#i love hot headed and impulsive fire girls

[hanniebaeee]

Clueless: Smitten

Jeongin x fem!reader

Warning: unhinged group chat as always, other than that, nothing!

Genre: friends to lovers, fluffffff

Summary: You and Jeongin go to the same MMA class, and he is absolutely smitten by you. And you two are good friends too. The problem? You treat him like a child, when all he wants is to ask you out. And that's where his unhinged gang enters.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Jeongin wiped the sweat off his brow, giving his opponent a nod after their sparring session, and turned around to see you pulling on your gloves. Your ponytail swayed as you hummed a tune to yourself, and Jeongin swallowed hard.

He did his best to control his impulses (such as the one he had right now to to come over and kiss the hell out of you).

But he was not weak (mostly). He was Yang Jeongin, the future ace of this gym and your soon-to-be love interest - if only he could figure out how to get you to stop patting his head like he's some cute puppy.

“Hey, Innie!” you called out, flashing him a smile that made his knees weak. “Good job!”

He smiled and thanked you, as you came over, and did that one thing that made him want to scream into oblivion. You ruffled his hair with that adoring smile on your face. And it made him feel like a toddler.

As soon as you were out of earshot, Jeongin let out a groan and grabbed his phone. He knew what this would lead to. Obviously. But he needed his brothers.

---

Jeongin: Ok. I'm gonna cry.

Chan: Aren't you at class??

Jeongin: She did it again.

Jeongin: She ruffled my hair. AGAIN.

Hyunjin: LOLLLLLLL

Jeongin: Shut up. I’m serious.

Felix: Omg. Is this the MMA girl?

Jeongin: YES. I can't understand why she treats me like a damn child.

Minho: Because you act like one?

Jeongin: YAH. I need a plan to make her see me as a MAN.

Jisung: Bro, just spar with her and like…accidentally tear your shirt or something. Girls love muscles.

Hyunjin: You do not have the muscles for that to work.

Jeongin: HYUNJIN.

Hyunjin: I’m just saying 🤷‍♂��

Felix: Invite her to dinner! Like, after practice? Nothing says “boyfriend material” like a home-cooked meal.

Seungmin: Cooking takes time. Which he doesn't have. He’s so obviously in the friend zone. He needs something that works fast.

Chan: You’re all missing the point here. Jeongin, be honest. Do you flirt with her?

Jeongin: I TRIED.

Jeongin: I told her she looked good in her gloves once. She said thanks and told me where to buy the same pair.

Minho: Wow. That’s rough.

Hyunjin: Okay, new idea.

Hyunjin: Go alpha on her. Next time you spar, pin her down. Like real close. Look her in the eyes and growl something like, “You’re not getting away from me this time.”

---

Jeongin rolled his eyes. Here we go.

---

Jeongin: That's crazy.

Jisung: No, wait, Hyunjin’s onto something. Girls LOVE dominance.

Chan: Or, you know, you could try talking to her like an adult.

Jeongin: I’m trying, hyung, but every time I look at her, my brain short-circuits.

Felix: Omg wait. This is perfect. You could do the classic “let me fix your form” move.

Felix: Stand behind her, adjust her stance, hands on her hips. It’s foolproof.

Seungmin: It’s not foolproof. He’ll trip over his words and fall on his face.

Jeongin: Oh my God.

Changbin: No, no, I’ve got it. Show up outside her place with some flowers and confess.

Hyunjin: Or better yet, let’s sign you up for a fight. Invite her to watch. Show her you’re tough.

Minho: He’ll get punched once and she’ll call an ambulance.

Jeongin: WHY DO I EVEN ASK YOU PEOPLE.

The next morning, Jeongin walked into the gym with a nervous buzz, the ideas his brothers had fired at him the night before poking at his brain.

Jisung: Bro. Let me paint you a picture.

Jisung: You’re sparring. She throws a punch. You dodge.

Jisung: Grab her wrist, pull her in close, whisper, “Is that all you’ve got?” Then SMIRK.

Jeongin: Why would I smirk???

Jisung: Because it’s HOT.

Minho: Creepy. Definitely creepy.

Hyunjin: No, he needs to go bolder.

Hyunjin: After sparring, pin her against the wall in the locker room. Close the space, and say, “You drive me insane, you know that?”

Chan: Please do NOT harass her in the locker room.

Felix: Yeah, don’t listen to Hyunjin. What you should do is compliment her strength. Like, “Wow, you’re so strong and gorgeous.”

Seungmin: That’s so cringey. She’ll laugh in his face.

Felix: Okay, why don't you come up with some genius ideas then?!

Changbin: No, listen to me. Women love confidence. Next time you walk in, wink at her. Just a subtle one. She’ll notice.

Jeongin: If I wink at her, she’ll think I have something in my eye.

Jisung: Then STARE at her. Give her those bedroom eyes.

Jeongin: I don’t even know what that means.

Hyunjin: Oh my god. This is so easy. After practice, challenge her to a one-on-one sparring match. Get sweaty. Let her feel your power. And if you win, you say, “Winner gets a kiss.”

Chan: She’ll knock him out first.

Minho: Honestly, I’d pay to see that.

Jeongin: I will block you all.

Hyunjin: NO YOU WON’T. You love us.

---

Jeongin was standing in the gym’s parking lot after his class, trying to call Chan to come pick him up, when he saw you approaching him. You were smiling, your bag on your shoulder, your hair, that's usually in a ponytail, now left open.

“Hey, Jeongin,” you said, your voice light and teasing as usual. “Nice work today. You’re really improving.”

He stuttered a thank you, and smiled at you nervously, his cheeks heating up.

And then it happened.

You reached out, ruffled his hair affectionately, and grinned. “Such a good boy.”

Jeongin froze. His brain short-circuited. Good boy?!

He could literally hear his brothers screaming in his head.

“Say something,” Minho’s voice mocked.

“Pin her!” Hyunjin roared.

“WINK, YOU COWARD!” Jisung howled.

Instead, Jeongin stood there like a statue.

“Innie?” you tilted your head, eyes soft with concern. “You okay?”

That snapped him out of it.

“Y-yeah! Totally fine!” He cleared his throat. This was it. This was his chance to say something smooth.

“Uh…you’re…really so strong and…so gorgeous?”

The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to die.

You blinked at him. And then, to his utter shock, you laughed - a bright, genuine laugh that made his heart do a somersault.

“Well, thanks, Innie. You’re not so bad yourself.”

As you waved goodbye and walked off, Jeongin leaned against a car, face in his hands.

---

Jeongin: I HATE YOU ALL.

Chan: Ok calm down. What happened?

Jeongin: I TRIED FELIX’S LINE.

Jeongin: SHE LAUGHED AT ME.

Felix: Wait, was it a good laugh or a bad laugh?

Jeongin: HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!

Hyunjin: LOL

Changbin: Did you at least wink?

Jeongin: NO.

Jisung: Bro. Amateur move.

Seungmin: Probably should’ve gone with the “winner gets a kiss” idea.

Jeongin: I’M NOT DOING THAT.

Minho: You’re hopeless.

Chan: Guys, come on. Jeongin, did she seem like she was into it?

Jeongin: She called me a ‘good boy’.

Hyunjin: RIP.

Felix: Don’t give up! She laughed. That’s good!

Minho: Yeah, she’s laughing because she thinks he’s a puppy.

Felix: Puppies can grow into wolves, bro.

Jeongin: You’re all insane.

Changbin: Hey, wolves mate for life. Just saying.

Jeongin groaned, shutting his phone. If this was the kind of help he was getting, he might as well wing it.

Jeongin lay sprawled on his bed, phone in hand, mind racing with thoughts of you. He had officially entered what Jisung would call his ‘simp phase’. Your Instagram page was open, each photo worse than the last - worse because it made him fall harder.

There was one of you holding a tray of cookies, grinning. Another of you proudly presenting a painting up to the camera. The cat one nearly killed him - you were snuggled up with your orange tabby, its paw on your nose as you laughed.

And there was one with the MMA team - you had your arm looped with his in this one, your head tilted slightly towards him. It was a group photo, but that's all he could see. the two of you.

“I love her,” he whispered to himself, then immediately groaned into his pillow. “Oh my god, I love her!!”

---

Jeongin: Guys.

Jeongin: I’m in love with her.

Chan: We know.

Hyunjin: Wait, did you just figure that out?

Jeongin: No, but it’s hitting me all over again. I’m looking at her Instagram.

Jisung: Omg, show us.

Jeongin: No way.

Minho: Wow. Stalking her Insta and gatekeeping? Bold of you.

Jeongin: Shut up. She’s perfect. She bakes. She paints. She loves cats.

Minho: Cats? Suddenly she's a lot more interesting.

Jisung: Innie, DM her something flirty.

Jeongin: That’s so cringey I might die.

Chan: You guys are going to ruin his life.

Hyunjin: He needs to grow a spine. Just do it, Jeongin. Be bold.

Felix: OR…

Felix: Next time she posts something cute, comment something sweet. Like, “You’re so talented.” Compliment her! Girls love compliments.

Seungmin: That’s decent advice.

Jeongin: I can’t do that. She’ll think I’m obsessed.

Minho: You are obsessed.

Jisung: Or… Post a thirst trap. Let her know you’re hot too.

Jeongin: A thirst trap?! Like what?

Jisung: I dunno. Shirtless mirror selfie? Women eat that up.

Changbin: You don’t have enough abs for that.

Jeongin: I DO! STOP ATTACKING ME.

---

The boys were no help, as usual. Jeongin flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He was doomed.

But then, as he refreshed your page, he saw it - a new post.

It was you and your cat again, this time with a caption that read: "My goodest boy 🐾."

Jeongin stared at it. Good boy. Again. The word that haunted his every waking moment. And yet, when you used it like this, he kind of wanted to melt.

He felt his thumb hovering over the like button. His mind raced.

“Cute cat!” No, too boring.

“You’re adorable.” No, too forward.

“Can I be your good boy?” Oh god, Hyunjin was invading his thoughts.

He slapped his phone face-down on the bed.

He couldn’t DM you. He couldn’t comment. What he needed was a real plan to show you he wasn’t just the kid you patted on the head.

---

Hyunjin: New plan. Jeongin, buy her flowers. Deliver them to her home.

Jeongin: That’s not the worst idea.

Jisung: But make it sexy. Like, walk in all sexy and say, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, so I had to bring you these.”

Jeongin: YOU WANT ME TO DIE.

Felix: Wait! What if you bake her something? She likes baking, right? It’s cute and romantic.

Jeongin: I don’t know how to bake.

Chan: That’s what YouTube is for.

Minho: Or Felix can bake and you can pretend you made it.

Changbin: No way, she’d see through that in a second. She’s too smart for Jeongin’s terrible acting.

Hyunjin: He could dedicate a fight to her.

Hyunjin: Win a match and shout, “That was for you, baby!” She’ll love it.

Seungmin: Or hate it.

Jeongin: WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS.

Chan: Please don’t listen to him.

Jeongin: Oh my god, my life 😩

Felix: 😅😅😅

Hyunjin: Look, Jeongin, at the end of the day, just be confident. If you act like a man, she’ll treat you like one.

Jeongin: Easy for you to say. You’re not in love with her.

---

Jeongin tossed his phone aside, heart pounding. He didn’t know what his next move would be, but one thing was certain: he was in too deep to back out now.

The gym that usually buzzed with activity was so quiet now. Jeongin stood across from you in the sparring ring, his gloves up, his nerves barely contained. He couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this.

Sparring with you? His brain was already a mess when you just existed near him. But now, you were in front of him, bouncing lightly on your feet, your focused expression somehow making you look even more stunning.

“Ready, champ?” you teased, your grin playful as you adjusted your gloves.

Jeongin swallowed hard, trying to focus. “Yeah. Ready.”

With a wink, you moved quickly as you circled him. Jeongin mirrored you, trying to keep his stance solid.

It was going fine. Really good actually. You were good with your arms, and he tried to return the pressure, throwing a one-two combo at you. You dodged effortlessly, and then out of nowhere, you hooked your leg behind his, pivoting your hips to execute a perfectly timed trip.

Jeongin yelped as his balance gave out, and suddenly he was on the mat, his back hitting the ground with a loud thud.

“Nice match,” you said, already kneeling over him, one hand braced on the mat beside his head. You leaned over slightly, your face hovering above his. “You okay?”

Jeongin glitched in real time.

It was all too much - your bright eyes, your playful smile, the way a few strands of your hair stuck to your forehead, glistening with sweat. He could feel the heat radiating off your body, and the concern in your voice made his heart stutter.

“I…uh…yeah,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

You tilted your head and asked, “You sure? I hope nothing hurts?”

“Pretty sure I’m dying,” he muttered, half under his breath, closing his eyes and exhaling loudly.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” he squeaked, his face burning red.

You laughed softly, leaning back to give him space and extending your hand to help him sit up.

“You did well, Innie. Just gotta work on your balance.”

“Yeah,” he said dumbly, staring up at you like you’d hung the stars in the sky.

You tapped his cheek lightly with your gloved hand. “C’mon, champ. Let’s get you up.”

---

Jeongin: I’m never sparring with her again. Ever.

Hyunjin: What happened?

Jisung: Spill.

Jeongin: She KNOCKED ME DOWN.

Felix: Oh nooooo.

Jeongin: And instead of just walking away and letting me die with dignity, she kneels over me.

Hyunjin: Oh, that sounds spicy.

Jeongin: SPICY?! IT WASN’T SPICY. IT WAS HUMILIATING. She hovered over me with her PERFECT FACE and eyelashes and asked if I was okay. Like I’m some helpless little kitten she rescued from a tree.

Felix: Awwww. That’s so cute!

Jeongin: IT’S NOT CUTE, FELIX. IT’S A CRIME AGAINST MY MASCULINITY.

Seungmin: What masculinity?

Jeongin: SEUNGMIN, I SWEAR.

Minho: You’re spiraling again.

Jeongin: I could smell her shampoo. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

Hyunjin: Uh huh

Felix: She thinks you’re cute AND talented.

Jeongin: I WANT HER TO THINK I’M HOT.

Minho: Maybe try not to land on your ass next time.

Jeongin: Wow, great advice, hyung. I feel so much better.

Hyunjin: Bro. She’s into you.

Jeongin: SHE IS NOT.

Changbin: I mean… isn’t that kind of symbolic? Like, you’re already floored by her?

---

If the locker room was soundproof, Jeongin would've screamed so loud.

---

Jisung: Okay, okay, so she thinks you’re adorable. And a child.

Jisung: But if only she knew that you're basically ready to give her a child

Felix: OMG. Jisung, no.

Jeongin: WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?!

Jisung: Am I wrong? Didn’t you literally say the other day, you'd do anything for her, even give her your last name and your firstborn child?

Jeongin: THAT WAS A PRIVATE THOUGHT, YOU GREMLIN.

Chan: What the actual fuck is going on in here?

Jisung: Oh, perfect timing, Chan-hyung! Any tips on the said topic? Since you've already done it.

Chan: Jisung. Please.

Felix: 🤣🤣🤣🤣

Hyunjin: This is so out of control, and for once it's not me 🤣

Jeongin: EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU IS THE WORST.

Chan: Jeongin. Does she actually think you’re a child, or are you projecting because you’re too scared to confess?

Jeongin: I don’t know.

Changbin: Oh, he knows.

Minho: 100% projecting.

Jeongin: I somehow feel like every time she looks at me she sees a ‘cute little brother type’

Hyunjin: Then you need to show her you’re not a little brother type.

Felix: Exactly! Be confident. Flirt back. Stop acting like she’s going to break you.

Jeongin: She already DOES break me!

Hyunjin: BRO. MAN UP. Or I swear I’ll walk up to her and tell her everything.

Jeongin: IF YOU DO THAT, I WILL END YOU.

Chan: Okay, enough. Stop overthinking it. Just talk to her, show her your genuine self.

Jeongin: But what if I mess up again?

Seungmin: You’ve been messing up this whole time, and she still likes you. You’re fine.

Hyunjin: True. She probably thinks your flustered baby deer energy is charming.

Jeongin: Oh my God

Jeongin thought he could pull it off. He thought he could just quietly distance himself from you without anyone noticing. After all, it was for the greater good. If he didn’t interact with you, maybe he could convince himself he didn’t feel anything.

