry sees the way she keeps adjusting her bra, fidgets with his rings when his hands in his lap, and not even really looking up while one of her favorite artist - Dua Lipa -performs.

Y/N loved a good party before the baby. So Harry was hoping going to the Brits afterparty would make her feel better and then going back to their hotel room for a some alone time.

**

Y/N has been increasingly quiet when they’re exiting the arena after the final award artist of the year - which Harry had also won.

He was on cloud nine and admittedly a little distracted as he joked and laughed with a small group of friends on the way out. 

“Alright, should we all just pile into a cab for the ride to the party?” Nick Grimshaw asks everyone.

Everyone is in agreement - including Harry -as he calls to order one - standing in the blocked off area away from fans and paparazzi.

Y/N wants to tell him she wants to go home to Sasha but when she hears him say, “Can’t wait to get to Exhibit - haven’t been there in forever. One of my favorite clubs.”

She bites her tongue. Harry is enjoying his night out - why can’t she?

In the taxi, she’s sat on Harry’s lap as they make their way to the club. His one hand is on her inner thigh and the other is on her waist holding her steady.

In the morning, she’ll blame her post-partum hormones and anxiety. But she doesn’t even realizing her eyes are filling with tears and when she blinks they spill down her face.

She wouldn’t feel as embarrassed if she wasn’t in the car full of literal celebrities who are filled with adrenaline and excitement. Chattering and drinking from little liquor bottles they’d snuck in their jackets and clutches.

“Y/N, are you alright?” Rita Ora asks from her seat - noticing the streaks ruining your makeup.

She nods pathetically, wiping at her eyes but Harry is turning her to face him. His bright green eyes filled with concern as he studies her face.

The previously very obnoxiously loud cab becomes silent as they try to give the couple a semblance of non-existent privacy.

“What’s happening, dove? Are you hurting?” Harry panics, coming to wipe the smeared makeup away.

“I don’t want to go to the club,” Y/N sniffles, squeezing her eyes shut at how embarrassed she is of her behavior. She would usually never act this way - especially in public. And Harry knows that so it makes him even more concerned.

“That’s okay, pet. We can go have a night in, when the cab stops - we can uber back to the hotel,” Harry soothes, surprised when that brings on fresh tears.

“N-no, I want to go home. I miss the baby, I want to- need to see our baby. I-I can’t do this. My anxiety is through the roof, Harry. What if she can’t sleep? Or isn’t taking the bottle?”

“Baby, breathe, breathe. We can go home. I miss the bub terribly too. Have been worried about her all night.”

Harry tugs his wife into his chest further - tucking her head into his neck as he shoots his friends grateful looks. They all nod, sympathetic and understanding - despite them not having kids of their own.

**

“I ruined your night,” Y/N says softly in the back of the uber home. “I leaked during the show; cried in front of all your friends.”

Harry takes her chin gentle but firm until she meets his gaze, “You didn’t ruin anything f’me. All I care about is you and the baby - not some stupid award ceremony or party.”

He continues on, “You just gave us Sasha three months ago - y’bloody amazing. Best mum, best wife. Sexiest too - know you don’t think that right now but your body literally grew my baby. I get a hard-on everytime I see you.”

They both laugh, Y/N leaning forward to capture her husbands lips in a meaningful kiss of gratitude and thanks.

**

Anne smiles kindly when the two of them arrive home. A very fussy, red-faced swaddled baby coddled in her arms. 

“She hasn’t settled for quite a while now - she missed her parents very much,” Harry’s mum tells them, transferring her into her father’s arms. He’s automatically rocking and running his thumb over her cheek.

“Ooh, we missed you. Was Nana nice to you?” Harry coos. Sasha has already quieted and is blinking tearfully up at her smiling father.

“Such a good girl, best girl,” Y/N sighs, leaning in to kiss her downy hair. Harry’s hand coming to wrap around his wife’s waist as they peer down at their perfect little daughter.

Anne smiles at his son and daughter-in-law fawning over their little creation with so much love and adoration.

After a minute of chatting -Harry’s mum makes her way up to the guest room after a long night with a miserable baby. They make their way to their room where Y/N strips out of her tight dress and awful bra. 

She sits against the headboard in just a pair of soft cotton panties. Harry is gently shushing her and humming a melody as his wife gets situated. He knew she was anxious to feed the baby.

“That’s it my sweet thing. Y’missed us, hm? We missed you too, bub. Nana said y’wouldn’t take the bottle. Only want your mumma, hmm?” Harry coos, kissing her chubby cheeks.

He’s then giving Y/N the baby, who ferociously latching within seconds and begins eating like she’d been starved for the last week. Making weak little rumbles as she does so.

They both giggle fondly, Y/Ns fingers come to touch her fluttering cheek - memorizing her over and over again.

Harry gets onto the bed and settles next to the both of them. Watching his baby feed in amazement at what his wife was capable of. He smears a few kisses against her bare shoulder - hand on his baby’s back.

How strong she was - as he knew it had to be at least a little bit painful with how irritated her nipples had been. He can tell when she winces every once in a while.

He plants a few more kisses to her warm skin - noticing her eyes getting a bit droopy as Sasha feeds at a slow, suckling pace.

“If I’m being honest, being with you - watching you feed our baby...I’d rather be here than at any club.” 

Y/N snorts, rolling her eyes, “Sure.”

Her husband frowns, “M’serious, this is all I need, baby.”

“I love you, congratulation on all your Brits,” Y/N murmurs, pecking at his lips.

“I love you too. I meant it, during my speeches. I wouldn’t have been able to write those songs if you hadn’t inspired me. You’ll and the bab will always be the best muse.”

[talesofstyles]

Drs Styles

paediatric heart surgeon harry, husband harry and dad harry. honestly the holy trinity.

warning: they did it in the car. bloody animals.

Harry

“Move your car, please!”

“What are you going to do? Write me a ticket?”

“This is in the interests of safety for the children!”

I look at the time in the car. I’ve still got about twenty to twenty-five minutes to watch this drama unfold at the school gate. I just wish we had popcorn because drop-off and parking situations at the school gates are always more entertaining than Good Morning Britain. 

The school gate is a strange social scene, and honestly, I don’t blame my wife for trying to avoid it like a plague. Sometimes, you don’t even have to talk to these people to know everything about their lives and more. I swear there are more gossips in the class WhatsApp group and daily playground chattering than in the copies of The Sun and Daily Mail combined. You know who’s married, who’s getting a divorce, whose husband shagged the au pair again, whose party you haven’t been invited to, even who’s looking for a builder. 

I see the school caretaker chuckling to himself as he sweeps the autumn leaves off the pathway, no doubt also enjoying our morning entertainment. 

“Why is Mrs Chambers screaming like that?” Alma, our eldest daughter, asks from the back of the car. 

“Because that man parks his car in a drop-off zone,” I reply, still watching him as he removes a child from his car seat. “Do you know who that is?”

“I think the boy is your classmate,” Alma turns to her sister.

Fiona, our youngest, peers over to inspect. “Oh yeah, that’s Rufus and his dad.”

“Do we like Rufus?”