But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show.

He started avoiding eye contact at the gym. No more conversations after practice. He skipped group water breaks and focused on solo drills. He even fled the gym the minute his class was done.

And you noticed. Of course you did.

Because he was literally the highlight of your day. Jeongin was a clueless idiot, because he definitely couldn't see how much you adored him, and this distance was getting to you.

---

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed as you watched Jeongin avoid your gaze for the fifth time that day. Normally, he’d flash you his shy smile or wave when you caught him looking. Now? He was all formal, barely sparing you a glance.

Something was definitely up. You waited patiently for him to come to the locker room. And of course he took the long route just to drag it out.

You huffed in annoyance before calling out, “Jeongin!”

He froze, his water bottle hovering close to his lips as he turned toward you like a deer caught in headlights.

“Oh. Uh, hey, Y/N.”

You tilted your head, scrutinizing him as you asked, “Are you okay? You’ve been weird lately.”

“Weird?” he laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, I’m just… focused on training. That’s all.”

“Focused on training?” You raised an eyebrow. “Ok, so ignoring me is part of that?”

“No! I am not-” His ears turned red as he shook his head no.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice and asked, “Did I do something? Are you upset about the spar-”

“No!” he interrupted, eyes wide. “It’s not you. It’s me.”

You blinked. He did not just say that.

“Did you just hit me with the breakup line?”

Jeongin looked like he wanted to crawl under the mat.

“I…uh…I have to go.” He practically sprinted to the locker room, leaving you standing there, more confused than ever.

---

Jeongin: Guys. I fucked up.

Felix: WHAT DID YOU DO.

Jeongin: She asked if she upset me, and I panicked.

Hyunjin: Wait.

Hyunjin: You did not tell her it’s not her, it’s you.

Jeongin: HOW DO YOU EVEN KNOW THAT.

Changbin: OH MY GOD.

Jisung: LMAO. DID YOU REALLY?

Jeongin: I panicked!

Minho: This is officially the funniest thing you’ve ever done.

Chan: Okay, let’s not bully him.

Chan: Jeongin, why are you avoiding her?

Jeongin: Because I don’t want to make things worse. She already treats me like a kid. If I keep acting like an idiot around her, she’s never going to take me seriously.

Seungmin: Avoiding her isn’t going to make her take you seriously either. It’s just going to make her think you’re mad at her.

Jeongin: But what if I do something stupid?

Hyunjin: Bro. You already did the stupid thing. The bar’s on the floor.

Felix: Seriously, just TALK to her.

Jeongin: You say that like it’s easy.

Jisung: Because it is easy. Walk up to her, say, “I think you’re amazing and also I have a huge crush on you. Wanna kiss?” Done.

Jeongin: I’d rather eat a dumbbell.

Minho: Please do.

Felix: Okay, but seriously, Jeongin, if you don’t fix this, she’s going to think you hate her.

Chan: And it's gonna hurt you more than it hurts her. Or whatever.

Jeongin: Fine. I’ll talk to her. But if I embarrass myself, I’m never speaking to any of you again.

Minho: Can’t wait.

---

The next day, you were warming up when Jeongin approached you hesitantly. You glanced up, surprised.

“Oh, look who finally decided to stop ghosting me.” you said, and it broke his heart to see that you weren't giving him your usual smile.

He winced as he said, “I wasn’t ghosting you.”

“Sure felt like it.” You said, crossing your arms. “So what’s going on? And don’t give me the ‘training focus’ excuse again.”

Jeongin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been… overthinking some stuff.”

“Stuff?” You tilted your head, waiting for him to elaborate.

“You,” he blurted out, then immediately regretted it.

“Me?”

“Yes. I mean -” He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Look, Y/N. You’re amazing, okay? You’re smart and funny and strong, and you make me feel like an idiot half the time because I don’t know how to act normal around you.”

You blinked, taken aback. “Jeongin -”

“I like you,” he interrupted, words tumbling out in a rush. “A lot. And I know you probably think I’m just some kid, but I’ve been trying so hard to prove I’m not. And it’s probably really obvious now, and I’m sorry if I’ve been weird or -”

“Jeongin.” You stepped closer, cutting him off.

“Sorry.” He looked at you, panic written all over his face.

But you smiled, your heart softening. He was so damn adorable, you wanted to bite him. To say the least.

“You don’t have to prove anything. I never thought of you as just some kid.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. And for the record…” You reached out, ruffling his hair with a grin. “I like you too, Innie.”

Jeongin covered his face with his hands, whining, but he couldn’t stop the huge grin that spread across his face.

"C'mere you," you said, and Jeongin surged into your arms, letting you hug him tight.

---

Jeongin: SHE LIKES ME BACK. OMG. I'M HYPERVENTILATING.

Hyunjin: NO WAY.

Felix: OMG!!! YESS!!!

Jisung: What did you say? How did it happen? Give us details!

Jeongin: I just told her I like her. She said she likes me too.

Chan: See? Told you honesty works.

Hyunjin: So when’s the wedding?

Minho: Well, that's what you get for being such a good boy.

Jeongin: OH MY GOD.

Seungmin: Congrats bro

Changbin: Go celebrate. Go get outta here!

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @eastjonowhere @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan

[edupiii]

i wanna put these two in a room together and see the dastardly explosive destructive schemes they conjure up

[carnations-fixations]

God, listened to something the other night and I can't stop thinking about like, working a terrible office job an just totally zoning out for an hour, playing solitaire or tetris on your computer until your boss calls you into her office

And you're just like oh fuck oh fuck she's gonna fire me oh shit oh shit-

Then you finally get into her office and she's sitting at her desk, rubbing her temple and staring at her computer with pure fucking disdain

You manage to squeak out a small "You wanted to see me?" And she looks up, her face relaxing almost imperceptibly. She tells you to sit and you do, not giving your obedience a second thought. You're still terrified you'll be out of a job.

"This meeting is killing me, and I know you're not doing any work in there, so you're going to stay here with me until it's over."

You look at her confused.

"I've seen you check me out more than enough times by now, love. Now, you can absolutely walk back out that door and keep not-working, I assure you no one's stopping you, or you can stay here and earn a little bonus."

Now you understand what's happening. She points to the floor next to her and you stand, walking over and kneeling. You think about leaving. You think about quitting. But she's right, you've been very attracted to her since the moment you saw her, and you struggle to keep your eyes off her body. So maybe this isn't so bad

She starts by just petting your hair as you sit there, staring forward and feeling a cocktail of anxiety, fear, and excitement bubbling in your chest. Then she gets even more bored, and slowly turns her chair so that you're facing each other instead of being side by side

"Last chance," She says, staring lasers into your skull. You can't bring yourself to meet her gaze, but you stay right where you are, obediently making your allegiance clear.

"Good girl," She says, opening her legs. She puts your head between her thighs, not taking off her pants, at least not yet. You finally look up at her, and she's staring at you with the most intense adoration you've ever been subject to. She's surprisingly gentle, simply petting your hair and looking down at you. Her pants are starting to bulge, the sight of you between her legs enough to get her aroused.

You feel daring enough to, while keeping eye contact, kiss her inner thigh. She grins and nods.

"Go on, doll."

Your chest feels like it's wrapped around a nuclear core. Jesus Christ this is hot- you look away, blushing profusely, and she slaps you. Not exceedingly hard, but it stings and sends a message.

"Eyes up here, doll."

You nod again, looking back up at her and placing gentle kisses on her thighs, moving higher... higher... until her grip on your hair becomes somewhat sadistic, pushing you closer to her now-prominent bulge.

You kiss and nuzzle and- god she smells fucking good- it's already enough to get you feeling high off her scent. She nods and pets you, pushing you down, although you don't need it. You'd already be grinding your face against her regardless.

Finally, you get brave, and reach up to her belt.

"That's it, dolly, go ahead- You know how to please Mommy, don't you~?"

God- No one's really talked to you like this before, and it makes your head swim, forgetting the inappropriate nature of all of this. All you want is to make her happy- You undo her belt with shaking hands and unzip her pants, just pulling them apart enough to get to what you need-

She's nice enough to help you pull her panties down, and you finally have access to her long, throbbing cock. A sound escapes you, like an excited squeak.

"Aww, little puppy wants a treat?"

You feel hot and fuzzy and strange and all you can think about is sucking Mommy's cock like a good little whore- you don't even know where these impulses come from. At this point, you don't care. You just inhale and let the scent of her musk erase all your thoughts.

"Open."

You obey.

She lowers herself onto your tongue.

"Suck."

You obey.

She pushes your head down, lower, until you're gagging harshly.

"Good fuckin' girl- Mnh--fuck, you're not too bad at this, I should keep you around-- nnNNgh-"

Hearing her voice break only makes your mind break double, looking up at her and sucking like your life is on the line, She bites back loud moans, dictating your pace with a hand in your hair. As she starts to get rougher and rougher, you can't help but feel so, so needy- hitting your uvula and making you gag, something you never thought you'd like, is like heaven in her hands.

"Mmn-- God you're such a good little whore for Mommy- NHfh--"

The praise only makes you more excited, and you find yourself starting to grind on her wing-tip Oxford's, whining on her cock. She doesn't notice, too distracted by your mouth, she starts to roughly fuck your face, hold you steady as she bucks her hips.

You feel her tense, and you whine, pushing yourself down all the way as she cums down your throat. The noise you make is depraved, and she responds with a low, gutteral groan, holding you down and breathing heavily.

Finally, she let's you up, her seed dripping down your chin from what you couldn't swallow. She takes her finger and runs it up your chin, gathering up the string that's fallen out, and shoves it in your mouth.

"Good fucking girl, perfect for Mommy... Now, clean her off."

You lick and suck at the tip of her limp cock, cleaning off all of the cum you can before putting her dick away. You're still grinding on her shoe, not even really thinking about it, but you're making noises that tip her off, and now that you're not choking on her cock you notice how close you are.

"Aww, little slut got so worked up she couldn't help herself, huh?"

You nod, whining and holding onto her leg.

"Are you close, doll?"

You nod again.

"Go ahead baby, keep going. I want you to cum for Mommy, okay? Just keep going and say Mommy's name when you cum, doll"

You nod again, quickly and appreciatively, grinding and whimpering as you feel your orgasm flood closer. You manage to whine out a single word as you cum, ruining yourself in her office.

"Mnhhh- Mm-Monmy--!!"

She pets your hair and smiles down at you, clearly pleased at your obedience as you ruin yourself on her shoe.

Well, now there's a problem. You're panting and shaking on the floor, covered in her cum and your own, and you still have another 3 hours of work.

"You can clean up in my office's bathroom, darling, take your time. I want you to finish out the day in that skirt, though. Some people have been getting a little too friendly with my doll, and they need to be reminded who you belong to."

You mumble out a slurred "Yes Mommy" as you sit limp against her leg, catching your breath.

Something tells you this isn't a one time deal.

[ponderingmoonlight]

kny men being "forced" to kiss you

Pairings: Sanemi x reader; Rengoku x reader; Tengen x reader

Word Count: 2,4k

Warnings: here I serve you fluff and spice everyone 😇

Shinazugawa Sanemi 

You cross your arms, glaring up at Sanemi, who’s leaning against the wall with his broad frame, his expression etched with irritation. His scowl seems almost permanent, especially during your frequent arguments, and today is no exception. The two of you are bickering over something trivial - the exact details lost in the heat of the moment as usual - when Mitsuri, ever the oh so innocent meddler, decides to step in.

“Oh, come on, you two!” Mitsuri chirps, her voice light and full of enthusiasm.

“You’re always arguing! Why not make up with a kiss? That would be so romantic!”

She clasps her hands together, her cheeks glowing with excitement.

The room goes silent for a beat, tension crackling in the air like a lightning storm. Sanemi’s scowl deepens, and his sharp eyes flick to Mitsuri, then back to you.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. Like hell I’m doing that,” he growls.

Mitsuri pouts, tilting her head with a playful smile. That girl…You can’t help but glare at her in sheer disbelief, only the thought of Sanemi’s lips pressed against yours sounding so ridiculous in your own mind. She might be the love hashira, but this goes way too far. After all, kissing can’t solve the fact that Sanemi’s a jerk, right?

“Oh, don’t be so grumpy, Sanemi! It’ll be fun! Who knows? You might even like it!”

Her teasing tone only seems to fuel the fire of his irritation. But on the other hand…Her annoying the hell out of him does seem like a pleasing opportunity you should use to get on hiss nerves.

You smirk to yourself. Yeah, let’s do this.

“What, scared you’ll like it?”

His eyes narrow dangerously, his expression a mixture of incredulity and defiance.

“You wish,” he spits, pushing himself off the wall and closing the distance between you with a few purposeful steps.

“Then prove it,” you challenge, tilting your chin up to meet his intense gaze.

Despite your audacity, your heart pounds like a drum in your chest, each beat louder than the last. You aren’t sure if this is courage or madness, but you refuse to back down now. Not when his eyes are set on you like that, not when he’s that close to you.

Sanemi’s jaw tightens, his frustration evident in the tick of his clenched teeth. With a low growl, he reaches out, his hands cupping your face. You brace yourself for something rough, something impulsive, but his touch surprises you. Despite his brash demeanor, his hands are warm and steady, cradling your face with a care you hadn’t expected.

Then, without another word, he leans in and presses his lips to yours.

You forget how to exist.

The kiss isn’t gentle, but not harsh either. It’s firm, purposeful, and filled with the same fiery intensity that defines Sanemi himself. It isn’t just a kiss - it’s a challenge, a battle, a dare he’d never pass on when you provoke him like that. The world seems to fade away, the argument, Mitsuri, everything – gone in the wind as your senses narrow to the warmth of his lips and the faint, smoky scent that clings to him.

You never thought he’d feel like that. Hot but at the same time cold, rough but gentle all in once. Out of instinct, you wrap your arms around his neck while he pulls you by the waist with his free hand, deepening the kiss even further.

Are you dreaming? And if so, is this a dream or a nightmare? Since you first laid eyes on him, you hated the heck out of this man. This man, who’s now holding you with a passion you’ve never felt before. This man, who insulted you only moments ago with that mouth.

That force of a man…

Just as quickly as it begins, it ends. Sanemi pulls back, his breathing slightly heavier than before. His cheeks, usually a pale color, are now flushed with a hint of pink that makes him look uncharacteristically boyish. But still, his glare remains as fierce as ever, his hand lingering on your chin as if debating whether to let go.

“You’re insufferable,” he mutters, his voice low and hoarse, laced with annoyance.

For a moment, you can only stare at him, too stunned to form a coherent reply. Then, as the reality of what just happened sinks in, a sly grin creeps across your face.

“Admit it. That wasn’t so bad.”

His eyes darken, and his hands finally drop to his sides as if your arrogance physically revolts him.

“Shut up,” he snaps, though the lack of venom in his voice betrays him.

He turns abruptly, running a hand through his spiky hair in a frustrated motion.

“Damn meddling idiots,” he mutters under his breath, though his gaze flickers back to you for a split second before he begins walking away.

“You’re blushing,” you call after him, unable to resist the urge to poke at his pride a little more.

“I’m not blushing!” he barks, his voice louder than necessary, echoing slightly in the quiet room.

His shoulders stiffen, and he quickens his pace, his curses growing less coherent the farther he gets.

You stand there for a moment, a soft laugh escaping your lips. As infuriating as Sanemi can be, you can’t help but find his flustered retreat strangely endearing. And though he’ll never admit it, you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he disappears from view.

Rengoku Kyojuro 

The streets are unusually quiet as you and Rengoku move through the narrow alleyways, your hearts pounding in synch. The mission is straightforward: infiltrate a gathering of suspected demon sympathizers and collect information. But now, things have taken a sudden, unexpected turn.

The moonlight filters through cracks in the rooftops above, casting fleeting shadows on his determined face. Rengoku glances back at you, his golden eyes steady but tinged with urgency. There’s no doubt in the fact that this mission is dangerous enough for not one, but two hashira to complete. You feel them in every corner, in every house surrounding you. Demons as far as the eye can see, moving freely along with people who support them.