“Not unless we like boys who pee down the slides,” Fiona scrunches her nose up. “He stood at the top and peed down like a waterfall. I haven’t gone down the slide ever since.”

I shake my head and let out a chuckle. “M’sure they’ve cleaned it up since, button.” 

Did you know that choosing a school for your child after nursery can be a head-throbbing, stomach-twisting, heart-pounding experience? Well, it can. How is one supposed to choose a school anyway? According to the proximity? Leavers Results? Adorable uniforms? Parents’ agendas?

After many, many discussions and visits through more schools than I can count, we ended up with Thomas’s Kensington. It’s a great school, and only ten minutes away from our home, making school runs easier. The downside of this school is the fact that it costs us an arm and a leg and that they’re always trying to rip us off any chance they get. Also, they only take the kids until 11, so after that, we’ll have to look for other schools again. But since our girls are only seven and five, we can worry about that later. 

There’s a strange mix of parents at this place. I went to school up in the North and the school gate scene is nothing like this. Here there are more au pairs, fancy cars, nicer clothes and people coming with impressive tans from their last weekend break in Antibes. The kids here are suited up too: the PE kit is the size of a small weekender bag, and we put them in uniforms that make them look smart, hoping that will increase the size of their brains. A child walks past our car with a cello case, another with a hockey stick. It’s a different land here. One that my socialist in-laws constantly tease us about and one which my mum was hysterical about because she was scared her grandbabies would be little Tories. I promised her I’d keep them grounded by only giving them plain hobnobs. None of those luxury chocolate covered ones.

Jokes aside, my girls are happy here. They’re thriving. They learn French and Spanish and Mandarin, even if they share a class with kids who have ridiculous names like Kitty and Archibald. 

A knock at my window calls me to attention. I wind it down.

“Are you Fiona’s dad?” A mum asks me.

“I am.”

“It’s about Ophelia’s riding party this Saturday at the riding stables.” 

Like I said, it’s a different land here.

“I thought we RSVPed to that?” I look at her in confusion.

“Yes, you did, but we have to change the food options as one of the partygoers is allergic to nuts. I’m making everyone aware and we need to let the guests know that they can’t bring any nuts on the day.”

A dirty joke is right there on the tip of my tongue and I’m trying my hardest to keep it in. My wife would definitely find it funny though, I’ve got to remember this and tell her later. 

“Noted,” I mean, I wasn’t going to send my daughter to a party with a packet of cashews anyway but I nod politely.

“And just gift vouchers for gifts please. Smiggle, if you can.”

Again, I nod, biting my tongue at the presumptuousness. But then I suddenly panic, because we haven’t entered the realms of pony riding just yet. Do I have to buy jods and boots? If I don’t, will my daughter be the odd one out? But Ophelia’s mum saunters off before I’ve got the chance to ask.

“Do I have to go to that party, daddy?” Fiona asks. 

“Well, we’ve already replied, poppet,” I tell her. “Did you not want to go?”

“I’ll go if I have to.”

I don’t answer because I get distracted by a vacant space. I edge the car forward so my girls can hop off. 

“I love you both. Have a good day, make good choices.” 

“Bye daddy! We’ll see you after work!”

***

Evelina London Children’s Hospital is our second home. Of course, as a children’s hospital, we try to make the place as fun as possible as not to freak those little patients out at being ill. It is bright and primary coloured, and each ward is decorated according to its own theme with different colours and lovely artworks. There are televisions and toys almost in every corner. We have a giant slide on the ground floor, and even the bins are shaped like red London buses. The aim was to help the children to forget that they’re in a hospital and take their minds off their sickness.

Since my wife and I are in the same department, our offices are next to each other, both overlooking the Thames. It’s nice up here. Would’ve been nicer if we could sneak in a quickie, but that’s practically impossible with our shared secretary’s desk sitting literally in front of our doors. 

Speak of the devil.

“Good morning. Here’s your tea,” my secretary follows me into my office with a cup of tea and a tiny plate with a couple of rich tea fingers. “Clinic until 3 pm, scheduled PDA ligation in the laboratory for 4 pm and then evening rounds on the wards.”

“Mornin’ Rhonda, you look lovely today,” I greet her cheerily. She’s a stern-looking woman who definitely likes her tea as strong as tits and who has probably never cried in her life. With such severity, she runs a tight ship, but she secretly has this affectionate side in her too. Not only is she a great secretary, but she also takes care of us in a way as a grandma does. She makes us tea, feeds us in between surgeries with biscuits or nice baby cheeses and crackers just so we wouldn’t starve. 

See that sofa over there in the corner of my office? Rhonda got me that. It was around the time when I had just become a new father with the sweetest, most gorgeous little baby who did not sleep. Alma wasn’t a fussy baby though. For some reason, she just wouldn’t go back to sleep after her midnight feed for months. Believe me, I tried everything. I changed her nappy, I swayed and jiggled and rocked and sung her to sleep. Odd nonsensical songs like, ‘Alma darling go to sleeep. Sleepy sleep sleep. Pleeeeease. I’m so tirrrred. My eyeballs may actually exploooode. I don’t want you to see thaaat.’ And she would just look at me all wide-eyed like I’d lost the plot. Those were song lyrics? That was rubbish. Please don’t give up your day job. Also, it’s not sleeping time. I’m awake. I’m ready for life. Come on, entertain me, old man. Isn’t this nice, just you and me? Tell me everything you know. EVERYTHING. 

Except of course she didn’t say all that. She would just stare at me and I had no idea what was going on in her little head. 

I took over my wife’s patients at the hospital during her maternity leave, so I had longer hours at the hospital. One day Rhonda found me napping on the floor between surgeries, so she sweet-talked some porters into looking for any old sofas on the go and paid to have this one reupholstered. She even bought me a fleece throw for it too. We really don’t deserve her.

“You hittin’ on me?” She deadpans. “Yer wife not doing it for you these days?”

“It’s the blazer. I’m a sucker for a blazer.”

“If I’d known, I would’ve worn it more often,” she replies. “Did my nice dress yesterday not give you the fanny flutters?”

“It’s schlong shiver for me,” I roar with laughter. “And it’s the tartan, makes you look well old.”

“YN, yer husband’s a bloody git, did I ever tell you that?” Rhonda says loud enough for my wife to hear, and I can hear my wife’s laughter from her office next door. “Drink your tea. Your first clinic appointment is in twenty.”

“Yes ma’am,” I salute her. 

***

The Arctic ward in the Evelina is home to many of our imaging, heart and kidney services. The name is probably giving it away, but everything is decorated in blue and white to go with the theme. We have several zones, and since paediatric cardiology clinics are held in the Walrus zone, I spend a great deal of time each day looking at walrus and snowflake decals. 

“Doctor Styles!” I hear a little voice shouts in excitement as I walk towards the waiting room in the outpatient ward. I smile, because I recognise that voice even before I see the little person.

The waiting room is very open here compared to other hospitals. There’s a sea of noise, snacks, tiny juice boxes and colouring pages. There’s also always a look of expectation, judgement on the faces of parents and guardians every time I walk in. They want to see if their doctor is old or qualified enough to see their children. There’s always one child who has the whole gang with them; parents, two sets of grandparents and even several aunts and uncles, and there’s also at least one child running around in circles out of boredom. 