"Stay close," he whispers, his voice low but firm.

You nod, gripping the fabric of his haori tightly as he leads the way. The only good thing about this mission is definitely working together with Kyojuro.

Everything is going smoothly until a pair of guards emerges from the corner ahead, their faces sharp with suspicion. They’ve seen you. Fuck, all of them look at you with suspicion gleaming in their narrowed eyes. Panic surges in your chest as one of them calls out.

“Hey! You two, stop right there!”

Rengoku halts abruptly, pulling you into the shadows. His broad shoulders block the view of the guards for a moment as he turns to you. His expression softens, but his tone is resolute.

“We have to blend in,” he murmurs, the weight of the situation heavy in his words.

“What do we do?” you whisper back, your pulse racing.

He glances at the approaching guards, then back at you. His voice drops even lower.

“We’ll pretend to be a couple. If they think we’re just two lovers out for the night, they might let us go.”

Before you can fully process his words, he steps closer, his warmth enveloping you.

 “Forgive me for this,” he mumbles softly, his breath brushing against your cheek.

Then, without hesitation, he cups your face gently, tilting your chin up as his lips press against yours.

Time seems to freeze. His kiss is firm yet careful, his movements deliberate as if shielding you from the weight of the moment. You’re hyperaware of everything - the faint smell of ash and sandalwood clinging to him, the heat radiating from his skin, the way his hair brushes against your forehead. Your heart feels like it’s about to burst, your mind going blank.

It’s just you and him. You and the man you’ve had your eye on since joining the demon slayer corps. You and none other than Rengoku Kyojuro.

Footsteps echo closer, and you can hear the guards murmuring to each other. Rengoku deepens the kiss just slightly, his hand slipping to your waist to pull you closer. The world narrows to the two of you, every nerve in your body alight.

Then, as quickly as it began, it’s over. Rengoku pulls back, his golden eyes searching yours for a moment before he shifts his focus to the guards. His arm stays around your waist, holding you close as he addresses them.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, his voice steady and calm, though his grip on you is firm enough to keep you anchored.

The guards hesitate, glancing at each other. One of them clears his throat.

“No, no problem. Just doing our rounds.”

He gestures vaguely.

“Carry on.”

You can barely believe it when they turn and walk away. Only when their footsteps fade into the distance does Rengoku relax slightly, though his arm remains around you. He looks down at you, his expression a mix of apology and relief.

“I…” you start, but words fail you.

He offers a small, reassuring smile.

“Are you all right?”

You nod, though your heart is still racing for reasons beyond the close call.

“I… yeah. I’m fine.”

“Good. We should keep moving. We can’t afford to linger.”

Flashbacks of those big hands holding you tight haunt you down without any mercy, your mind betraying you with imagining that kiss filled with passion over and over again while Kyojuro stays focused on the mission.

You can’t believe that happened, still not able to process this. Did none other than Rengoku Kyojuro just kiss you?

“Kyojuro!”

You blurt out his name  before you’re able to stop yourself, suddenly coming to a halt in the middle of a busy street.

“Can we…Do this again?”

He narrows his eyes ever so slightly in confusion until a sudden beam of realization seems to wash over him.

“We…To be honest, I wanted to do this for a long time, (y/n). I would be honored to kiss you again!”, he beams back.

And before you fully process the meaning of his words, you find yourself devoured by his arms again.

Tengen Uzui 

The marketplace is bustling with activity as you twist through the crowd, trying to keep pace with none other than the sound hashira himself, Tengen Uzui. His flamboyant demeanor and towering height make him stand out like a lighthouse, and you’re grateful for the distraction he provides, allowing you to slip through unnoticed.

Even though this wasn’t exactly planned.

“Stay close, my dear apprentice,” he calls back to you, his voice teasing but mingled with authority.

You roll your eyes while quickening your steps, dodging a vendor carrying a precarious stack of baskets. If there’s one thing you definitely don’t need on a mission like this, it’s a partner like him. What was the rest thinking, sending him along with you?

The plan is simple enough: follow the suspect discreetly and gather information. But Tengen’s idea of “discreet” seems vastly different from yours. He beams confidently, drawing attention as if he’s the star of a show, while you try to melt into the background.

You’re lucky if you make it out of here without picking up a fight.

Suddenly, someone pushes you from behind, and you can’t help but stumble forward at full-speed. Tengen turns just in time, his reflexes sharp as ever, and reaches out to steady you. But the momentum is too strong, and before you can stop it, you crash into his chest.

“Careful now,” he jeers, smirking down at you.

You barely have time to register his words before someone in the crowd stumbles into him, pushing him further off balance.

The world tilts as you both fall, and the next thing you know, your lips collide with his in a clumsy, unexpected kiss.

Your mind goes blank. His lips are warm and surprisingly soft, and for a moment, neither of you moves. The noise of the market fades into the background, replaced by the pounding of your heart. Tengen’s eyes widen slightly, his usual cocky expression replaced by genuine surprise.

Your lips are resting against his.

His. Uzui Tengen, to be exact.

Is this really happening? Are you dreaming? Why aren’t you pulling away instinctively?

He pulls back first, his hand still gripping your arm to keep you steady. For once, he seems at a loss for words, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for something to say.

You beat him to it, not able to endure the awkward silence.

“That… was an accident,” you blurt out, your cheeks burning.

He blinks, then throws his head back with a booming laugh that turns more than a few heads.

 “An accident, she says! How unflashy of us.”

His grin returns, brighter than ever, though there’s a faint flush on his cheeks that he can’t quite hide.

“Maybe next time, we shouldn’t do this by accident. Don’t you think, (y/n)?”

“You… You didn’t have to laugh that loud,” you mumble, trying to pull away from him, but he holds on, his grip firm but not unwelcome.

Fuck, you never felt this idiotic before. He’ll definitely tease the hell out of you for at least five years. And what if he tells the others about it?

“Relax,” he interferes with your train of thoughts, his voice dropping to a more serious tone.

“No harm done. Though I must say, if we’re going to make a habit of this, we should work on our form.”

He winks, his usual swagger fully restored while you stand there like a fool.

You groan, covering your face with your hands as he chuckles.

“Let’s just focus on the mission, okay?”

“As you wish,” he replies, his voice light but carrying an edge of something unreadable.

He releases your arm, but his gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than necessary before he turns back to the task at hand.

The mission continues, but you can’t shake the warmth of his lips or the way his laughter echoed in your chest. And from the way he keeps glancing back at you, you’re not sure he can either.

Tags: @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix  @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @beatrexworld

@froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @poketrainer2270 @chaoticwinnercupcake

@lees-chaotic-brain @wordskeeper @polarbvnny @sugu-love @ryva @baku2345

@komelrebi-san @kentocalls @barbuse @sunshine7queen @lavenderdrxp

@yaninnaacu @hopefulbelievertimemachine @vrystalius @sanemifucker @blunderland

[iznsfw]

You are now obliged to write an Eunbi smut

Waterbombed

IZ*ONE's Kwon Eunbi x Male Reader Smut

5,835 words

Categories | daddy kink, anal, jealousy, squirting, breast worship, fingering, titfucking, spanking, slight exhibitionism

Sorry not sorry for the Eunbi spam—I promise I'll write the other members and other idols after this. Waterbomb Festival Eunbi is just too hot.

Enjoy.

Tokki 🐰: oppaaaaaaaaa

This can't be good. Eunbi's bombing your phone again with ridiculous messages designed to attract your attention. It won't work today, though. You've got a lot to do, and besides that, she's equally busy. She's out there performing in some festival Woollim booked, and it's safe to say that it should have brought about only peace in your office cubicle. No videos, no flirty texts, no nada—that's how it should have been.

But one thing you've learned when dating Kwon Eunbi is to expect the unexpected. Too bad you didn't keep that in mind when you finally gave in and picked up your phone. Work can wait for a few minutes, right?

You: What is it ?

Tokki 🐰: have you seen my performance yet :]

You don't think so. The day's been too packed to make space for a quick watch.

You: Not yet love im busy

Tokki 🐰: you should oppa

becauseeeee

i really enjoyed performing at the waterbomb festival!!!!!

Waterbomb Festival?

Isn't that—

It slowly hits you, as if the information were a hesitant slap on the shoulder. Thoughts come blending into each other in your head and forming a quaky conclusion. Could it be…?

Open another tab on your work desktop. You quickly flock to YouTube. Never mind if your boss sees the history through the internet router. You have to know if your suspicions are true. 

Your experienced fingers spell out a search query into the curved search bar. In flash-paced impulse, you type out: "권은비 워터밤."

Then there it is: several fan-recorded videos of your girlfriend, your ever-so-precious and playful Eunbi, dressed in nothing but a flimsy bikini top and a see-through cardigan. Her hair is soaked from the sprays and shots of water coming at her, but she's smiling—she looks like she's having the time of her life.

The played previews of the videos are endless loops of her chest rippling and bouncing with her wide movements, even cutting to a clip where she's running her hands up her exposed body, grinding her hips down as if you were there on the stage with her, invisible yet still present. 

No wonder she didn't want you to attend. You insisted, but she asked that you did what you had to do. 

You're a good man. At least, you try to be. Eunbi's her own person and you're completely fine with whatever she does, even suggesting the kinds of tattoos she could pick out when she went to get some. They're what gave you the inked places to kiss her.

But she knows what she was doing with this. It's impossible not to discern that.

Look around before closing the tab with shivering breaths, then pick up your phone.

You: ????? 

You told me it was a festival

Not the WATERBOMB festival

Tokki 🐰: oh come on whats the difference 

and you don't own me >:(

i can do whatever i want

:PPPPP

She's got a point, but her intent with this is so obvious, with the lewd expressions she fires the audience and all, that—

You: Oh

So that's how it's going to be, huh.

It's maddening how your picture of her jumping around giggling as she types another message to you is probably accurate. 

Tokki 🐰: yes :3

can you come pick me up?? 

The audacity of this girl sometimes.

But forget it; as any good boyfriend would, you're picking her up. You'll do more than pick her up. 

-

Getting there in the guise of her manager isn't easy. You've had to negotiate with him, explaining that you'll pick her up on your own and save him the trouble. I'm a friend of hers, you said. I just want to congratulate her performance, you added. He gave you suspicious looks, but once he saw her name in your contacts, he ultimately agreed.

Driving through the crowd isn't easy either, but you manage to do it. You have your emotions to thank for that. Lust and jealousy, as you've learned, are like demons—they possess you, control you to the point that they invade other aspects of your life. Asmodeus sure likes tinkering with you, and you're just sitting there in the driver's seat letting him? If that's the case, you'd have to attend the Waterbomb Festival itself to wash yourself of hell's flame.

Heat begins to fill the room when you see her though. You'd adlib a pun into the script here, say a joke about how it's only hot because Eunbi is. But you're too turned on by the sight of her tits on display, poorly contained by the thin bikini and held together by one single button of the transparent cardigan.

Her smile pushes you on. She knows what you're here for, but she loves playing dumb as much as she loves provoking you. It's all going according to her plan.

Every bit of her insane curves sway in an aesthetic, almost rehearsed way at you as she approaches. Her hair is still wet, and maybe there's another thing wet, too; her thighs squirm together too much to be merely out of the soaked sprays aimed at her at the festival.

Eunbi's eyes sparkle. Makeup can't fabricate that glimmer.

"Daddy," she says, with conviction. With meaning. 

The hair on the back of your nape rises.

Eunbi's pushing you to the empty seat in the room, soon filling your lap with her soft presence. "You really came? I thought you were mad at Eunbi."

There she is again with the third-person thing. The daddy thing, too. She knows it's your weakness, hearing a pretty girl like her who pretends not to know of her effect on people get on her knees and call you what she shouldn't. You won't lie; it's insanely hot, but when she's grinding her round ass down on your growing bulge with that tiny bite of her lower lip, you, as usual, aren't passive. You aren't moved by her coaxing. You refuse to be. 

"Watch it," you warn anyway, a hand on one of her womanly hips. You massage it, a cautionary message written in your movements. Now you brush a thumb over her midriff and draw small gasps out of her.

"I'm n-not doing anything." 

Innocent as her voice is, her outfit isn't—the patterned bikini top barely holds on to her plentiful breasts, and the cardigan is useless anyway with how clear its seams are. 

"Daddy," Eunbi says again, the pout on her lipsticked mouth growing, "don't tease."

"I'm not doing anything," you say, happy to use her line against her. 

You love and live to see the weak expressions on her face when you trail your hands gently to the scope of her tits. If they barely fit the bikini, what more in your hands? They're too soft in your fingers as you gingerly toy with them. Her nipples poke the fabric of the top and brush your palms.

Eunbi's gasps frequent. "Please."

"What is this, baby?" you ask. "You go to a festival made for perverts and you make a scene anyway. And now you want me to take this off—"

Unbutton the single thing holding the cardigan together, slipping it off her shoulders. The bare, revealed body in front of you is something the Waterbomb Festival goers were able to see first—just under the gauze of the poor outerwear. It triggers an unhinged emotion in you, something that goes like: mine mine mine.

"—call you a good girl—"

Eunbi's lips are pursed as you touch her everywhere. She's completely soaked after her viral feat at the festival, but there's another thing down below that's wetter. Showing herself off to everybody, men and women alike, has her wet to the core. 

Your touch teases yet lingers, stays yet strays. She grinds down on your lap needily. 

"—and expect me to fuck you? Really?"

Eunbi's truly all bark but no bite. Her feistiness through texts doesn't translate in real life, wherein she completely melts when you just let your fingertips glide along her waiting skin. Just look at her heaving bosom, her large eyes—she's passiveness itself.

"But you, you liked seeing me up there, daddy," she stammers. Eunbi swallows the moment your hand rests on her cheek. "H-hah, you liked watching me."

She cries out too loud for subtleness at the sudden spank thrown at her tits. 

"Is this what you wanted those men at the festival to do to you?" Slap her bouncing tits again, squeezing before throwing another blow. "Slap your big fucking tits, dick you down right there on the stage for everyone to see?"

"Mmm, ah, you ask too many questions, daddy. Oh– oh my god—"

"If you want to be such a bad girl," you say, a harsh squeeze from your right hand on her boob, "you'll get fucked like one."

Pull down the narrow cup of the bikini to suck on her nipples. Replace the redness on the flesh from your slaps to redness from your mouth. You've placed your hand on skirted ass to keep her on your lap, because she's not going anywhere—she'll stay here, here where you can teach her a lesson. 

You dare to bite just a little. Beneath your palm, Eunbi's form curves and she screams.

"D-daddy!" 

"Sensitive, aren't we?" you ask with a smirk. Your tongue flattens as it licks greedily at her nipples, then retreating to her collarbone and neck. Still, her bountiful breasts are your main focus. 

"Please fuck me. I need it, I can't—"

"Take the skirt off. Bend over." 

Eunbi whines, but you fire her with a look of warning. Hence, she slips out of the white jean skirt. She doesn't even wear safety shorts underneath. Instead, it's a single thong that matches the plaid pattern of the top. She might as well be at a beach with how little clothing there is on her curvaceous body.

Your blood boils, but it settles when she does bend over obediently on your lap, and you enjoy the sight of her breasts dangling before settling on the soft plush sofa. 

"Someone might see, daddy," she protests, though she's already folded in half on the furniture. "The others, they're gonna look."

"You had no problem with that earlier," you say. Circle your palm over the exposed fat cheeks and clench your hand around one, just like you did with her tits. "I should fuck you at the door, make everyone see the sexy little thing they saw at the festival is mine."

"Noooo, please, daddy! The company'll be mad and my fans…oh, my fans—"

"Quiet, baby girl. Let me use you."

Eunbi nods, albeit her shadowed eyes are closed. She whimpers through pursed lips as the first spank capsizes. Her ass moves beautifully, as if it were a dancer just like her. It's hypnotizing, and for that you hit her more. 

"Oh, oh yes, daddy, oh my god," she cries out, her voice thin. "I love it when you spank me. M-makes me want to cum all over you."

"Not a chance after the shit you pulled out there."

Her thong is sticky with her juices. Feel it with your middle finger briefly. Dare to slip through the side to touch her waiting pussy. Eunbi sobs a little, reversing her ass into you, but is met with a spank instead. She winces.