This little lad bounces off his chair and hurls himself at me in a way like a little puppy would when its owner comes home from work. I put an arm out, hoping that he’ll apply the brakes but no such luck and he bundles himself into my arms. “Nice to see you, mate.”

His parents smile as they watch their son’s antics, who then runs off as I shake their hands. I turn around to see what caught his attention, and I can’t help but chuckle when I realise it’s my wife. 

“Doctor pretty Styles!” He exclaims excitedly as he bundles himself into her arms. She gets a mouthful of curls in the process. 

“Hi Rory,” she greets him as she runs her fingers through his curly mop. 

“Oi,” I pout as I walk towards them. “You don’t think I’m pretty?”

“Your wife is prettier,” he says with a shrug, his tone matter-of-fact.

She laughs and gives him a high-five. “Rory, you are officially my favourite patient.”

She is right. Rory is one of our special patients for sure. We’ve both known him for about six years now, ever since Rory’s mum gave birth to this tiny human next door at St Thomas and his heart was literally broken. I remember watching proudly from the theatre when my wife replaced two of his valves when he was born. It was in our early years of training. Long time patients like Rory almost always feel like family. We’ve seen all their parents’ tears and watched over their children throughout the years. They send us cards and wine every Christmas and despite all attempts to keep a professional distance, their kids do feel like our own.

Rory shrugs off his dinosaur rucksack and unzips it, pulling out a drawing of a blue whale and an opened packet of KitKat. I like that the whale wears a top hat and appears to also don a moustache. 

“I drew you both a picture. Only one though, because I figure you can share,” he says with a big toothy grin and hands the packet of KitKat to my wife. “And I’ve got half a KitKat here. Do you want it?”

“I’m good for now. Keep that KitKat for later on the tube,” she smiles and waves at Rory as she begins to walk away towards the fetal cardiology ward just down the hall. “Bye Rory, thanks for the picture.”

“Bye doctor pretty Styles,” Rory replies, making my wife laugh as she walks away. I give her a wave and a wink. 

“Hey Rory, did you know a blue whale has a heart the size of a small car?” I ask him and his eyes widen.

“No way! That’s mega!” He exclaims. “Do you think you could operate on a whale heart?”

“I would need a very big ladder,” I tell him. “And a wetsuit. I’d give it a go though.”

A senior nurse from the outpatient ward, Florence approaches us with a junior nurse trailing behind her. “Dr Styles, always a pleasure.”

I smile at her. “Florence. How are we today?”

“Busy as usual,” she replies. “We’re about twenty minutes behind I’m afraid. We had Dr Goodridge in this morning and you know he likes to talk.”

“He always runs over,” I chuckle. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll skip lunch and get us back up to speed.”

“I’ll make sure to send some snacks for you. Here’s your chart, your files are already in your office. And this is Alice, your nurse today. She’s newly qualified so might need some instructions.”

The new nurse looks terrified so I smile at her to try and calm her fears. I totally get that. When you work in medicine, unfortunately, you’ll realise that there are a lot of rude self-important wankers. 

I look down at my chart and find Rory’s name on the top of the list. “Well, look who’s coming with me to the exam room.”

Rory reaches out to hold my hand and we walk towards the examination room. His parents follow us closely, carrying the usual coats and devices that people do when they know they’re bound for a hospital waiting room. I see them inside and sit behind the desk.

“So, young man, I hear we’ve had a touch of drama with you. Can you tell me what happened?”

I’ve actually already got the information in the file, but I like the way this kid tells a story. He reminds me of my youngest. 

“So… I was at school and we were doing PE and I wasn’t really feeling it because it was cold and really we should have been inside but Mr Witter makes us go outside because he used to be in the Army apparently and he says we should get used to the cold but that’s what they do in prisons.”

I smile. “Go on.”

“And then my heart started running.”

“You mean racing?”

He nods firmly. Racing isn’t even the word. It sprinted to the finish like Bolt at 252 beats per minute, three times the speed it should.

“It felt like bubbles in my chest and then the school went crazy panicky and they called the ambulance and they brought me to the hospital but not this one, it was another one and it wasn’t as good because you weren’t there and they had really bad biscuit.”

His mum adds. “And they gave him some drugs to bring it back to a steady rhythm; they were close to shocking him.” Her voice trails off and both parents’ faces look drawn and pale remembering the incident.

Rory looks absolutely unbothered by this. To be fair, we have put this little man through everything. We’ve cut his chest open more times than is necessary for someone so small, we hook him up to machines and put him on treadmills. His resilience and character amaze me, and I really can’t imagine what it feels like to see your child so vulnerable and helpless, to be paralysed and weighed down with such worry.

“Alright then, little man, we need to make sure that your heart is working as it should. This is Alice, and she is going to take you over for an ECG and we just need to make sure your tick-tock is in good shape.”

Rory nods and jumps off the chair. His dad offers him a piggyback, and his mum smiles at them. I can hear Rory offering that half KitKat to Alice as they leave the room. 

His mother turns to me as the door is closed, her shoulders relaxing, allowing herself to breathe. “And how are you?” I ask her.

“You just think it’s done and then something like that comes along to scare you,” she says with a sigh.

“Let’s have these tests and then see if it’s anything major to worry about,” I try to calm her. “Episodes of rapid heartbeat is quite common in Rory’s case, and we can look into drugs to remedy that if necessary.”

She smiles, nodding.

“Did you have any other questions for me?”

She studies my face for a moment too long. “I… well, it will show up in Rory’s records soon, but my husband I are… I mean we’re getting a divorce.”

I pause for a moment. Of course, I know these things happen in life, but I’ve known this couple for years. I’ve seen them at their lowest ebb, bound by friendship and their love for that boy. I really do feel sorry for them.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“We just… we’re terrified about telling Rory.”

“He doesn’t know?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “We’re scared of breaking him. I mean, look at him. All of this stuff he’s been through and he carries on like nothing has happened. We don’t want to upset him.”

“It took a team of us the best part of six years to build Rory’s heart. There's a warranty on that workmanship,” I reassure her. “Have that chat with him. He’ll be fine.”

***

“Have we got time for dinner first?” I turn to my wife as we walk out of the hospital. We don’t normally have the luxury of ending our shift at the same time, but today is exceptional. We have parents’ evening at the girls’ school so Rhonda made sure to clear up our schedule after our evening rounds at the ward. 

“No, but we can raid M&S and eat in the car?”

I’m starving and I almost cry with relief at the suggestion. “Always knew I married the right woman.”

She chuckles. “Damn right you did.”

We leave the car at the hospital and she drags me along the walkways to Waterloo, the breeze biting at our cheeks. I pull her into M&S, dodging the marching commuters and grab a basket. 

“I’ll look for some wine,” she says before she saunters off. “Oh and I want sushi. None of that crap with the mayonnaise please.”

“Alright.”