Eunbi's ass is, to be brief, amazing. But even with that you'll go on to say how much you love the supple flesh bouncing in front of you, becoming red from the assault of your hand, clenching to bear the teasing. It's already a surprise that you haven't fucked her senseless already when she's lying stomach first on your lap in a tiny two-piece set, but you love to keep her on edge hankering for you to use her. 

"So you won't let me cum?" asks Eunbi, as if she were really disappointed that she'd be denied something she doesn't deserve. "That's not fair."

"Do you think it's fair to me?" 

"Oh, oh, daddy—" Her legs quake once your fingers nevertheless stuff her hole, and start moving at a pace too early to be set and too much to handle.

Your digits push past her slick walls and fill her over and over. "Presenting what's mine for everyone to see, Kwon Eunbi. And I thought you were a good girl."

"Ohhh, but I am!" Eunbi protests, on the verge of pleasure-induced tears. 

You just know where to touch her, where to fuck her pretty cunt at to reduce her to cum and tears. Nothing's a better combination. Stuff a third finger, and Eunbi gets too tight that you can barely fit. You have to spread your fingers a little to make space, yet she still squeezes down.

Through her struggles and cries she doesn't fail to move her crotch into your fingers. It's like she's in a battle of choices: to have you stop or have you go on forever. 

"I just wanted to have fun, daddy! I wanted you to punish me, to fuck me—"

"Well, you got what you wanted then, little brat. Cum for me. Cum for daddy."

Her screams fire off into the atmosphere like warnings. They have every right to send cautionary messages; Eunbi's a force to be reckoned with when she cums. At times, she'd yell and sob without shame as she came around your cock, tear the sheets with how hard she grasps at their fabric. But now, at a public waiting room backstage at the festival, she's got nowhere and no one to help her bear her orgasm.

So, while you violently fuck her hole with Eunbi-stained digits, her moans start off as what they were, evolving into louder and louder forms, until she's cumming, cumming all over your fingers as if her pussy were one of the water guns itself. Her squirt doesn't miss her thong, but it also doesn't leave your lap empty in its wake.

Oh, and she's screaming. She's crying out your name in pitched tones, carving your thrusts into stronger forces. "Shit, daddy, please!" Eunbi cries, struggling in your lap and squeezing down hard. "Please, daddy, I don't want to ruin your clothes!"

That's sweet of her, but frankly: "I don't care. Cum all over them. Just keep on squirting for me, baby. That's it."

Pull out to rub at her core, forcing more of her girl cum to eject into the air. Eunbi's legs flail and weaken. Her hips gyrate into your finger and flinch after you start spanking her impossibly wet cunt.

"Thank you, daddy," she says between gaspy gibberish and whimpers. She can barely see anything but stars. "My daddy, thank you, daddy, keep spanking my little pussy like that, mmm, I love you, daddy."

Alternate between spanking and rubbing so that the sofa is absolutely stained with her, so that anyone who comes in the room after the session will know that the Kwon Eunbi was railed here. So they know that they can gawk at her amazing body all they want, but she's yours. Yours, and no one else's. 

Eunbi bears it for a few seconds, hips lifting and descending. But it soon becomes too much to bear, for she implores, in a tired voice, "Daddy… stop. Too much."

No problem at all. Stop, like she asked. You never take things too far unless she wants you to, even when she's been bad, which reminds you: "But you're still a bad girl. You need to make it up to daddy."

"I know what to do!" she says, in a sudden cheerful voice she uses when she does her radio gigs. "I can make daddy feel better with this!"

Her legs are still weak, but she gets off your lap with the help of her own eagerness. Eunbi's always so ready to make you feel good.

She kneels, tugging your belt and pants off. Her animated expression at the sight of your cock is adorable, and as you ruffle her hair, you realize you just have to tell her:

"You're so fucking pretty, Eunbi."

Eunbi beams. Her cheeks flush. "Thank you, daddy."

"I bet you'll look even prettier fucking your huge tits on my cock."

"You don't have to tell me what to do," giggles Eunbi. "I'm a big girl."

She completely tears off the bikini top. Her wondrous boobs free themselves from the fabric, baring their flesh to you. It's an attempt to make you drool at the mouth and go bogey-eyed, and you can't say that it isn't successful. 

She squeezes her assets and plays with her nipples. Her fingertips brush and circle over the pink patch of skin as she moans seductively. The knot in your stomach tightens.

"Eunbi," you reprimand her. 

"What?" she says, eyes full of faux innocence. "I was so horny after you fingered me, daddy. You're just so hot when you're mad."

"I'll be madder if you don't let me fuck you."

She laughs. "Don't worry, daddy. Just sit there and relax for me, okay?" Eunbi raises a thumb questioningly.

Lower lip pinned under her teeth, she guides her large breasts to your cock. It takes no effort at all for her to slip your cock between. It's not unexpected either that the big soft skin imprisoning you feels amazing. With their size and impossibly smooth texture, you've no other choice but to moan loudly.

The backside of your length enjoys the space between her tits, while the rounded sides revel in their booby trap. Not a pun, you swear, especially not when your girlfriend's titfucking you, but there's no coherent thought when she's doing it. When she's smiling naughtily. When she's compressing her tits around your length like it's determined to keep you there forever. When—

"You're doing so fucking good, baby."

"Of course," she says happily. "Daddy made me cum even though I was a bad girl, so I'll always be good for him."

"Consider this your punishment, then."

"How is it a punishment if I love it?" 

"Don't start."

Another warning she doesn't heed. "I already have."

Her chest heaves and rests while being instructed by her hands. Eunbi lets a run of spit stream down her cleavage and on your cock as lubricant. Wipe the drool from her chin and offer it to her mouth. Her eyes sparkle with delicateness as she sucks on your thumb. The soft lips wrapping around your finger causes you to wonder what they'd feel like around your girth.

(Next time.)

"Gently," you have to remind her. The constriction of her bust around your cock is a little too much. So is her eager looks. "There's no rush here."

"But I want you to cum," Eunbi says. "I want you to cum all over my big tits you love so much. You love me, don't you? Then cum for me, daddy, show me you love your little baby girl, please?"

Fuck, it's tempting. You'd love to pepper her beautiful face and bust with your cum. She'd look so pretty in it while still keeping the look of pureness in her irises. But you have to hold out. 

She toys with your cock, slapping it against her boob then running its tip on her nipple. Your heart skips a beat, and she smirks. Seems like you're not doing a good job of keeping your daddy persona, but she's good enough to continue rubbing your firm veins on her skin. 

Eunbi's chest is a real-life fleshlight. Soon, your hips start to move of their own accord, and you're meeting her thrusts now, only with a little more force. There's the friction to chase after, too, and you're right at its heel. You're winning the race, already; you can almost taste it—

"Ohhh, daddy!" she says delightfully. Your cum rains on her chest and neck like a storm. The thunder can be your groans that instead of fearing, she relishes. 

"F-fuck," you say. "Fucking brat, take it all—"

Eunbi listens this time. She removes her bosom from enveloping your cock and attaches her mouth to it instead. You've trained her well; she shoves her face all the way down your length, effectively taking it all in her tight throat. Her neck flexes and relaxes. It stimulates you and has your legs bouncing.

Her eyes remain sealed onto you. The brightness in them that they hold so often tells you more than words could: she loves being your good girl as much as she loves being a brat. She loves riling you up but also loves being good and letting you have your way with her. It's what Eunbi keeps living for, and some may say it's an addiction, but if it is, she'd never want to recover. Not if it means having your warm cum down her throat and your hand tangled in her hair.

You call her a good girl more times than you can count. Ruffle her hair all the while and wipe the tears forming in her eyes when she whimpers. It takes a while getting her to get all of your cum—her throat extracts more from you, and it ends up with her gagging just a little. Finally, she makes the move to breathe.

Pants ride her shoulders, but Eunbi smiles. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" she says. "Let's go home now—"

"Oh, no, Eunbi, we're not done."

"H-huh?"

You pull her up and into your lap, her butt parked only a little away from your cock. Eunbi wears a shocked look on her face, and it only adds up to the hotness of her wearing nothing but a Burberry thong while on your thighs.

"I still have to teach you a lesson," you tell her between firm squeezes on her butt. "You think I forgot?"

"Why?" she whines. Her hands fidget with your shirt. "I've been a good girl, haven't I? You got to cum!"

"And I'm not stopping." Guide her hips to dance along the head of your length. Brush against her engorged clit. Tease her slit. "Fucking ride my dick."

You push her down. Eunbi cries out, her nerves still on a high after her previous orgasm. To be fair, you're a little sensitive, too, but you look forward anyway to cumming in her tight little pussy. It could happen any time when she's just so fuckable, her busty self bouncing and squirming on your girth, and her face never failing to not hide the pleasure she's going through. You can feel her twitch and spasm, but of course, you keep slamming her down on your lap like she's a little rag doll.

"Daddy!" she screams. "Please, oh fuck, you're so big!"

She's a little greedy herself. If you wanted to fuck her till she came and begged you to stop, she wanted it more. She's wild and unhinged as she rides you, impaling herself with your rod though you cumming in her would do more bad than good, but when it pokes every good spot and stretches her tiny cunt better than any toy or a couple of fingers, she might as well do it with no regrets.

Kiss her collarbone and keep a hand on her ass to guide her. Squeeze; her moans break. Then Eunbi's looking at you with crazed eyes, deluded and dizzy with pleasure, as you slap her fat ass and let her wet core press its walls around your penis like a trap. This whole thing's a trap if you really looked at it, from the appearance at the Waterbomb Festival to the outfit she's wearing, but if that were so, you'd want no parole. If being jailed in her hole means getting this delicious tightness and hearing her whiny loud moans every second, you'd appeal for a life sentence.

She might as well be liquid—the roll of her hips is too fluid to be that of a human. But you've seen her fancams from the festival and guess that it was a manifestation, a prophecy for this to happen. Your cock can't be anything other than solid, however. Eunbi's too sexy a girl for your erection to be nonexistent.

"That's it, Eunbi." Lean back a little into the wet sofa to let her do her thing. "Ride that fucking cock. Fill that tight pussy."

"I will, daddy," she responds, nodding as if in a spell-cast trance. Maybe it's true; the heat brewing in the small of her stomach is too good to be true. "Yes, please, I love your big cock, it feels so good inside me."

You don't even have to guide her anymore. She's fully fucking herself on you, her stamina never failing her. Her full thighs strain and her pussy clenches down with a slippery yet firm grip. Groan, then slap her ass. She hums happily. Your relentless upward thrusts and slaps just burn her lust into a complete fire. 

It's a surprise your legs don't collapse on the way to carrying her and fucking her against the wall. It gives you more opportunity to stuff her with you harder. Eunbi's legs spread more, her breathing ragged, and you're kissing her again. You press your lips on hers, then on her neck for which she closes her eyes appreciatively, then her collarbone. There isn't one part of her you don't love. You'd paint her with your cum three times a day like a daily meal if you could.

For now, you binge on lust with her. You eat more of her than you should. But who's making the rules? Whoever they are, let it be known you're breaking them—skin slapping against skin grows louder, almost syncing with Eunbi's repeated moans and your pumps. Her hips and yours create a rhythm together to make it work, to make your cock fit inside her, but she ends up weak and tired anyway.

"Please, daddy. S-suck my tits. I need your mouth on me so bad. Can you give your baby girl what she wants, daddy?" Her pout prods you on. "You can, right?"

"Of course." 

Latch your mouth on one of the bouncing circles of flesh. Nibble, suck, spit, suckle—that's your beginning loop of actions for her. But it becomes frenzied after a while because of how good her folds swallow you, how soft her breasts are. Even as your actions become less and less sequenced, she moans. You never want to hear anything else.

"Yes, yes, yes. Thank you. I, I'm gonna cum soon. Keep fucking me like that and I promise, I promise I'll squirt around your s-stupidly big cock. I will, I will, just fuck me, oh my god. Oh, daddy!"

Eunbi stays true to her word, especially with your thumb toying her clit. She lets out another rush of cum on your crotch. It's wet, it's plenty, it's oh-so-hot when she's screaming helplessly like that, struggling to keep up with your speed. 

Pull out so more of her can spray all over you. If people don't hear your little session in this waiting room, they'll see evidence of it—it ends up on the floor, the sofa, the wall, and your soaked clothes on the ground. Maybe Eunbi's back could have imprinted a mark on the wall too after how hard you fucked her. It's too easy for adoring fans and nonchalant staff alike to find out what happened to their beloved Kwon Eunbi after the festival, and you have a feeling that it's part of what makes Eunbi squirt so much now.

Go south. Keep your fingers on her hips to help her stand. Then, flick your tongue on her clit to help her go through the long stretch of her orgasm.

"Ahh, fuck!" 

Her core tightens again. Her hips flinch and recoil, but you keep firing your sharp little licks long after her climax subsides. 

"Oh, daddy," Eunbi sighs, dizzy, "that felt so good."

"Can you go for more?" 

You're met with a curious look. It's as if she's wondering herself: could she?

"I want to fuck your ass, too, Eunbi." Squeeze her cheek, and her other cheek turns red. "Won't you let daddy fuck this perfect little thing?"

Eunbi shivers. She walks over to the windowsill, steps shaky, and places her hands on it. Then, she looks back at you, coaxing you on. And you have to admit that it's quite the sight, because there she is, in only skimpy underwear and her breasts bare of any covering. 

It's the fact that she's so willing to go and expose herself through the uncurtained window and show everyone who gets to fuck her that makes you approach her. 

"Naughty girl."

Eunbi nods. What's there to deny? Her eyes shut after you spank her.

"If I get to fuck your ass every time you go to Waterbomb," you say, trailing her wetness to her asshole as lubricant and lathering it with her arousal, "I'd let you go here daily."

Eunbi giggles. "So you're not mad anymore, daddy?" she asks hopefully.

Your cock rubs her hole. It teases her, keeps her on the tips of her toes. "Maybe."

Push, just a little. Already she's clenching down unintentionally. Eunbi hisses and shuts her eyes.

"Ffffuck, hnn." Her hands drum a tortured song on the windowsill while her voice strains a melody of darling cries and whines. "Haaah, daddy, you're so big. I don't think I can take it."

"Of course you can," you say, choosing to be gentle this time, "'cause you're my good girl, right?"

"Y-yes. I'll take it for you, daddy—I can do it."

"That's my Eunbi."

Kiss her neck and slowly plunge more inches in her. She keeps letting out soft cries. Her face, showcasing her eyes shut tightly and mouth slightly hung open, reflects into the window. You wonder which group's performing now, and if the audience is too enamored by their song to see the previous sex doll that is Eunbi being fucked at the window. That somehow encourages you alongside her soft moans of pleasure. 

It's Eunbi's first time with anal, and she never imagined she'd experience it here, at a place where anybody can see her pleasure and struggle. She clamps a palm on her mouth.

"Daddy… ahhh, it's so big, daddy!" she cries softly.

"I know. Just spread that tight ass for me, will you? So you can take daddy better?" Smile when she follows your orders. "Thank you, baby. You ready?"

"Mmm." Eunbi hums hesitantly. "Yes."

She said she was, so there's no hesitance on your end in relentlessly fucking her asshole. It gapes a little with the help of her fingers, but Eunbi still wails. Stroke after stroke of your length fills her up and she isn't sure how to deal with the pleasure and pain it brings about. 

Her textured, pink walls might be a close competitor in terms of tightness with her pussy. With how closed its walls are, it nearly refuses to take you in. Try rubbing at her clit. As a result, it clenches around you tighter. Eunbi sobs and huffs as she tries with every inch of her spent body to take you in. 

"Nnnn, daddy! S-so big, so good, it's so good!"

Open her up. Spread the tight cheeks by spanking them. The backside before you grinds and gyrates in response. There's more wetness now on Eunbi's legs, trickling down her skin. Maybe it's sweat? Squirt? Cum? No time to think about it when you're focused on how damn tight she is.

Somehow, your pats and rubs on her core make her tighter. She's restricting you fully, forcing you to draw your hips all the way back to slam inside her. With each, she gasps, as if surprised, and begs again. Begs for more, although her ass is too tight to take more than a few pleasured inches in. Begs you to use her, spank her, which you do although you don't really understand the rest of her sentences. It's all garbled and messy, just like your swift thrusts.