I skipped lunch today so the whole place calls to me. I start taking very random things off the shelves: a packet of raspberry iced buns. That’ll do. I also take some hummus for my wife because she bloody loves hummus. I’m not even joking, I’ve seen her down a whole pot of it. Then I take some sushi as requested, some coleslaw, a family bag of mature cheddar and red onion crisps and a trifle. I hope I don’t bump into Rhonda. Next are cheese twists, noodle salad and cocktail sausages. 

It takes me a while to notice that there is a man right next to me with a roll of yellow stickers in their back pocket. Hello there, you are one of my favourite people tonight. Have I managed to find that sacred hour when all the food is being marked down? He labels some prawns with dip and even though I get a little squeamish about eating fish near its expiry date, I put it in my basket. I then follow him around the corner. Now, this is dinner. I put all sorts of random food in my basket and smile at the thought.

Ooh, knockdown pizzas. I should get a pizza. That’s tomorrow’s tea sorted, the girls will love it. Although I can’t help but wonder, what’s the limit for us to feed our daughters frozen pizza in a week before they get taken away from us? But eh, we might be able to get away with it if we give them frozen peas on the side. 

“Look at you,” says my wife, depositing two bottles of red in the basket. 

“Yes, it’s me. I’m the yellow sticker bitch.”

She snickers as we turn to head for the tills. “Excellent work.”

***

“Mr and Mrs Styles, welcome.”

“Mrs Ebner, always a pleasure,” I shake the headmistress’ hand who’s standing at the door. 

“Busy evening?” My wife asks her as she shakes her hand next.

“Always,” the headmistress replies with a smile, then proceeds to speak like she’s reading out of brochures. “But such a wonderful opportunity to connect with our parents and build on the special relationships we have with our school community.” 

Two uniformed minions appear.

“Lewis, Maggie, could you please show Mr and Mrs Styles through to the drinks reception?”

They both nod in unison. The boy holds his arms out like a waiter showing us to our table. We follow them through the school’s grand corridors to the main hall. It’s the one thing I like about this place. It’s very Hogwarts-like with hefty engraved name boards and sepia photos of successful sports teams. In the hall, a throng of parents mill around waiting to see respective teachers. It’s the same every year. We all dodge the people from the PTA trying to sell us quiz tickets, and the bowls of crisps out of hygiene concerns.

“Red or white?” Asks a lady in an apron.

This right here is the very reason we get through parents’ evening. From the look of the bottle, it’s decent wine too. I think that’s where a good proportion of our fees is going. 

“Red, please.”

We both take our glasses and walk to the corner of the hall. It’s essentially a holding area without the background music. The idea is that all the parents will get on and create a party vibe but it just becomes a strange family gathering. As terrible as it sounds, it’s sorted into cliques: parents who know each other via NCT groups, the international expat brigades who keep to themselves, the parents who’ve ostracised themselves by gossip, the ones who you know regularly brunch and ski together.

The boy from earlier suddenly appears in front of us. “Mrs Hughes is ready for you.”

I put my hand on the small of my wife’s back as we walk towards the classroom. Fiona’s teacher first and then Alma’s straight after. Right, we can do this.

“Mrs Hughes, we meet again,” I shake her hand. I’ve got no qualms about Mrs Hughes. She’s a seasoned teacher who likes a slack and sensible moccasin and we’re familiar with her since she taught Alma two years previously. When we enter the classroom, Lewis bows in reverence, taking his leave and I wonder whether to tip him. 

“It’s always lovely to have another Styles girl in my classroom. Fiona is a particular delight.”

My wife and I smile proudly. I’m sure Mrs Hughes says this to every parent here about their child, but that’s always nice to hear. 

“She talks a lot about you,” my wife says. “She seems to have settled in well.”

Mrs Hughes opens up a couple of books and it’s classic Fiona. Alma is ordered and neat—if she makes a mistake then she erases it completely and she underlines things with a ruler and listens to instruction carefully. She gets that from her mum. Fiona though, on the other hand, she’s all me. She has more wild abandon about her; no rulers, no rubbers. She puts giant crosses through things that don’t work and likes her bubble writing decorated with doodles of many, many cats.

I glance around the classroom as Mrs Hughes talks to us about standardised scores. The theme of the school is to show you how smart and educated these children are. Look at the copperplate handwriting, their reproductions of Van Gogh and our languages corner where they’ve all had a go at telling us what they like in French. I spy a contribution from my girl. J’adore les chats et le gâteau au chocolat. 

I’ve lost track of the conversation so I try to catch up.

“So to push Fiona into those top scores, perhaps we can look into tutoring? For maths, in particular, so she can grasp some of the concepts a little more tightly,” says Mrs Hughes. 

My wife and I look at each other confused. “Uh, I don’t think there’s a need, right? She’s only five.”

“It’s never too early,” replies Mrs Hughes. “We run an after-school tutoring club on Tuesdays that would help.”

Back when I was a youngster, clubs were fun endeavours that involved matching baseballs caps or were a chocolate biscuit that you had in your lunchbox. Maths tutoring session was not a club.

I ask her. “Is it free?”

“It’s fifteen pounds per session.”

See? My point being this should be a parents’ evening, not a sales session.

“Well, then it’s something to think about,” says my wife. “It could be that Fiona catches up with people throughout the year.”

“Possibly,” Mrs Hughes nods. Still, though, she proceeds to go into her folder and passes me a form. Sneaky. “Fiona has also shown great interest in languages and art. Her pictures have been a joy.”

Mrs Hughes goes to a file and pulls one of Fiona’s drawings. I glance down at it. It’s a standard child piece of art. The grass and sky are strips of colour to the top and bottom. It’s a family portrait, and we are as tall as the broccoli style trees. Wait, hang on a second. I count the number of people in the picture again. Is that-

“And Mrs Styles, I gather congratulations are in order,” she says with a smile. “Such lovely news.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Fiona told me it’s a boy,” she adds, and the sheer terror on my wife’s face at the realisation is priceless. “You must be very thrilled.”

I study the picture. There’s a house in the middle, and standing in a line in front of the house is our family. The one slightly taller than the broccoli tree is me. I’ve got my white lab coat, and I look like a serial killer because I’m holding a scalpel with the size of a butcher’s knife. Next to me is my wife, also with a white lab coat, but instead of a scalpel, she’s holding a very chunky baby who rather looks like a basketball with a head.

“Oh dear,” I chuckle. “Guess now we know what she’ll ask for Christmas.”

“Yeah,” my wife shakes her head. “We’re not expecting.”

“Oh, I apologise,�� Mrs Hughes says with a sheepish smile.

“No worries, Mrs Hughes,” I tell her. “So, what else has our girl been up to here? Besides gossiping of course.”

Mrs Hughes laughs under her breath. “Well, in class, Fiona is attentive, bright and very helpful. She is a credit to you both.”

***

“I swear your daughter, Styles.”

We’re sitting in the car now. Finally done with parents’ evening, still laughing at the slightly creepy, chunky basketball baby in Fiona’s picture and the fact that three people, including Mrs Hughes, have congratulated us for the ‘baby’.

“You haven’t called me Styles in years,“ I turn to her with a grin. “Not since medical school.”

I can’t help but flashback to the good ol’ days when we had matching university hoodies and we’d test each other on the parts of a kidney whilst walking into lectures, sitting next to each other, sharing pens and cans of Lilt. 

“Well, after that I became a Styles too,” she chuckles. “Would be confusing then, wouldn’t it?”

“True,” I laugh under my breath, then I grab her hand and pull it to my mouth so I can kiss her knuckles. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For being a Styles.”

“Aw, aren’t we soppy tonight?” She smirks. “Alright, stop the car.”

“What?”

“There,” she points to a dark empty spot and I oblige. 

Then, before I can even ask her why, she reaches over and grabs me by the collar. Pulling me close to her and gives me a kiss. I kiss her back, and I smile when she bites gently on my bottom lip.

“Oi, oi. Something’s got you randy.”

The next thing I know, she undoes her seatbelt and then rolls her trousers down her legs along with her knickers, fumbling and giggling at the awkward movement. I push my seat back and pull my trousers down. 

“Don’t fall on gearstick now,” I joke as she climbs over to straddle me. “Well, unless you want to, of course…”

She laughs as she lowers herself over my lap. I really can’t believe what’s happening here.

“Mrs Styles, we’re about to have sex in a car. Around the corner from our daughters’ school.” 

“I know,” she says with a smile before she runs her tongue along my neck. “Not our first rodeo though.”

“Oh right, we did it in our Volvo years ago, didn’t we? Thought the suspension couldn’t take it.”

“And it turned out fine. Told you that you needed to have more faith in the Swedes, they’re a reliable breed.”

“I love it when you talk about Sweden.”

“Ikea.”

“Fuck.”

“Meatballs.”

“Billy Bookcase.”

She throws her head back in laughter and I take this as an opportunity to run my tongue along her collar bone. She gasps. I reach down to lift her before I slowly lower her over my cock. We both sigh as I enter her, a long exhalation with our lips barely touching. 

“Viggo Mortensen.”

“Isn’t he Danish?”

“Tomato, Tomahto.”

I smile at my wife and push my hips up, silently telling her that we don’t need to talk about Swedish people anymore. She grabs onto the car seat and levers herself up and down. I look at her in the eye, a goofy smile still plastered across my face.

But then I squint. Light. Bollocks, what’s that? Where’s that light coming from? Crap, that’s bright. Shit. I see the flash of a hi-vis jacket, a knock at the window and someone shaking their head.

Oh sodding fucking bollocking shit wank.

[basiccortez]

Fall- S.F.K

Note: the video of Sam busting his ass plays in my mind on repeat at least every day. 

REQUESTS ARE OPEN 

warnings: cursing, Sam falling, Sam wearing shoes

Sam blamed you. You just had to guilt him into wearing the new boots you had bought him. The brown Chelsea boots were similar to his brother’s, a pointed toe and minisucle heel, something you thought Sam could handle, but clearly you were wrong. 

The boys were playing a smaller venue for the night. You loved the smaller venues as much as you loved watching them with a full stadium. You had made your first comment about the stage being slick when you were helping Sam set up his amps during pre show. Josh had agreed with you, running his foot over the surface a couple times to get the feel for it. Sam just laughed it off, and you simply warned him: “if you fall on your ass, I’m gonna die of laughter,” 

And that’s exactly what happened. 

You and Mackenzi stood on the side of the stage singing along and dancing around as the boys played through their set. Her eyes were clearly glued on the quiet drummer and yours were glued on the bass player. Sam was beautiful when he played, letting his full body be taken over my the music and pleasure that ran through him. You had made the comment once that his bass face and orgasm face were basically identical. Josh, of course being the stage man he is, was soaking up all the attention and screams from the fans. 

It happened quickly, and you really don’t even know what Sam was doing .03 seconds before, but he was up, and then he was not. The moment his foot slipped out from under him, you let out and audible gasp as he picked up his bass enough so it wouldn’t smack on the floor. He landed with a thud, kicking some receiver off the stage. You could see the “ow!” that left his lips as he massaged his tailbone slight. 

Josh tried to contain his laughter, opting to continue on with his song, and leaving his baby brother on the floor. Jake hadn’t even realized what had happened, opening his eyes to find his brother on the floor, a pained expression on his face. Sam just nodded and gave you a tight lipped smile as you were basically dying and Mackenzi was holding you up. He rolled his eyes as you were gasping in between laughs, still can’t believe what just happened. He grabbed his bass and started playing where he had left off, and eventually pushed himself off the ground and walked back, slowly, to his spot by the amps. 

The boys took their final bows and walked back stage. Sam handed off his bass and then walked over to you. You cooed at him, sticking your lip out trying to hide your smirk. He rolled his eyes and wrapped you in a sweaty hug and kissed the top of your head. You were bitting back the inevitable ‘I told you so’. 

“I think I broke my ass,” He said. 

“What the hell even happened?” Josh said, laughing. 

“Yeah Sam, one minute you’re up and next minute you’re on your ass,” Jake said. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t even notice,” Danny said, his arm wrapped around Mackenzi. 

“It literally was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” You said laughing again and Mackenzi joining in. You two messing around and joking recreating and acting out Sam’s fall as you guys walked back to the green room. Sam was trying his hardest not to smile at the sweet sound of laughter leaving your pink lips. Sam sat down slowly on the couch, getting to rest his probably bruised tailbone.

 “Oh my god, there’s a video!” You cried watching the video that a fan had posted online. You should it to the boys and they bursted out with laughter, well except Sam, who hid his face in your hair. 

Hours and many drinks later, you and Sam were back in your hotel room. Sam ground, flopping down on his stomach and laying his head on the white pillows. You giggled, taking off your coat and taking off your boots. 

“Baby?” Sam asked, and you acknowledged him with a hum, taking off the rest of clothes, and putting on one of his t-shirts, “Can you massage my butt?” He asked so softly, you barely heard him. 

You smiled at him and nodded. He stood up and shucked off his jeans and then laid back down on his stomach. You climbed on his thighs and sat below his butt. He hissed in pain as you touched his lower back, and then relaxed as you softly kneaded the soft tissue. You bit back your smirk as you poked him in-between his cheeks. He sucked in a breath and grabbed your hand stopping you. 

“You’re done,” 

[silverflame2724]

WWX doesn't die, he is found and taken captive by the Jin Sect but spends 13 years in a coma under lock and key until he wakes up to interrogate. When the truth about the JGY is revealed, JL recruits LWJ to ferret out whatever else the Jins had been hiding, discovering the still comatose WWX. WWX is taken to Gusa in hopes of waking him up no one has much hope but then WWX stirs when LWJ plays Wangxian...

Jin Guangshan was, to put it lightly, pissed when they brought back a comatose Wei Wuxian from the Siege. After all, what he was after was Wei Wuxian’s genius. His inventions. And how could they possibly access them with him asleep?

Jin Guangyao had considered torture, at first, to try and wake him up. And he tried to get his subordinates to do it but they couldn’t even get close, intimidated by the resentful energy-soaked aura emanating from Wei Wuxian.

So Jin Guangyao had taken it into his own hands.

…….And failed miserably.