"Pound me, fuck me! Fuck me for everyone to see, daddy, make me cum!"

Now that part's clear as day. You love Eunbi too much to not do what she says.

A few seconds in she relaxes a little. Hence, the rest of your dick goes inside her. You let out a soft groan at how good it feels: finally filling her to the hilt. You kiss her sweaty back, rub her clit, tell her how much of a good girl she is. It takes effect; she grows tighter and more relaxed at the same time. How it's possible, you've no idea, for you live in the present wherein you're fucking Kwon Eunbi's tight ass to no end.

Rub her little midriff. "You want me to fill this pretty stomach with my load, baby? You want me to cream your ass?" 

"Yes, daddy!" 

Now, trail your finger down to her clit where you rub furiously. "Want me to make you squirt again?" 

"Fuck! Daddy!" Eunbi's legs twitch and she throws her head back. "Yes, yes, make me cum, make me cum!"

That you do. Keep the tempo of your thrusts and rubs unsynced so as to let her experience the pleasure from both ends. Let your other hand squeeze and pinch her nipples, and let the fact that only you get to toy with them, not the audience. Not one single man out there gets to fuck her like this, even in his dreams. 

You smile for a bit until you blow your load inside her tight hole. Eunbi's feet finally lose balance and she falls back into you. Continue to thrust in her to ease your climax while she rains her squirt all over the pane and wall. Let a few fingers inside her pussy, too, and the silver rain grows stronger. Plentier. Better.

"So fffucking big, thank you, daddy," she mumbles coherently enough. She kisses your jaw tiredly. "Feels so good in my ass, thank you, I love you, thank you… the best…"

Her repeated whispers are adorable. You wince as you pull out. You're fully and completely drained, and you don't have to guess to know that she is, too.

"Calm down now."

"Okay, I will…" 

"I love you, too, by the way." Your lips meet hers. She kisses back happily.  "Don't forget that."

"Won't… forget…" Eunbi nods. Her heart pounds as fast as yours. "We'll go home now? For real this time?"

"For real this time," you chuckle. Stroke her hair. 

You let her robe fall around her spent body and drive her home. The janitors have a tough time cleaning up the room, luckily only assuming someone spilled water. The scent of sex still hangs around, though.

She's your passenger princess on the way home, but the next three times she'll attend the Waterbomb Festival, she's your toy. You're flying with her to Japan to fuck her anytime, just as a firm reminder that as much as she's loved to show off in the events, you love fucking her more.

[macfrog]

faire l'amour sex on fire chapter five

alright babies. grab the nearest museum tour guide, don your finest gumball machine jewelry, strap into your lifejackets and get ready to fall in love in paris - we go again one last time. i could've written about these two in france forever; i kinda want them to retire together and just move to europe and live out their days drinking good wine and baking in the sun. anyways hope u enjoy love u bye!!! 💘

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: it’s your last day away with joel. impulses are getting harder to control, feelings are getting harder to hide, and secrets are threatening to spill over…

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalanced power dynamic, sugardaddy!joel, cursing, mention of oral (m receiving), ostentatious displays of wealth, probably inaccurate french language, jean-marc makes reader feel uncomfortable, some objectification, alcohol consumption, protective!joel, lil bit of fluff, teasing and excessive flirting obv, a Totally Not Romantic boat trip, reader (nervously) shares personal stuff with joel, themes of heartbreak and guilt, reader sort of panics/spirals a little again, daddy kink, facesitting (f receiving), assplay/fingering, softdom!joel, unprotected piv sex, creampie, angst?? kinda??

word count: 9.4k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

“Come – here,” he says, sterner. Eyes dark, flitting up and down your skin, settling between your legs. You obey him, shuffling further up the mattress until you’re hovering over his face, knees digging into the cushion by his ears. “Sit,” he instructs. You stare blankly at him. Your body doesn’t move. “Wanna taste you again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, eyes stuck on your wet core just inches from his lips. “Gonna make you feel better.”

The suite is drowned a milky blue in the morning light. The sky is white – cloud cover as far as you can see. You tug your robe tighter around your body and turn from the window, rounding the bed to join Joel in the bathroom. He’s in the shower, humming some song you’re distantly sure played that night in the dive bar.

You’re meeting Jean-Marc in an hour, in the penthouse of his hotel. He owns four across the city. Joel has told you three things so far: he’s pretentious, he’s a little in your face, and he’s always wearing a blue velvet robe.

He hasn’t told you much more than that.

You click your toothbrush on, and it whirs around your jaw for all of ten seconds before cutting out. Your thumb presses the button twice more, pulling it out of your mouth to find the red light at the base of the handle blinking. Like it’s snickering at you.

“Fuck,” you moan, head tilting back.

“’s wrong?” Joel asks, stepping out of the shower and reaching for his towel.

“My toothbrush just died. Do you have a charger with you?”

He shakes his head, wrapping the towel low over his hips.

“You didn’t bring a toothbrush charger?”

Joel walks around you, eyes never leaving yours in the steamy-edged reflection of the mirror until he’s by your side, when you watch him glance down to you. “Is my toothbrush the one that’s dead, baby?”

You sigh, sliding the brush across the marble countertop.

“Here,” Joel says, chuckling, “just use mine.”

“Uh,” you hold a hand up, grimacing, “no, thanks. Gross.”

“What?”

“You want me to use your toothbrush? That you’ve already used? In my mouth?”

“Same mouth you had wrapped around my dick half an hour ago?”

You stare him down in the mirror, jaw slack with shock, eyes thin. Trying to form words, but he’s smiling so cockily, so amused by the look on your face. He’s proud of that one, ain’t he?

You slap his arm away but snatch the toothbrush from his hand without a word, loading it with toothpaste and flicking the button.

Joel laughs again, nose nudging into your hair as he hooks around you, dappling kisses up your neck, still sticky from the shower. “You look hot when you’re pissed.”

Your words, though muffled by the white, minty foam, are clear enough that they make him laugh even harder. “Fuck off.”

Finding an outfit you think appropriate for breakfast with one of Joel’s rich friends – is Jean-Marc a friend? You don’t know enough about him to call it – whilst also staying in the realm of professional work trip is tough. You want to look nice, look…Parisian, but also look personal assistant. And definitely, definitely avoid looking I’m-sleeping-with-my-boss, by the way.

You settle for a deep red floral dress, split hem running just above your knees, and a pair of white heels that wrap around your ankles. Joel approves, judging by the placement of his hands when he appears behind you in the mirror. You lean back into him as he lifts your skirt, running a light touch up the inside of your thigh, a low growl passing his lips when his fingers meet your lace –

The suite phone jolts you back to reality. Joel sighs, shifting off to answer it.

“Yep?” he says into the receiver. Car’s here, he mouths to you. “Alright, thank you, ma’am.”

He nods toward the door and you follow after him, swinging a clutch under your arm and giving your hair one last toss in the mirror.

“What’s he like?”

“Huh?”

You lean back against the elevator wall, watching the rustic arrow arch across the floors of the hotel. “Jean-Marc. Aside from the blue robe and pretentiousness, what should I expect?”

He clears his throat. Sniffs. “Uh,” he scratches the bridge of his nose, “he’s fine. He’s…You’ll do fine. Don’t overthink it.”

Alright.

But Joel’s being weird. He’s silent when he ushers you into the back of the car, he forgets to put his hand on your thigh until you take his wrist and guide it there, and he doesn’t even hear you when you gasp and point out two white poodles on the street. He barely says a word until you’re being welcomed through a huge golden doorway into a regal penthouse suite, gleaming floors and decorative walls.

Very in-your-face. Very Jean-Marc, going by the little you know.

“Joelie!” he sings, coming over to meet you both with his hands out, shaking Joel’s and patting him roughly on his bicep.

He’s a small man – smaller than Joel, anyway. Hair more salt than pepper. Clean-shaven, pointed chin. And no blue robe, disappointingly. He’s just in a white shirt, unbuttoned far lower than you would’ve left it, had it been up to you, and smart blue trousers. A pair of patterned loafers, too, a huge gold buckle on the top of them.

Joel turns, robotically, to introduce you, and places a hand on the small of your back. You step forward into Jean-Marc’s open arms. He leans in, places a kiss to each cheek, and leans back out, almost like he’s surveying you. Up and down, and back up again. Joel’s hand doesn’t leave your back.

“You are the assistant,” Jean-Marc remarks, clapping his hands. “How beautiful! You are much too beautiful to be in such a boring job. Blegh.”

You laugh, not entirely sure why. Probably nerves. Sometimes it’s easier to laugh uncomfortable moments off, makes them pass quicker, though it pisses you off. Joel’s hand presses a little into your skin, you feel his fingers grip around the material of your dress.

“We are eating on the terrace.” Jean-Marc steps away, fingers snapping to beckon you both forward. “It has a fantastic view of the city, doesn’t it, Joel?”

Joel smiles, but doesn’t say anything. You fucking wish he would. Why is he so quiet?

You both follow Jean-Marc outside, sun peeking weakly through the clouds onto the paved patio, fenced by an intricate wrought iron railing, and covered in what looks like a jungle of vibrant green plants. He leads you over to a huge glass table, set with spotless white crockery and shining silver cutlery, wine glasses at each setting.

“Please,” he holds his hands out, “sit.”

Joel pulls one of the chairs out and looks to you, waiting for you to slide into it. When you do, you watch as he sits silently next to you. And then he finally fucking does it.

His hand slips onto your thigh under the table. Gives the top of your knee a gentle squeeze. The relief washes over you like waves of cold water on a scorching day. Your lungs fill with air and your shoulders relax.

“So, you have worked for Joel for…how long?” Jean-Marc asks, pouring his first glass of wine. He holds the bottle up to you and Joel and you both hold your palms up in unison, opting for the freshly squeezed orange juice instead.

You answer politely – you answer all of his questions politely, with a tight smile on your lips that hurts when you hold it for too long. He asks what you do for Joel, whether you like it much, how you’re finding your trip to Paris. All the while, Joel sits beside you, feeling more stone than human, observing, listening and grunting in answer anytime Jean-Marc makes reference to him.

On your host’s second glass of wine, a flurry of waiters in all white spawn from the penthouse and lay dishes of extravagant food before you. Eggs benedict is about the only thing you recognize, aside from the toast in the rack in the middle of the table, and a bowl of fresh cut fruit beside it.

A tall, black-haired assistant swings over to Jean-Marc when he clicks his fingers, craning around the old man like a raven perched on his shoulder.

“Ce serait bien d’avoir un joli visage comme celui-ci travailler avec nous, non?” Jean-Marc utters in the man’s ear, and they laugh. A little too hard. Laughter that hits your ear like a foul ball.

You decide to break your porcelain polite smile, laughing with the two men. The tall man straightens and glides off behind the table, and Jean-Marc wipes the corners of his mouth before turning to you.

“So,” he says again, another question approaching, “what did you study? At university?”

“Business management,” you reply neatly, lifting your glass.

Jean-Marc’s head wobbles in a nod as he cuts into his meal.

“And French.”

Joel chokes into his glass of orange juice. “Sorry,” he sputters, coughing into his fist, covering a laugh. “Sorry.”

You mask your own smile behind your drink, the sound of Joel choking on his juice making your shoulders shudder with a giggle which escapes in short bursts through your nose.

Jean-Marc’s eyebrows rise, amused and…fascinated. “Even better, hm?”

Joel’s still clearing the orange juice from his airway. Patting his lips with his own napkin. He pauses and his hands fall to his lap when Jean-Marc asks, “Where have you been hiding her, Joel?”

You wince. It’s a gross question, it is. And you know Joel thinks so, too, maybe even worse by his reaction. He sucks in a deep, sudden breath, eyes narrowing toward Jean-Marc. His chest rises and falls abruptly, jaw clenches tight. And then his hand is back on your leg, and you quickly lay yours atop, softly squeezing it. It’s fine. It’s fine.

His thumb strokes your fingers lightly, but he doesn’t react more than that. He doesn’t say much for the remainder of the meal, either. Just cuts pieces of egg and bacon roughly and – though this might just be you knowing him well enough – pretty aggressively, dragging them off of his fork with gritted teeth.

You keep up lighthearted conversation with Jean-Marc; the weather, your flight (at least the PG parts of it), how much of Paris you’ve seen since you landed. You study him when he’s not staring you down, watch the way his delicate fingers slice through his food, throwing it into his mouth in tiny pieces and humming to himself as he looks around at the skyline.

He’s like a mouse. Like some small creature with enough brains and quick wit to keep you on your toes. Everything is like a dance – you find yourself picking up on nuances in his conversation, words which point one way and yet, a shift in tone which points in the complete opposite.

It’s always when that tone shifts, and your eyebrows pull together, polite façade slipping some, that you find yourself leaning more into Joel. And he’s there each time. Steady as a rock, quiet, watchful and protective. A scent that comforts you, grounds you anytime you begin to feel yourself floating off with one of Jean-Marc’s stories.

“Madame,” a voice murmurs behind you, and you turn to find the raven man stood over you like a shadow. He hooks his fingers, nodding over to the edge of the terrace.

“Ah, yes,” Jean-Marc nods, “go, please. My assistant will be happy to show you the view. It is a panoramic view of Paris.”

You nervously stand, letting go of Joel’s hand. He watches you follow the tall figure over to the black railing, where he points to landmarks you’ve already seen from your own terrace. When his ghostly finger points out the Arc de Triomphe, you sneak a glance over your shoulder back to Joel.

Jean-Marc is now sat in your chair, leaning into Joel and talking at him. Chittering, like a bird in his ear. Joel’s face is flat, he looks thoroughly unimpressed at whatever the hell Jean-Marc’s saying. Looks pissed, if you’re honest.

Suddenly Jean-Marc leaps from the seat and claps his hands, announcing that he’d like to take you and Joel on a drive. But as soon as he’s finished the sentence, Joel’s broad figure is standing up to height beside him, towering over him.

“Actually, we, uh…we have other plans today. Maybe some other time.”

He nods quickly to you and you almost throw yourself to him in response. You collect your bag from the table and line yourself beside Joel, nodding graciously to Jean-Marc and thanking his assistant for showing you the view.

“Anytime,” Jean-Marc says, taking your free hand. “It was wonderful to meet you. I hope that we will again soon.”

Before you can respond, Joel’s dragging you off the terrace and through the penthouse, muttering, “Thanks,” as you pass more servers into the elevator again.

“What’s wr–?”

“Nothing,” he cuts in, exhaling when the doors close over. His stare won’t lift from the floor. “Nothing.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you. It’s nothing.”

“Ooookay,” you reply, lifting your eyebrows. The elevator plummets; you both fall into silence with it. Joel’s shifting between feet, arms crossed, hands tightly squeezing into his upper arms.

“What’s next, then?” you ask, trying to crack him.

His shoulders rise with the breath he takes. “Nothing, baby.”

“Stop that. Answer me, Miller.”

A smile pulls at his lips. “I am answerin’. I got nothin’ for the rest of the day. I’m all yours.”

The elevator stops and slides open. Joel leads you out through the lobby, toward the front door through which you can see Denis’s car waiting.

“Then, why aren’t we flying home today? Why wait until tomorrow? I thought you had big work stuff all weekend.”

“Because. I didn’t wanna come here just to work. Why’d you think I brought you here, if I was just gonna work the entire time?”

You toss him a look and he laughs.

“Alright, no,” he says, opening the car door for you. “I wanted to spend time with you, darlin’.”

You scoff, settling in the backseat. “Hi, Denis!”

Denis nods in the mirror to you, cheeks plump with his warm smile, then looks to Joel. “Where to?”

Joel turns to you. Lifts his eyebrows, opens his hands.

“Wh–? Me?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “where d’you wanna go, pretty girl? We’ll do whatever you want.”

You stare at him, a little dumbfounded. But then he smiles again, so sincere, so gentle, and you fold.

Since you were a kid, old enough to hold a pencil, you drew. Crayon doodles of you and your mom stuck to the refrigerator turned to being hunched over a sketchbook in art class, wrist aching by the end of the day when you’d rush home with it between your fingers to show her what you’d drawn. And that turned to tiny sketchbooks you’d carry in your purse for when college became too boring, sneaking them out to draw the face of the professor, stern lines in black ink as she detailed the components of a business model. And that turned to an entire corner in your apartment dedicated to canvases and paints, sketching pencils and watercolor inks – your very own little studio for whenever you had the time.

It'd been on your bucket list probably since that first crayon made its way into your little hands. You imagined wandering around for the day, drinking in all the art, marveling at the size of some of the paintings, walking two, three times around the sculptures. Seeing the Mona Lisa.

“The Louvre?” you ask Joel, tilting your head.

“The Louvre, Denis,” he says, and takes your hand in his.

----------

It’s like a dream. You’re sure you’ve looped the same rooms twice, maybe three times over. And it still doesn’t feel real.

Joel’s been following you the whole time, his fingers intertwined with yours – watching as you lean as close as possible to each painting, eyes studying the detail intently, and then back again, taking it in in its entirety; pointing to the tiny plaques with the information on each piece, reading them to you as you muse over each one.

Your neck aches from turning all over the place as you walk around, looking from wall to wall, up to the ceiling panels, ornate in gold and bursting with colorful, dreamy paintings of the skies.

When you reach the Mona Lisa, you queue for twenty minutes. Joel stands by your side the entire time, one arm comfortably slung around your back as you meander across the wooden floor toward the glass case. He asks you which piece has been your favorite so far; you tell him the one right after he almost got hit on the head by some kid with a selfie stick. He lowers his brows and shakes his head at the memory, and you hit his chest playfully, trying to conceal your laughter from his grumpy face.

When you reach the center of the painting, the enigmatic face staring straight back at yours, Joel taps your shoulder.

You spin around.

He’s holding his phone up, leaning back to get both you and the soft-smiling face behind you in shot.

“Joel,” you laugh, and he waves his hand.

“Smile,” he tells you.

And you do. You prop one elbow on the wooden barrier, lean in to the frame like you’re snapping a pic with a best friend, and push your cheeks up. The camera shutter sound echoes from his phone, and he brings it down, checking over the picture.

“Cheesy,” you mutter, leaning in to get a better look at your upside-down face.

“She’s beautiful,” he replies with a smirk, scooping you off to round the room toward the exit.

You glance back at the Mona Lisa, arm linking with Joel’s. “She is, right?”

He doesn’t respond. When you turn back, he’s smiling to himself, eyes on the floor.

You click alongside him in your heels, weaving between tourists taking photos and guides showing groups of wide eyes and slack jaws around. As you pass them, Joel leans in close to you.

“I don’t wanna take you away from all this,” he utters, “but I got somethin’ booked for us.”

“Somethin’ booked?”

He nods. Hands you a guilty look, and asks, “Mind if we call it a day?”

You shake your head, a little more enthusiastically than you meant to, but you’re trying to tell him you don’t mind. At all. Whatsoever. He’s paid for this entire trip, and apparently has more instore. What you feel right now is the complete opposite of minding.

You let him take you back up the escalators and out of the museum.

Denis sits by the curb, waiting for you both like he always is. He drives you, hand in hand, around the city to the edge of the Seine, where Joel leads you out of the car and begins strolling down the riverside.

The early evening sun bounces along the water, reflecting ochre and amber in gentle ripples. Your arms cross over one another, hands rubbing the cold skin above your elbows, and without a word, Joel pulls his jacket off and sits it loose over your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you whisper, as he wanders along beside you. “So, where we goin’?”

“You’ll see,” he says, smiling. “You really loved it in there, huh?”

“Mhm,” you nod, nudging into him, “thank you for taking me.”

“Didn’t know you were artsy. You knew your stuff.”

“You don’t know a lot about me, do you?”

There’s something in his eyes when he looks back at you. Words behind them that he thinks twice about letting slip. Instead, he says, “You keep surprisin’ me.”

You’re walking under the shade of a line of trees, benches sat in between each trunk holding couples enjoying the view, families snapping photos. You turn to watch a couple of kids run by, hoping that by the time you turn back, your cheeks are a little less red.

“Hm,” you muse, “I always wanted to be an artist. A painter. Wanted to sell my stuff, make money turning people into portraits. It was my stupid little pipedream.”

“’s not stupid. Not a pipedream, either.”

“You haven’t seen my stuff.”

“Alright, then show it to me.”

You scoff, tightening your grip around your body. “Maybe. Maybe when we’re back home.”

“Holdin’ you to it.”

You smirk, brushing the hair out of your face. “What’s yours?”

“My what?”

“Your pipedream. You wanted to be a businessman your whole life?”

Joel’s eyes are fixed on the pathway in front, widening a little as he nervously laughs. “I, uh…Not my whole life, no.”

“What was it before, then?”

He seems to stiffen. Runs his fingers through his hair, unglues his eyes from the ground and looks across the water. “Me ‘n my…my brother, we had this idea to buy a ranch. Raise sheep, cattle, few horses maybe. Out in the country, y’know? Looked into a few places, but…I guess life got in the way.”

Joel Miller, a farmer. Moreover, Joel Miller, a brother. How come, in three years of knowing him better than most, you never knew he had a brother?

He answers awkwardly when you ask. “Just don’t see ‘im much, is all. He lives out west.”

His gaze falls again and you know that’s as much as you’re going to be able to draw from him. Know he’s keeping that particular card close to his chest.

You turn back to the view ahead, eyes flitting from bench to bench as you pass, catching on something in the distance. Something small, red, tucked behind one of the uniform trees. The glass sphere atop it shines in the wilting sunlight.

“Hey.” You take Joel’s elbow, dragging him over to it.

“A gumball machine? What are you, ten?”

“’s not gumballs. It’s a lucky draw. Like, toys ‘n stuff.”

“Alright, what are you, five? C’mon.”

You stay where you’re standing, crouched to look inside the glass dome at the small multicolored balls, each one filled with a tiny prize. “Joooel,” you groan, and he turns back.

“Baby, we’re gonna be–”

“You said we do whatever I want. I want a fuckin’ toy outta the French gumball machine.”

His lips widen, ready to say something back, and then he thinks better of it. You know him, and, equally, he knows you. You won’t walk away from this damn machine, no matter what he says.

“You know what…?” He steps forward, fishing in his pocket for change. “I notice I’m payin’ again, by the way. First the jukebox, now this.”

You clear your throat, lower your voice, and mimic his Southern drawl, repeating what he said in the Gucci store yesterday. “All expenses paid, baby.”

Joel lifts a finger, pointing at you. His voice is short. A warning. “Cut that.”

He slots a euro in the silver contraption and steps back, holding a hand out for you to do the heavy lifting. You leap forward, twist the lever, and a small red ball rolls down the chute, falling into your open hands.

For a man who wasn’t interested in the machine ten seconds ago, Joel leans in pretty quick to watch you pop open the plastic ball.

“A ring!” you exclaim, slipping the ruby ring from its globe and holding it up in the light.

“It’s plastic. It’s a plastic kids ring.”

You slap his chest. “I like it.”

Joel shakes his head and takes your wrist, pulling you further along the river’s edge as you survey the newest addition to your jewelry collection. It’s tiny – he’s not wrong about that – and it only just fits on your pinkie finger, but you wear it proudly as you follow him along the cobbled pathway to…

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Joel turns, smug grin on his face. “Nope!” he calls, stepping down onto the bank to a private fucking boat.

“You have a jet and a boat? Tryna kill the planet one form of transportation at a time, aren’t you, Miller?”

He snorts, helping you down alongside him. “I rented it, and you’re fuckin’ welcome. Thought it’d be a nice way to end the trip.”

“It is nice,” you concede, feeling a little embarrassed. “It is. I’m just…You said I keep surprising you.”

He holds his arm out as you step over the edge of the varnished wooden boat, wobbling a little when you land. A man in a navy button up greets you, shows you down a couple steps where there’s a white leather couch and a table, bucket of champagne sat on top.

“Damn…” you whisper, feeling Joel’s weight behind you.

“We can get back off, though, if you wanna go play some more with the gumball machine.”

You roll your head back to look at him and he smiles. Gleeful. Like a little kid.

Probably like you did, when you uncovered your ruby ring.

Different strokes for different folks.

Joel settles back against the leather couch and you stand, looking down at him for a second before he’s gesturing you to join. The boat sets off as you shuffle in beside him, leaning back until your body’s encased in his, his arm wrapped around your waist, hands interlinked at your tummy.

You lean your head back against his shoulder, watching Paris sail by, feeling the cool breeze as it whips across the surface of the river and lands gently on your face, and smelling Joel all over you. It’s peaceful. It’s quiet, and it’s still, and it’s…totally not romantic at all.

None of this should be romantic. None of it should have your heart skipping beats, praying Joel can’t feel them through his fucking coat still on your shoulders.

So why does your breath catch when he leans down and quietly asks if you’re okay?

“Yeah,” you say in a choked voice, feeling his beard scratching your ear. “I’m g–I’m good.”

You’re thankful when he gives you something else to think about, in the form of a question: “You like the view from Jean-Marc’s terrace?”

Your shoulders jerk with a laugh. “Ha. It’s not as nice as ours.”

“Nah. That assistant guy say much to ya?”

“No. Why would he?”

Joel shrugs. “No reason.”

He says it like there is a reason, though. Like your answer caught him off guard. He was expecting you to say something else.

You draw shapes in the palm of his hand. “You gonna tell me what Jean-Marc said to you yet?”

“Nope. None of your business, pretty girl.”

You smile. “He was alright, you know. Bit on the nose, but he had a cool outfit. Cool plants, too.”

You feel the rumble of Joel’s response on your back – the way his chest vibrates with the noise he makes. A typical Joel grumble, a Yeah, but also no. There’s a tension between you two, some sort of roadblock with the name Jean-Marc scrawled into it. It feels awkward, and sticky, and those are things you’ve never felt before with Joel.

His fingers are twirling the ruby ring on your finger, round and round. Your eyes fix on the way the sun lights the plastic gem, burning it into your corneas before your brain finally forces something out in attempt to break that weird wall down.

“Bet Martha hangs me out to dry for this when we get back,” you snort, “I can hear her now: Two different rings off a’ two different men!”

Joel’s fingers stop. You feel his cheek turn, his jaw brushing against the side of your head.

“Two rings?” he asks.

Fuck. Wrong thing to say. Fuck.

“I, uh…You know. That was just a joke.”

“What d’you mean two different men?”

Fuck fuck fuck.

“I meant, like…I meant…”

You sigh and sit up straight. You meant what you said before: there’s a lot Joel doesn’t know about you. One huge thing in particular, that you only happened to share with Martha one night after Joel had left the office – the two of you working late, checking off a to-do list the length of your arm and relying on caffeine to stay awake. Sharing stories and secrets in the dark office, freeing skeletons you figured you’d never have the guts to let roam in daylight.

Well, you just hammered the whole closet down. Accidentally.

“If I tell you this, it’s between us, okay?”

Joel clasps his hands. Nods once. “And Martha.”

“…Yeah, and Martha. Whatever. She doesn’t know very much about it, anyways. But no one else. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“’cause I don’t like to talk about it much.”

“Baby. I got it.”

The words are drawn from your lips like blood from a stone. They’re heavy, come tumbling out of your mouth like they’re made of lead.

“I…I was…engaged. Years ago.”

“Right.” Joel points to your ruby ring. “I got that much from the rings part.”

You sigh again. Why is this so fucking hard? It’s only Joel.

But then: it’s Joel.

“Not for long, or anything. It was a kind of high school sweetheart thing. We were together for, like, six years – all through senior year and college. Blake Carter. He studied, um, computer science. And on the night we graduated, he proposed. Right on campus, right on the quad. Had this big diamond ring, I think it was his grandma’s, or something.”

“And you said yes?”

“Well, I– Yeah, I said yes.”

Somewhere in the conversation, you’ve leaned back down, back against Joel’s body. Head turned into him, eyes scanning the riverbank, watching the buildings and the trees and the people pass by. You barely even notice until he shifts, clears his throat, and asks:

“’n then…it ended?”

“I ended it. Two days later, I…ended it,” you repeat, with a certain nod. A definite nod, like you’re still trying to convince yourself that yeah, you ended it, and yeah, it was the right thing to do. All these years later.

“Why?” he asks, earnestly. There’s no judgement in his voice, no prying. He just wonders.

“Um…” You shift now, tossing answers over in your head before you land on one that makes you think fuck it. “Just…realized I was more turned on by the degree in my hand than I was by the man on one knee in front of me.”

It draws a laugh from Joel’s lips. A laugh that vibrates through his chest, through your back, and pulls a smile across your lips.

“I was,” you say, holding back a nervous giggle, “I know that’s bad, but I was.”

“And you said yes to ‘im anyway?”

“Yeah.” You shrug. “Said yes in the moment ‘cause I didn’t wanna look like an asshole, but…well, you’re an asshole either way, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” Joel mumbles, and you almost slap him playfully. But then he says, “You’re an asshole,” with a sarcastic dryness, and you realize he’s not teasing, he’s disagreeing. Genuinely disagreeing.

You sit up again and turn to face him. “I’m not an asshole if I say no to someone asking me to marry them?”

He’s just as defensive as you are. “Not if you don’t want to. What’s asshole about that?”

“Joel, he was on his knees with a ring in his hand.”

“And you didn’t want to marry him. Big deal. I’m sure he found some other girl who wanted that ring on her finger instead, didn’t he?”

You scoff, turning away to look out over the water. He’s being blunt about it, a little uncalled for, but he’s not wrong. You tell him as much.

“He married some girl I don’t know. All I know is she works at some firm, and now they have a son. I check his Facebook every now and then. They just got back from Hawaii with his parents. He cut his foot on something at the beach.”

Joel keeps up the sarcasm. “Sounds like you’re missin’ out on a lot of fun there.”

There are a million thoughts racing through your head. More you want to tell him; more you feel the need to confess. More to justify what you did, more to explain yourself and convince him that, sure, you broke Blake’s heart, but now he has a wife and a kid, and he seems happier. And you’re happier, too, so it wasn’t that bad after all.

But Joel doesn’t expect it of you. None of it. He doesn’t make any snide remarks, doesn’t ask questions that frame it as if it were all just one big bout of insane impulsivity. Just accepts what you’ve told him, takes it in with a nod of his head, and then stops talking about it.

He’s so fucking nonchalant it drives you crazy. Everything just is what it is.

Defeated, tired, and quite frankly stunned by how little anything you say seems to bother him, you quietly stare at the water, the yellow orbs of light from the street above bobbing in the black reflection.

Then Joel takes a deep breath, squeezes your knee and asks, “Wanna go get some dinner?”

“Yeah,” you nod gratefully, “that’d be nice.”

It’s a short walk back to the hotel once you’re off the boat – back along the riverside and down a couple of small, quiet streets. Joel holds your hand the entire time and, when you complain about them hurting, carries your heels for you.

Your eyes stay glued to the sidewalk, watching your shadow as you pass under orange streetlights. Your figure, barefoot, skirt swaying as you walk, hand linked to Joel’s, his frame taller and wider, a pair of heels dangling from his right hand.

He orders room service. You vote for pizza, and within twenty minutes, Joel’s bringing it through to where you lay on the bed, already stripped down, makeup wiped off, wrapped in your bathrobe. He made you put the Bart Simpson socks back on. Said they were the comfiest ones you own, baby, he’d chuckled. They’re rolled halfway up your leg, his impish grin on full display.

You pick up a slice of pizza as Joel scrolls through the channels on the TV, eventually settling for American Pie before he lays back alongside you. You blow on the piping hot cheese and take a bite.

“Nice?” Joel asks.

“Mhm,” you reply, hand coming up to cover your mouth. “’s hot.”

He leans over and hits a switch on the wall above the bed, drowning you both in the dull dusk seeping in from outside – aside from the screen which lights Joel’s face in a pale white, like moonlight. There’s a wash of warm light creeping in from the hallway, futilely clawing its way across the walls by the bedroom door but dying on the beige surface when it meets the glow of the TV. Like the sun and the moon blending together. Like day and night mixing right in front of you.