He couldn’t even touch the unconscious man before resentful energy lashed out at him, leaving deep, viscous, slow-healing wounds all over his arms. And any means of torturing him out of sleep from a distance was taken out of his hands, literally, by resentful tentacles.

When he brought Xue Yang in to try and wake Wei Wuxian up, the resentful energy he commanded made the situation a whole lot worse as the resentful energy leaking from Wei Wuxian wrapped him up protectively and crystalized the man in resentful energy.

“Well!” Xue Yang exclaimed cheerfully. “This is quite interesting. I’ve never seen resentful energy act so protectively before! And as much as I’d love to study this, I don’t think the resentful energy is willing to let me get close.” Just as he said this, a tentacle whipped out and sliced across Xue Yang’s cheek.

Jin Guangyao sighed, herding Xue Yang out and locking the room up. Wei Wuxian will have to wake up eventually. I just have to be patient. The injuries Wei Wuxian had weren’t terrible and with how strong Wei Wuxian’s golden core was, it’s only a matter of time before he heals. Perhaps he’ll wake up then.

But he didn’t. He never did. 

...................................

After all the lies had been revealed and Jin Guangyao had been condemned and killed, Jin Ling decided to look through Jin Guangyao’s belongings, just in case there was more forbidden stuff that needs to be taken care of. Of course, he didn’t want to go in without any protection cause who knows what’s there! (Maybe there was another Wen Ning?) So he asked Hanguang-Jun to help him. He would ask his jiujiu, but he had been oddly despondent after hearing Jin Guangyao’s taunts that none of this would have happened had he trusted Wei Wuxian more. So asking jiujiu was out of the question!

Besides, Hanguang-Jun looked like he needed something to do.

In the end, they found a lot of stuff pertaining to demonic cultivation and restoring the Seal. As well as a warded diary containing dirt on a lot of sect leaders. 

As Jin Ling wandered around, he heard a sudden shaking and worried about an earthquake until he turned around to see Hanguang-Jun staring at the entrance to a room that wasn’t there before. As soon as the man stepped in, he made a wounded sound that Jin Ling had never heard before before rushing in.

Jin Ling had the inkling that he probably shouldn’t follow, but curiosity got the better of him. 

The room looked well-furnished and had all the makings of a bedroom, but that’s not what caught Jin Ling’s attention. Instead, it was a man encased in black crystal.

“Wei Ying.....” Hanguang-Jun seemed to sob. “Wei Ying......”

Wei Ying? As in, Wei Wuxian? My supposed deceased Dajiu???? What the hell is he doing here? Oh wait. That was a stupid question. Looking at all the material on demonic cultivation, Jin Guangyao probably wanted to get some information about it from him......

Considering there was nothing else in the room, Jin Ling silently made his exit. He felt like he shouldn’t have seen Hanguang-Jun crying. Oh well.

He busied himself gathering the stray papers and manuscripts and stuffed them into his qiankun pouch. He didn’t want to touch the dangerous looking stuff.

There was a sound, much like the shattering of glass, and Hanguang-Jun exited the room, a pale, but breathing Wei Wuxian cradled in his embrace.

They packed up the remaining objects in the room and left. After making sure Jin Ling had everything in order, Hanguang-Jun unsheathed Bichen and left without another word. Seeing the wide-eyed gazes of a few Jin elders, Jin Ling sighed. Wei Wuxian’s survival probably won’t be a secret anymore now.

...........................

Lan Wangji could hardly believe his eyes when he first saw Wei Ying. He had thought he was dreaming or this was some cruel sort of curse. But it wasn’t. 

The feel of the resentful energy coursing throughout the crystal literally shocked him so he was sure he wasn’t dreaming. He touched Wei Ying’s face through the crystal.

“Wei Ying.....” He cried. “Wei Ying.....” You’re alive. You’re really alive.......

After some time, he pulled himself together. He had to figure out how to transport Wei Wuxian to Gusu to figure out how to break the crystal......

The crystal shattered abruptly, startling Lan Wangji. He was about to catch Wei Ying, when the resentful energy did it for him, causing Wei Ying to float in the air for a bit, before carrying him over to Lan Wangji and dropping him in his arms.

Lan Wangji was bewildered at the resentful energy’s actions, but nevertheless, that solved the issue of getting Wei Ying out of here. 

He barely registered Jin Ling fluttering about the room, absentmindedly sealing and packing away the dangerous objects. He helped Jin Ling settle the items they found in the secret room before taking off to Gusu without another word. 

.

.

Wei Ying did not wake up no matter what anyone did. Now that he had been absolved of any and all crimes had been accused of, his uncle had allowed Wei Ying’s presence, in fact, even looking quite guilty. Lan Qiren had been the loudest voice in the Lan sect about ridding the world of Wei Ying.

But three days passed without any change to Wei Ying’s state.

Most healers had given up hope, some even citing that the damage to Wei Wuxian’s soul was probably too great to ever allow him to awaken--not that they could check that. They all said that he probably didn’t want to wake up. After all the cultivation world had done to him, Lan Wangji wouldn’t blame him.

But he was human, he was selfish. He wanted to hear Wei Ying again, no matter what.

Sitting by his side, Lan Wangji brought out his guqin, playing a song he hadn’t touched in over a decade. He poured all his love, all his longing and passion into the playing, hoping that maybe, Wei Ying would hear it and answer.

It was just wishful thinking. But Lan Wangji had spent thirteen years wishfully thinking that Wei Ying was alive and he was right.

He just.....He wanted---

A soft groan broke the air and Lan Wangji stopped playing, rushing over to Wei Ying’s side. 

Wei Ying’s hand twitched and his eyes fluttered.

[daydreamerhabitz]

I'm kind of worried about the message that the latest disney animations are trying to give out, specifically Raya and the last dragon and Encanto. Hear me out (Spoilers ahead!!):

Both are beautiful movies, don't get me wrong, I cried my eyes out while watching both of them, but despite their beauty I couldn't shake of the nagging feeling that they left me when it comes to how the protagonist's trauma is handled and "solved" at the end of the story.

In Raya and the last dragon, Raya is betrayed by what she thought was a friend, lost her home and her dad because of said betrayal and throughout the story the plot keeps pushing the idea that she needs to just "trust" people and make amends with Namaari, the person who betrayed Raya and caused her whole trauma to begin with, without Namaari even making an effort to regain Raya's trust and forgiveness. In fact, the story proceeds to shift the responsibility onto Raya and the main conflict is only resolved when our main protagonists literally put their lives on the hands of someone who only caused them harm throughout the story.

Meanwhile, though not as clear as in the previous movie, Encanto has a similar approach when regarding Mirabel's own trauma. Sure, in the end Abuela Alma recognizes her wrong ways, apologizes to Mirabel and the Madrigals have their happy family once again, but I feel that the way that it was done is kind of unrealistic and can end up sending the wrong message.

Mirabel, throughout the whole movie, is shunned out and ignored by her whole family, being left out of family events and being treated very poorly by some of her family members. Abuela might be the origin of the prejudice against Mirabel, but the rest of the family is also to blame, not only for allowing it to happen for 10 years, but also partaking in the behavior ( With some exceptions here and there.)