When you’ve had enough pizza, Joel shifts the golden tray from the bed onto the floor, flopping back down on the springy mattress with a sigh. You lay back, upper arm brushing against his, cheek leaning on the tip of his shoulder. It jumps every now and then whenever something funny happens onscreen and Joel snickers. You’d be laughing, too, if you were paying attention, but Joel’s voice is still echoing around your ears.

Sounds like you’re missin’ out on a lot of fun there.

Sure. A lot of fun. Slipping that diamond ring onto your finger, and waiting for his grass-stained knees to lift him back up to you to kiss him on the mouth and say Yes over and over, and then run back to your friends and show off the ring and clink champagne glasses, and then go pick a huge, obnoxiously white dress that makes your mother cry and girls you haven’t spoken to since middle school comment on your Facebook posts –

Joel murmurs something with a laugh and your eyes find the screen again; Stifler just walked in on his mom and Finch. It holds your attention for all of three seconds, before you’re back to picturing maple trees swaying and his suit trousers stained green and thumbs on your knuckles and –

– and then meet him at the end of a ridiculously long aisle covered in rose petals, and swell with his kid inside you and raise it and convince yourself that you love it despite the puke and the piss and then stand bouncing it on your hip in an emergency room while it screams the fucking roof down, all the while your boring, bland husband has the sole of his foot sewn up after two weeks playing card games with his even more boring, bland parents and hearing about their neighbor’s new Prius and why it’s not actually any better for the environment, that’s just what the companies tell you to get their claws into you and –

“Baby, you–”

A whole lot of fucking fun.

“–okay?”

“Huh?”

“You okay?”

Joel’s sitting up. The film’s paused. He’s staring at you, eyebrows arched, hand on your arm.

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

He tugs on your arm and pulls you up to him, hand cupping your face as he studies you intently.

The sun’s setting outside, washing the sky a faded pink which dies out as it climbs higher. The city’s lights blink at you, like a million eyes peering in from a distance.

“Where’d you go?” he asks.

“Nowhere,” you lie.

“Went somewhere. You were starin’ off into space.”

“I didn’t go anywhere. I’m watchin’ the movie.”

But he’s looking from your lips to your eyes, passing across the bridge of your nose as he goes. And you can feel the heat from his body even through two layers of terrycloth, can practically feel his pulse through the huge, steady hands he has resting along your jaw. And there’s a feeling brewing in your stomach – like pain and hurt that mixes up and confuses itself for longing – which drifts further down until it’s an ache between your legs. And that feels easier to deal with, simpler to untangle. Especially when Joel’s right fucking here.

“Just…c’mere,” you breathe, pushing his shoulders back down onto the bed and leaning over him, legs parted.

You want him to fix it. Fix you. Use his hands, and his lips, and his body to make you better. Kiss away any memories of Blake, and that fucking ring, and the way his face twisted when you told him you were leaving. Do more than just kiss them away – tear them from your mind with his teeth on your skin, each mark he leaves just more evidence of your belonging to someone else, someone new.

Someone you wouldn’t recognize if you met her five years ago.

“Baby,” Joel whispers into your mouth, kissing you back as roughly as you’re kissing him. His hands come up to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer as you fumble with the belt of his robe and tug    it open.

His lip still on yours, he hauls the shoulders of your robe down, the curve of your breasts spilling out over the white fabric. You sit up and untie the belt, shaking it off yourself properly before you’re back on him, pulling his arms free from his sleeves and pinning them down on the mattress.

“Let me – fuck you,” you breathe, grinding your core down on his already bricked length.

Joel’s hands rest on your hips; he’s looking up at you almost awestruck. Words stopping short in his throat.

“Need to fuck you,” you repeat, cunt slipping around him. “Need it, daddy.”

“Alright, babygirl,” he says finally, hips moving in time with yours. There’s a look in his eye that makes you think he knows what you’re doing, understands every one of your thoughts and worries without need to voice them. “I got you. I’m all yours. Just – come here.”

His hands scoop under your ass, lifting you from his waist, and he tilts his chin up. Pushes on the back of your thighs, nudging you further up his body.

“Joel,” you breathe, and his fingers squeeze into your skin.

“Come – here,” he says, sterner. Eyes dark, flitting up and down your skin, settling between your legs.

You obey him, shuffling further up the mattress until you’re hovering over his face, knees digging into the cushion by his ears.

“Sit,” he instructs.

You stare blankly at him. Your body doesn’t move.

“Wanna taste you again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, eyes stuck on your wet core just inches from his lips. “Gonna make you feel better.”

He angles his jaw up again, almost like he’s desperately reaching out for your body, and this time, you meet him halfway. Widen your legs, lower your hips until his lips are on you, and you fold forward with a gasp.

Your left hand hits the mattress above his head, right lowers to grip his hair. Joel’s arms wrap around your thighs, a tight, inescapable hold as his mouth opens wider, tasting more and more of you with each stroke of his tongue.

His tongue which dips inside of you, collecting your slick and fucking you gently, soft and wet and warm. He’s groaning as he tastes you, a low moan which vibrates against your cunt and elicits a similar sound from the bottom of your throat.

You need this. You fucking need this. Need the distraction, need the attention. Need to push every thought out of your brain for five minutes, replace them with pure pleasure. Replace them with Joel.

You’re grinding, rutting against his mouth as your knees slacken, all of your weight held up by your one palm splayed out on the bed, fingers curling around the sheets as you’re edged closer and closer to your high by Joel’s lips.

His hands become rougher, moving up to hold your ass, squeezing the soft skin until he’s running his hands between your cheeks, fingers pushing on that same sensitive muscle as last night.

“Fuck–” You jolt with a gasp, head rolling back in pleasure, core rocking hard against his lips.

Joel mutters a, “’s okay, babygirl,” and cups his mouth around your clit. He nudges one finger against your tight hole, pushing in slowly, and that feeling overcomes you all over again – your body pulling him in, throbbing around him, cutting your breath short and shocking you motionless until he removes his finger.

You whine, opening your eyes and catching a hazy glimpse of the ceiling for one second before he’s inserting two fingers, tight together, drawing a loud cry from your lips.

“’attagirl,” he mumbles against your cunt, only coming up for air long enough to utter that one word before his lips are back on your clit, sucking and flicking his tongue across the sensitive bud as his fingers push deeper.

You pant, whimper a weak, “Daddy…” while Joel moves faster. “’m gonna cum,” you whisper, and you feel him nod under your vice grip, encouraging you to fall.

Your hips move in time with your chest, heaving with the breaths escaping your lips as he pulls you down harder, heavier on his mouth. He’s fucking covered – beard soaked in your arousal, swollen lips pressed against yours, moving, kissing, fucking you so good you start to feel lightheaded.

“Keep – going – daddy, fuck, yeah…”

The feeling starts between your shoulder blades. A sparkling, tickling feeling, creeping up your neck and wrapping around your body, warm and snug. Running across your bare chest, focusing on your hard nipples, and then plummeting down between your legs like a bullet, coming to a climax right where Joel’s lips are.

You scream out, your right hand forced from his dark hair to hold yourself up as your orgasm bears down on you. Your hips grind against his mouth, rocking back and forth as your body is overcome with sensation, with pleasure, with him.

Joel moans beneath you, your soaking cunt all over his tongue, giving you both what you each should’ve had yesterday, before he cut it short.

You figure he’ll never do that again. Never deprive you of it again, never deprive himself of it again. The sounds he’s making, the way his jaw shudders around you, it’s like he’ll never again be able to go a day in his life without tasting you, without feeling you contract on top of him, your sweet release washing over him like an oasis.

And you figure you won’t, either. Won’t ever stop thinking about this feeling, replaying it over and over in your mind. Your legs draped over his shoulders, his face beneath you. His hand massaging your ass, fingers curving somewhere deep inside you. Dragging your hips across his open mouth, his nose bumping gently on your clit as you come down.

Your orgasm fading into gentle ripples of pleasure, Joel slips his fingers out of you and you push yourself off of him, sliding back down until you’re straddling his naked waist again. His hard cock brushes against the curve of your ass when you settle.

“That better?” he asks, voice rough and strained. “You get what you needed?”

“Mhm,” you moan, flicking your hips and running your sensitive folds up and down his shaft.

In an instant, he’s got you in his arms, flipping you over and throwing you down on your back, bouncing on the soft mattress beneath you.

With a squeal, you take hold of his shoulders, smiling as he lowers his jaw and trails wet kisses along your neck, stopping when his lips line with your ear.

“Gonna let me do my job now, pretty girl?”

“Yeah, daddy,” you purr as he lines up. He’s so fucking turned on, so hard that you’ll be surprised if he lasts two minutes.

But then he pushes in, slow, and you realize he’s not looking just to cum. He’s not chasing any kind of high. He wants to feel you, wants you to feel him, too. He wants to really fuck you. Properly. If you were reading into it any deeper than just sex, you’d swear he wanted to answer your silent request. You’d swear he wanted to fuck the pain away.

You both groan, your wet soaking him, his thickness already pushing you open before he’s even halfway inside. He holds you steady by the hips, filling you up inch by inch, your back curling more and more the further he goes until you’re chest to chest and full of him.

You’re so tight, and he’s so fucking big, that feeling him inside you at this angle steals the air straight from your lungs. Your mouth lies open in a silent moan, your brows knitted together.

“Take it, baby,” he groans, arms scooping around your shoulders as he starts to slowly pump in and out. His expression mirrors yours. “Know you can take it all.”

“Joel – fuck – daddy – right there,” you’re whimpering, forehead stuck to Joel’s, eyes flitting from his lips to his dark lashes.

“Yeah?” he pants.

“Yeah,” you repeat, “keep doing that.”

His hips drive deeper, still hitting the same spot, same pace, only harder, with more weight behind it, sending you into a dizzy blur of pleasure and pain. He takes one of your hands in his, lifting it to pin it down on the sheets above your head; your free arm wrapping around his shoulder, pulling him closer.

Something digs into the skin around your little finger, something sharp. You hiss, craning your head up – noticing Joel doing the same – and your eyes land on your little ruby ring, still wrapped tight around your pinkie, digging marks into yours and Joel’s hands with each movement.

When your chin lowers again, face to face, he presses his lips to yours. You can taste yourself on his tongue – you and Joel, your bodies and your wet, mixing as one between breaths and whines and whispers of one another’s name. You moan into his mouth, his hips smacking into you quicker now.

It’s working – whatever the fuck he’s doing. He’s driving every thought straight out of your mind before it’s even settled. Scaring them all away, sending them back to the shadows. You’re overcome by him – the sound of him, the feel of him, the smell and sight and taste of him.

And he’s sent spiraling by you – every sound which passes your lips is echoed by Joel; your gasps filter into growls from behind clenched teeth, your whimpers translate into groans from the bottom of his throat.

His eyes stay locked on yours the entire time; whispers of praise make the short journey between your lips – ‘atta fuckin’ girl, my good girl, look so pretty like this, feels good, doesn’t it? They pass your own desperate mutterings on their way – all the places you need him, all the ways you want him to do it. Harder, daddy, faster, fuckin’ me so good.

And then you’re pulling him in in more ways than one, clenching around him, feeling him twitch deep inside you. You’re both right there, right on the other side of that thin glass pane.

“Want – to,” you pant, “to cum – together.”

Joel nods, glancing down to watch where your bodies connect, where his hips push into yours, his cock burying deep between your legs.

“You ready, babygirl?” he asks, eyes still glued to your sex.

“Uhuh,” you moan, head falling back.

“Show me,” he whispers, lifting his head and taking your neck in his teeth. “Show me how good it feels.”

The glass pane shatters. Joel takes you in his arms and sends the two of you hurtling through it.

You scream out, knees pull together around his waist, pussy clenches tight around his cock which throbs, shooting cum somewhere deep inside you.

His head falls limp in the crook of your shoulder, the moan which escapes his mouth vibrating off of your body – your name laced through a whine driving into your hot skin.

And he stays there, for what feels like hours, just lying on top of you, chest meeting yours when your lungs fill, and unsticking when you exhale. His length relaxing, still deep inside you; face still buried in your soft skin, glistening with sweat, lips pressing barely-there kisses in the curves of your collarbone whenever he musters the energy.

He’s still panting. Shoulders rising almost violently, jumping when you ghost your fingers over them. You run your nails through his hair, soaked with sweat, and massage his head, pulling another whimper from Joel’s lips. His head turns, lips against your ear, glazed eyes fluttering open to stare at the city view.

“You okay?” you ask the quiet dark.

There’s nothing between you. No clothes, no sheets, no air, nothing. The room feels huge; you and Joel feel tiny. Lost in your own little world, lying in the blue hue of the still image on the flatscreen. Feeling your hearts thrumming against one another, like they’re communicating through the walls of your chests. Like they’re exchanging words you two haven’t heard of yet. Haven’t learned the meanings of.

“Yeah,” Joel eventually whispers, voice muffled by the way his lips press against your skin. “Never been better.”

----------

Late in the morning, Joel passes you his toothbrush without a word. Without some dumb joke to go with it. Likewise, you take it silently. Rinse it once, load it with toothpaste, and flick the button. He kisses the crown of your head and leaves you alone in the bathroom.

You feel split open. Like you’re walking around with a huge, gaping wound in your chest, your heart on full display. And not just flesh and blood, but the secrets that live in there, too. Secrets that now, Joel knows. He’s heard them pass your lips. Filled in the blanks himself, the parts you held back.

You feel scared. Small. As if every head turns to look at you when you walk into every room.

The only thing that helps is…well, him.

Joel.

And that scares you just as much.

The way he leads you out of the suite and into the elevator, always first, always in front. The way his body is big enough to hide yours behind it, wide enough that you can pull yourself as close to his back as possible and sneak by anyone as though you’re one person.

He only breaks apart from you twice: the first time is outside the hotel, to help Denis lift the cases into the trunk. You linger by the open car door, staring up at the hotel building, the lion heads cast in stone watching over the avenue below. Joel calls over to you and asks if you’re ready to go, and you slip into the backseat alongside him.

The second time is at the airport, where he does the same thing. Gives your hand a squeeze and then jumps out to help his driver hoist the luggage from the car over to the jet. You slowly follow them, this time staring at the white plane in front of you and feeling yourself being slowly dragged back to real life, claw marks in your Parisian dreamscape as it’s pulled from your clutches.

Denis’s smart suit struts toward you and you feel a light hand on your shoulder.

“I hope you enjoyed your trip,” he says, as softly as he can over the rumble of the plane’s engine.

“I did,” you reply, though the nod of your head probably does better to communicate than the pathetic whisper of your voice. “I don’t wanna go home.”

He smiles warmly. His gray eyebrows lift, blue eyes twinkle beneath them. “You are welcome anytime. You will have my email address, please let me know if you are ever back in Paris.”

You return his grin, mouthing Thank you, and he taps your back once more, sending you off in the direction of Joel, who’s waiting for you at the bottom of the steps.

“You good?” he asks, wrapping a tight arm around your shoulder.

“Mhm.” You nod, and glance over your shoulder as Denis’s Maybach rolls away back toward the airport and, with it, takes every last drop of the last couple of days.

The plane cabin feels smaller, somehow. Less spectacular than it was when you were flying over here. The pristine walls feel plain, almost boring. And claustrophobic, like you’re in a padded cell or something.

You sit in the same seat by the window, Joel takes his place opposite you, and you fasten your seatbelts for takeoff. You watch through blurry eyes as Paris shrinks to nothing but shapes from the sky – roads like scratch marks in the surface of the land, the Seine you were sailing down less than twenty-four hours ago now like a tiny, winding snake.

Joel’s watching you. You know it, can see him from your peripheral. You’re deliberately ignoring the look on his face.

He leans forward and rests a hand on your knee. “You wanna go lie down?”

You shake your head, wrapping your fingers around his. “Wanna stay with you.”

“I’ll come,” he mumbles, thumb rubbing across your fingers. “I’ll come, darlin’.”

You lift your head and look him in the eye, finally seeing his expression. And it’s not one you usually spot on lighthearted, borderline-blithe, kinda-cocky-about-it Joel Miller. He looks…he looks concerned. Looks imploring, trying to work out what’s gotten you so quiet all of a sudden.