With only being a 1 h and 49 minute movie, I can understand how the lack of time is the main reason why Encanto fails to properly address this issue, but the way that it was handled feels like it quickly dismisses what Mirabel ( AND BRUNO!! Let's not forget about Bruno) went through with an ending that pretty much leaves with a message that despite of how the protagonist felt and what she had to deal with, it's all forgiven with a happy song and little effort, which in real life is pretty much impossible.

Now, before anyone says that these are children's animation movies, therefore they shouldn't have to worry about properly adressing more serious themes: First of all, children are not dumb. They might lack "life experience", but they can still comprehend and learn from what they are shown and considering that, these messages can be very harmful towards a younger audience who's still learning how to set boundaries and deal with relationships or come from a family like Mirabel's.

So yeah, this is just my opinion on the matter and I'm pretty sure that I might have gotten something wrong, so feel free to correct me or share your opinion ( I would love to hear it ♡). 

Edit: I changed the part where I said that Mirabel went through emotional abuse, because I think I might have exaggerated (As some people have pointed out), but I still think that there’s something wrong with how she was treated within the family and the movie’s conclusion. It definitely should have had more screen time to flash out how not only Mirabel, but other family members, heal overtime. 

[ceaseless-watchers-special-girl]

ok yeah i’m rereading this so i can give you my reaction to specific little bits and. i’m literally two sentences in and i had to stop and grab a stuffed animal to cuddle while i read jay i can’t fucking do this

charlie sneaking off to new kinshasa to make the lives of brahmans better in any way he can <33

“Baird was not involved in them. He stayed back on Brahma and paced around the neighborhood all day and night waiting for Charlie” STOPPP BLESS HIS LITTLE COTTON SOCKS SOMEONE TELL HIM TO RELAX

“He wakes up, he lies there, and then he starts weeping” oh, my poor boy. oh sweetheart. i’m so sorry. i’m so so sorry. it’s devastating that they just didn’t know for weeks. they just didn’t know.

“But if I go, if I leave him now, he’ll have no one left” oh my god

“I didn’t want you to accidentally damage it and beat yourself up over it later” i have no idea why this line is getting to me so much but it really is. the tears are making their entrance people

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save your dad, and I’m sorry you’re stuck with me” jesus christ, it’s so hard to help someone through their grief, and it’s so much harder when you start to blame yourself for it. but none of this is iris’ fault. none of it.

“going off on this mission would have been a death march for you.” but not for charlie?? not for charlie?????

“I am going to make myself believe. I am choosing to believe that Eber and Talia will be roughed up and sent home under watch. I am choosing to believe that Charlie is safe and will make his way back to us. I am choosing to believe that just this once, it will work out for us.” this paragraph is so, so powerful, and i can hear the echo of jet’s words about your belief changing the world in them. i’m so glad iris finds the strength to believe. and i’m so sorry that it doesn’t pay off.

“It was supposed to be me! It should have been me!” baird’s entire reaction is absolutely devastating. but this hurts the most.

“What you did– how you reacted– it… it fucking hurts!” god, iris deserves so much better than what they have. they all do.

“Eber’s hands and feet are bad” the vagueness of “bad” is so, so terrifying

“Eber cried because he can’t hold his wife or baby girl” oh my god

“the twins are afraid of Talia” this line broke me. i can’t believe they’re so monstrous that even their victims are frightening.

“Some of them so small I swear they must be nabbing them from the crib” don’t tell me the constables are young. don’t tell me they’re getting to children and making them want to grow up and be a constable as soon as they’re old enough. that’s fucking horrific. smth smth swan upon leda “one more sweet boy to be butchered by man”

“Brahman Vermin”.

ok i’m just literally going to copy and paste zeph’s reaction to the song because FUCKING HELL, CHARLIE SANG TO LET HIS SONGBIRD KNOW HE WAS DYING IN THE NAME OF THE REBELLION. CHARLIE SANG TO LET HIS SONGBIRD KNOW HE WAS DYING IN THE NAME OF THE REBELLION.

also zeph. i need you to know that i had tears in my eyes within the first three words. your voice is fucking hauntingly beautiful and it’s going to be haunting me all fucking weekend. i can hear charlie’s quite acceptance and solid hope in your voice.

the choice to cut off the last word was fucking brutal.

thank you so much, zeph. thank you so, so much. this fic is unbelievably incredible on its own, and your voice turns it into a masterpiece.

all hail a free brahma.

“Brahma is under a new surveillance schedule. Our curfew has turned in earlier. And we will only be getting aid once a week now instead of nearly every day.” fuck them. fuck them.

“…” me too, calypso. me too.

i…… i have more thoughts about this but i’ve written enough, i think. and i don’t think i could actually put all my thoughts into words, which is interesting, because usually my brain is all words. jay, i don’t know what to say. i don’t remember the last time i have genuinely grieved for a character like this. your writing is astounding.

Our Angel of Brahma, pt. vi

This one's gonna hurt. Strap in folks. (promise for something lighter afterwards) @ceaseless-watchers-special-girl @ananxiousgenz @demonic-panini @the-private-eye @gwenlena

SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING BEGINS.  NEW VOICE:  Two weeks ago we were celebrating Baird’s seventeenth birthday. Charlie had given him an early birthday gift– a book that he bribed a Constable for a few days prior. And now this week, Charlie is missing. Here is what we know: On the first day of the week, Charlie had plans with Talia's little book club to sneak on to New Kinshasa. They were going to hide on the aid shuttles and storm the pantries in hopes of getting more supplies to Brahma. They were successful and managed to get on the next shuttle back to Brahma the following morning without getting caught.  On the third day of the week, Charlie made plans to go back to New Kinshasa using the same method to search for medicine for Mrs. Darius. She’s been reporting a lot of pain. If I allocate any more to her, we won’t have enough to go around until New Kinshasa supplies us with more meds in six months. For both of these outings, Baird was not involved in them. He stayed back on Brahma and paced around the neighborhood all day and night waiting for Charlie. Again, this mission was a success. It proved that the Constables were not efficiently checking the shuttles like they were supposed to be. It proved that it was possible to get on to New Kinshasa undetected.  SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING ENDS. 

SOUND: COMMS BEEPS AGAIN, NEW RECORDING BEGINS. NEW VOICE:  I had to put Baird back to sleep. He wakes up, he lies there, and then he starts weeping. I’m… not built to be a parent. But if I go, if I leave him now, he’ll have no one left. (SIGH) Charlie and Talia’s book club had found a weakness to get to New Kinshasa. On the seventh day, Charlie, his dad Eber, and Talia were going to go up there and were going to scope out the city’s streets. They wanted to make a map and find out where they could get access to the Reactor Core. Camilla wanted to go but Eber reasoned that if all three of them went, who would take care of Evelyn? Josie was the obvious choice but Charlie and I vetoed that. So Camilla stayed.  On the sixth day, the three of them set out for the shuttle. Mrs. Darius had set out laundry to dry in her apartment, Baird was entertaining the twins, and Josie, Camilla, Hank, and I waited around Camilla’s comms for a call from Eber. No news was good news. Night fell. And then the broadcast went out.  Three stowaways on a New Kinshasan Aid Shuttle were found. Two of them had been detained. And the third had run away and was hiding somewhere in the city. Brahma was set into lockdown. We would not be getting any more aid until the last stowaway was caught. The facial recognition scanners had identified the two captives as Eber Spade and Talia Virgo.  We are all holding our breath, wondering and waiting for what comes next.  Baird, if you are listening to this, I am very sorry I took your mother's comms. I know it’s important to you, but you were so upset and angry. I didn’t want you to accidentally damage it and beat yourself up over it later. I’m sorry I can’t bring your parents back, I’m sorry I couldn’t save your dad, and I’m sorry you’re stuck with me. The last thing your dad and I talked about was you. If something happened to him, I would become responsible for your guardianship. If something happened to both of us, the Spade family agreed to take care of you. And then if not us or them, Josie, and if she couldn’t, even old-timer Hank agreed. I am so sorry Baird. This is not the future any of us wanted for you. It’s not the life I would want any person to grow into.  But I made a promise to your father to take care of you. Charlie is aware of that promise, Talia wasn’t. That’s why he got mad you when he found out about your book club. You’re seventeen, and you are old enough to make your own decisions, and I trust most of them that you make. But going off on this mission would have been a death march for you. You don’t know what you’re up against out there. Neither did Charlie but… he’s been tangling with the Constables since your father was taken. Gotta hand it to the kid, he’s pretty damn smart.  I am not an optimist. But I am going to make myself believe. I am choosing to believe that Eber and Talia will be roughed up and sent home under watch. I am choosing to believe that Charlie is safe and will make his way back to us. I am choosing to believe that just this once, it will work out for us.  SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING ENDS. 

SOUND: COMMS BEEPS AGAIN. NEXT RECORDING BEGINS. BAIRD (REVOLUTIONARY): …They caught him. It took half a week, but they caught him…  After a few days lying around feeling sorry for myself, Iris gave back my mom’s comms, I listened back and… I just didn’t feel like there was anything I could add.  (SIGH) Here is what we now know: Charlie’s dad and Talia were arrested and held in New Kinshasa jail cells for half a week. The Constables found Charlie hiding in a construction zone and arrested him. The New Kinshasan government put out an announcement of a mandatory broadcast in two days. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.  SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING ENDS.

SOUND: COMMS BEEPS AGAIN. RECORDING BEGINS. (BAIRD SOBBING UNCONTROLLABLY) BAIRD (REVOLUTIONARY): It was supposed to be me! It should have been me! IRIS:  Baird! Baird! Give me the comms, I know you don’t want to break it– BAIRD (REVOLUTIONARY): Get the fuck out of my face!! I wish my dad never met you! SOUND: FIST PUNCING A FACE. SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING ENDS. 

SOUND: COMMS BEEPS AGAIN. RECORDING BEGINS. (IRIS HUFFING) IRIS: I had no choice but to sedate Baird. Baird, I am not sorry. You fucking punched me. I know I’m not your parent dammit, I know the broadcast hurt you, but that was unacceptable! What you did– how you reacted– it… it fucking hurts! (HEAVY SIGH) They released Talia and Eber to go home yesterday. Eber’s hands and feet are bad. And Talia’s face is unrecognizable. There are electrical burn marks all over their bodies. And I don’t think they were given access to any food or water. I’m doing the best I can to treat the worst of it. Eber cried because he can’t hold his wife or baby girl, and the twins are afraid of Talia. Mrs. Darius keeps asking how she can help, but I keep telling her not to worry, and I keep telling Hank to keep her occupied.  The broadcast was today. We all gathered around Camilla’s comms to watch what was going to happen. From the New Kinshasa’s Town Square, a platform was set up, and surrounding it were dozens of Constables. Some of them so small I swear they must be nabbing them from the crib. One of each of the other ranks was present too. Sergeants, Inspectors, Superintendents. Three Constables marched Charlie up onto the platform. Behind them, the Chief walked onto the platform. Every last one of those brats saluted them. They identified the third stowaway, Charlie Spade, and listed off various other offenses he had committed. Bribing a Constable for confectionary sweets. Bribing a Constable for banned literature. Shoplifting from a corner store. Vandalizing New Kinshasan government property. Breaking and entering. All things that we know of. And then they said something strange: they had evidence that Charlie killed a Sergeant.  (LONG PAUSE) The traditional method to get rid of Brahman Vermin, as they said, is to power on the Guardian Angel System and snipe them from up high. The Chief shook their head and said that in extreme cases though, extreme action must also be taken.  The Chief pulled out a blaster, a make and model even old-timer Hank didn’t recognize. They asked Charlie if he had any grievances to air. Anything to get off his chest. I don’t think he knew where the camera was because Charlie kept his gaze fixed down. He looked up and out, and he was looking past New Kinshasa. His eyes were hollow, and his face was gaunt. There must have been a million things running through his mind. But I saw an ounce of clarity in him when he opened up his mouth, and began to sing.  (IRIS TRIES TO SING) O’ my lover once sang to me. How sweet, the bitter tune  you made them plea. My angel, my angel, please let me go,  let me free. My angel, my angel. Please never stop singing for me. (IRIS SNIFFLES) The apartment, the whole block, and all of Brahma were silent. I knew the kid loved Baird. You’d have to be a damn fool not to see it. But that– that cracked him. It cracked wide open an infected wound of a child who already loss both their parents to a pointless war and lost cause. Baird stood up on shaky knees and took one staggering step backwards. At the same time, the Chief nodded, and said it was a beautiful send-off, “All hail, New Kinshasa.” Charlie mouthed something that the camera didn’t catch but Talia mumbled it loud enough for us all to hear, “All hail, a free Brahma.” The Chief raised their blaster to Charlie’s head and at point-blank range, pulled the trigger. He fell instantly. Convulsed on the ground. And then went stock still. I tore myself away from the stream to look at Baird, and there was a scream locked up inside of him.  It’s been five hours. Brahma is under a new surveillance schedule. Our curfew has turned in earlier. And we will only be getting aid once a week now instead of nearly every day.  I know it means very little Baird, but I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.  SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING ENDS. 

- … - Baird, 16 (two weeks from 17): Charlie gifted Fahrenheit 451, started “book club” with Talia, got in trouble about it with Charlie and others when found out. Josie had twins, Hank’s dog died, Mrs. Darius accepted her diagnosis.- Baird, 17: Charlie taken, publicly executed.  - Baird, 27: the “decade” recording. - Baird, 14: charlie’s ��dad” recording.- Baird, 12: Peter Nureyev threatened the G.A.S., and mom was taken away from their home. - Iris is Baird’s step-parent. They (Iris and Baird) have no one left.  - Frannie says she wants to help me now without pay. I can’t let her do that, but she is insisting that she’ll help recover the rest of the recordings, all I have to do is write a damn article. And with a roughly estimated age range for Baird, Frannie’s contact is going to give a bit of help too. I think I’m going to visit my mom’s grave in the meantime. I need a break.