You offer him a weak smile, an attempt to convince him you’re okay that doesn’t land with him at all, and you know it. So instead, you take a deep breath and nod, and Joel instantly stands up, folds his laptop under his arm and lowers his hand to you.

You take it, letting him lead you back to the bedroom, where he pulls back the sheets and lets you climb in.

“Get some sleep, baby,” Joel whispers, and then slots in beside you, settling the laptop back on his knees and leaning over to shut the window shade. He’s mid-reply to some email from Ken. Another painful reminder of the normalcy you’re hours away from returning to.

You hook your elbow around his, press your cheek into the soft fabric of his t-shirt sleeve. Watch his wide knuckles as they move across the keyboard, typing about buyouts and dividends and other corporate words that all fade into a blur of black strokes on a white screen as your eyes start to roll closed.

The last things you remember are these: the light feeling of Joel’s shoulder moving as he types, the smell of his cologne, and the sound of your voice mumbling something to him. And then you pass out.

----------

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[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Push the Sky Away - Part Three

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x original female character (Lorra Stark) Chapter warnings: Mild angst. Smut. Word count: ~6.7k

Summary: Aemond writes a letter and makes a thousand mile journey.

Author's note: I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Lorra,

Since we are parting ways, perhaps forever, I feel I must unburden my heart. You are the fond object of my affection and my desire.  You, and you alone, are the keeper of the key to my heart.  Please don’t be alarmed -– I don’t expect your favour -– but I can’t, in good conscience, not reveal myself.

I do not wish for a betrothal -– nor will I -– unless it is to you. Since the moment I laid eyes upon you, it has always been you. 

With love, Aemond

Aemond casts his eye over the ink as it dries on the parchment, a hot wave of embarrassment flowing through his body and flushing his cheeks. He has never spoken so plainly with regard to his feelings before, though he has never had such strong feelings to express until now. He quickly rolls it up, before he has the opportunity to change his mind and cast it into the fireplace, sealing it with wax and ordering for it to be sent by raven to Winterfell straight away.

The days pass without word from Lorra. Each of Aemond’s visits to the ravens’ tower end in disappointment when he finds no reply from her. Barely contained rage causes him to clench his hands into fists, stalking away from the maester every time he is told that nothing has arrived.

He wonders if his letter arrived in Winterfell before she did, if perhaps the lack of her response is due to her not yet having had a chance to read it. He ponders on whether he had chosen his words carefully enough, if he could have made his feelings clearer. Will she return to him, or grace him with a letter of her own? As the days bleed into a week, and then another week after that, Aemond’s frustrations simmer to despondency as the sad realisation dawns upon him that Lorra has no intent of writing back to him.

“Your mother asked that I give you time, and I feel that we have waited long enough.”

Otto’s voice rouses Aemond’s attention from the flickering flames of the hearth that he has been staring into, lost in thought, and he turns his head watching as his grandsire settles into the seat across from him.

“It has only been a fortnight since Lorra left King’s Landing,” Aemond replies quietly, returning his focus back to the fire.

“Yes, and almost half a year that you have wasted on a failed courtship,” Otto shoots back, his tone sharp. “Time is not on our side, Aemond. You must marry before the King passes, to strengthen Aegon’s claim to the throne. I intend to write to Lord Baratheon to–”

“I do not want a Baratheon girl!” Aemond hisses, head snapping towards Otto, eye wide and nostrils flared in anger.

Otto sighs in frustration, shifting in his chair. “What you want is of little consequence. You will take your dragon, once I have dispatched a raven, and you will fly to Storm’s End.”

Aemond draws in a breath as the realisation of what he should have done two weeks ago dawns upon him. He gives a slight nod, his eye meeting the weary gaze of his grandsire. 

“Yes, I will take Vhagar. But I will fly North to Winterfell.”

“That is reckless.”

“I can win back the favour of the Starks. Without recklessness I would not be the rider of the world’s largest dragon.”

“An impulsive act that cost you dearly.”

“Yes, my impulsivity may have lost me my eye, but I shall not allow my own inaction to lose me the woman I love.”

Aemond rises from his seat, walking towards the door. In his mind the matter is closed.

“And what if you fail?” Otto calls after him.

He stops momentarily, bowing his head as he considers Otto’s words, then turns to look at him over his shoulder. “If I fail then I will accept whoever you choose for me to wed.”

The journey North the following morning is one of the longest that Aemond has ever taken on dragonback. Even wrapped up in riding leathers, he can feel the bite of the cold at his flesh as he leaves behind the temperate climate of the Crownlands, his body shivering as his gloved hands grip tightly to the reins of Vhagar’s saddle.

Usually Aemond leans into the ebb and flow of the weightlessness that he feels while in flight, but all sensations are dulled by the racing of his heart. No journey feels like it is long enough for him to prepare what he intends to say when he eventually faces Lorra. Will she be prepared to see him, or will she simply turn him away? The idea of the latter causes dread to gnaw at the pit of his stomach.

He glides in a slow circle above the fortress of Winterfell, scoping out where best to land his mount. There is no way he can land close to its walls due to Vhagar’s size. It is insult enough to the Starks to arrive uninvited, without the claws of his dragon causing their walls to crumble.

Satisfied that he knows the layout of the land, Aemond brings Vhagar to land on a grassy embankment on the southern facade of the castle, dismounting and making the rest of the journey on foot.

It is early evening as he approaches, and he is met at the gates by several members of Winterfell’s garrison, their man-at-arms demanding he state his business. Unsurprisingly, there are no Starks present to greet him, but his dragon has doubtless been spotted and alerted them to this arrival.

“I am Prince Aemond of House Targaryen. I request an audience with Lady Lorra Stark,” he states simply.

He is escorted to the Great Hall, disappointed at the absence of Lorra as he enters. Her father, Rickon, is seated alone, his gaze stern as he looks upon the Targaryen Prince. Rickon does not stand to greet him, the informality taking him aback as the garrison bustle out of the hall, leaving just the two of them.

“I hope you will forgive the lack of formal greeting,” Rickon says gruffly, “the raven carrying news of your arrival must have been waylaid.”

Aemond swallows thickly, clasping his hands behind his back. He had not expected a warm reception from House Stark, however, this appears to be outright hostility.

“My visit is unplanned, my Lord, and I apologise for the intrusion. I will speak plainly, I have travelled to Winterfell with the intention of resuming my betrothal to your daughter. I had hoped to speak with her.”

Rickon scoffs, his eyebrows raising slightly. “If I could, I would send you back the way you came. However, it is not my intention for the people of the North to fall foul of the Crown, so I am obliged to offer you the hospitality of our House. You will dine with us this evening and leave upon the morrow.”

Aemond’s heart sinks, fearing he has failed before being given the opportunity to redeem himself, and he has not even laid his eye upon Lorra yet, let alone been allowed to speak to her.

He is shown to his bedchamber, changing out of his riding clothes into more appropriate attire for dinner.

As he enters the dining hall, he freezes, feeling his throat run dry as he spots Lorra seated at the table. In their time apart he had forgotten just how beautiful she is and the sight of her is enough to steal away all the air from his lungs.

“Come, sit, eat,” her mother, Gilliane, beckons from her seat beside Lorra.

Cregan and Rickon flank one side of the table, while Lorra and Gilliane are sat at the other, leaving the only available spaces at either end of it, either next to her mother and father, or Lorra and her brother. Aemond opts for the latter of the seating arrangements, hoping it will give him an opportunity to speak to her.

“I hope the food is to your liking. We were unaware we were to have a Royal visitor, otherwise we would have prepared something befitting a Prince.” Gilliane tells him with a tight smile.

Once again, Aemond is reminded of his intrusion, feeling the tips of his ears burn with embarrassment. He forces himself to look at her, keeping his tone polite.

“It is a fine spread, my Lady, you have my thanks.”

He lowers his voice, inclining his head towards Lorra. “The food is of little importance to me, I wished only to see you.”

“And now you have,” she replies simply without looking at him.

Her response is like a dagger to Aemond’s chest, he recoils slightly, opening his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. There are a thousand things he wishes to say to her, but not in the company of her family, and so the rest of the meal passes in slow, uncomfortable silence.

When they retire for the evening, Aemond seizes his opportunity to talk with Lorra alone as she walks back towards her quarters. 

“Wait,” he calls after her, striding ahead of her and standing in front of her to block her way. “Did you get my letter?”

Lorra sighs. The expression upon her face as she looks up at Aemond makes his heart ache. She looks tired and sad, and the guilt he feels at knowing he is the cause seems as though it may swallow him whole.

“I did. Pretty words, though they are empty and expressed far too late.”

Aemond’s stomach drops into free fall. His fingers twitch uselessly at his sides, eager to reach out and stroke the soft skin of her cheek, to comfort her. Though she is standing before him, it feels as though a chasm stretches between them, she has never felt more far away.

“Is it too late?” He asks quietly.

“You are leaving tomorrow.”

“Give me one week. A week is all I ask to win back your affection, to prove to you I am a man worth marrying.”

“I gave you six months!” She cries frustratedly. “I am not prepared to waste anymore of my time on a man who does not know how to love. I have no interest in a match that is purely political.”

“Nor do I, not anymore, and I will prove it to you. One week, please.”

Lorra bows her head, toying with her fingers for a moment as she thinks, before looking back up at him. “I shall give you three days.”

She steps around Aemond, walking away and leaving him alone in the castle corridor.

As hard as he tries, sleep will not take Aemond that night. It is not the chill of the Northern air that robs him of rest, as he had anticipated, the hot springs upon which Winterfell is built keep the castle surprisingly warm. He is exhausted from the long journey, and yet his mind will not quiet long enough to allow sleep to take him.

He has just three days to prove to Lorra that he is worthy of her. His station alone is not enough, a royal title is of obvious no concern to the Starks. Aemond has spent his entire life believing that duty alone is sufficient, that love in a marriage is a fanciful, unnecessary component. Lorra has challenged all of that – for her, it is a requirement – and it terrifies him, not the change in mindset itself, but how readily he is willing to accept it.

Aemond drifts off eventually, awakening to the metallic clash of blades outside his window. He rises slowly, groggy with fatigue and walks towards the sound, watching quietly as Lorra and Cregan spar together in the early morning light of the training yard below.

He smiles softly as he looks upon her, noting how quick she is. She is steady with her blade, yet light upon her feet. Though they had trained side by side many times at the Red Keep, he was always too preoccupied with the movement of his own sword and opponent to appreciate her skills fully. Immense guilt washes over him as he remembers how poorly he had treated her the first time she had asked to spar with him.

Now he has the opportunity to remedy that. Aemond dresses quickly, making his way out into the courtyard.

Cregan and Lorra come to a stop at his approach, eyeing him carefully as they lower their weapons.

Aemond gives a polite nod to the elder Stark, before turning his attention to Lorra. “My Lady, would you care to train?”

“I already am,” she says cooly, earning an amused smirk from her brother.

“With me,” he adds, straightening to disguise his discomfort.

“You wish to spar with me? I thought such things were beneath you.”

“I was misguided, allow me to correct the error of my ways.”

Lorra looks questioningly at Cregan, who gives an easy shrug. “Blades are over there,” he nods towards an assortment of weapons propped against the stone wall of the yard as he walks away.

Aemond snatches up a sword, walking back towards Lorra as she takes up a fighting stance. As he takes in the fire that blazes in her bright blue eyes he wonders if perhaps he has made a grievous error in judgement. Challenging the woman he has wronged to a fight would give her ample opportunity to exorcise her vexation, and he half expects her to simply run him through with her blade.

“I am not a child,” Lorra breathes heavily, the flat of her sword pushing back against Aemond’s as she blocks his attack. “You will not appease me with a disingenuous attempt at feigning interest in me.”

“A thousand mile journey is far from disingenuous,” he retorts, side stepping as she swipes at him. “You took the time to get to know me, and I have the genuine desire to do the same for you, though the time I have puts me at a disadvantage.”

Lorra scoffs, dodging as Aemond strikes forward, meeting the resistance of her blade once more.

“You fight well,” he tells her, stepping closer, his chest heaving with exertion. “Visenya Targaryen was said to be a fearsome warrior queen, I dare say even she would be impressed. A trait I would be proud for my wife to possess.”

She blinks rapidly, lowering her gaze and her sword as she steps back, light pink dusting the pale skin of her cheeks. “Flattery will not work upon me.”

Aemond finds boldness in Lorra’s sudden coyness, dropping his sword hand to his side, he closes the gap between them, crooking the finger of his free hand beneath her chin and tilting her face up to his. “Are you certain of that?”

He smirks when she says nothing, and pulls away to place his sword against the wall.

“Come with me,” he tells her, gently grabbing her arm and pulling her along with him towards the gates of Winterfell.

“Where are we going?” She asks with wide eyes as her steps hurry to keep up with his lengthy strides.

“To do something I should have done months ago,” he replies, never slowing his pace.

They pass through the gates and around to the south facade, icy wind nips at their skin and Aemond regrets his impulsive decision for a moment, wishing he had given them both the opportunity to don a coat before heading out, but he supposes in a moment it will not matter, not with the warmth of what he is to show her.

Vhagar is exactly where he had left her when he first landed, though she is now curled up in a sleeping position, the vast expanse of her having squashed the long grass around her completely flat.

Lorra slows, hesitating as the hulking frame of the dragon comes into view and Aemond looks back at her, his grasp slipping from her arm to her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Do not be afraid,” he reassures her, “when you are with me, Vhagar is no danger to you.”

Lorra shakes her head, though she does not pull her hand from his, a gesture that causes Aemond’s heart to soar.

“I am not afraid. I just do not understand the meaning of this.”

“I mean to introduce you, something I ought to have done in the first place, but I foolishly refused. Vhagar is the most important thing in the world to me…well, she was, now I find that someone else occupies that place in both my heart and mind.”

Lorra’s face softens, her big, blue eyes filled with uncertainty as she looks between Aemond and the sleeping dragon.

“Come,” Aemond beckons her forward as he resumes walking. “She is most docile when she is sleeping.”

The air turns humid from the heat that radiates from the great, slumbering beast as they approach her, and Aemond rubs a hand across the hardened heat of her scales, earning a gentle rumble from the dragon which gently quakes the ground upon which they stand.

“Does she not get cold? I cannot imagine the North is a suitable climate for such a creature,” Lorra says, staring up in wonder at Vhagar.

“She is fire itself,” Aemond explains softly, “she is not fond of the cold, but she is able to keep herself warm. Here–”

Aemond takes Lorra’s hand, feeling it tremble beneath his own as he presses it gently against the dragon’s scales, encouraging her to stroke them.

Lorra giggles, continuing to run her hand across them, even after he has pulled his away. “She is not as soft as I expected her to feel.”

“Hmm,” Aemond agrees, watching with a faint smile. “She is old and battle hardened.”

“What will you feed her while she is here?”

He grins, a faint chuckle escaping him at her question. Heat spreads rapidly through his chest at the care that Lorra shows for Vhagar, enquiring after her comfort and wellbeing.

“She is large enough to feed herself, too big even to house within the Dragon Pit of King’s Landing. I have never had to feed her, she fends for herself well enough. I daresay whatever sheep happened to be roaming here have met their end at her appetite.”

“My father gave me a direwolf pup when I was a child,” Lorra tells him, as she continues her absentminded stroking. “When he was old enough to fend for himself, I released him into the forest. It did not seem fair to keep such a creature cooped up in the confines of a castle. Direwolves are not like dragons, they cannot be controlled.”

“The idea that we control the dragons is an illusion. They obey because they choose to. My bond with Vhagar is the only reason she listens to me.”

Lorra turns, her eyes meeting his. “Is there anyone that you are bonded with strongly enough that you will listen to them?”

“No,” he whispers, leaning down so that his nose brushes against the tip of hers, “at least not until now.”

She blushes, turning her face away. “We should be getting back, but thank you for this, truly. I shall not forget it.”

Though Lorra had declined to kiss him, Aemond’s hope feels restored as he sits beside her at the supper table that evening, stirring his spoon through a steaming bowl of rabbit stew.

“We should go hunting tomorrow,” Lorra says to him with a bright smile.

“Making the Prince earn his keep?” Cregan asks with a chuckle.

“If luck is on our side, we may be able to serve Aemond’s favourite for supper, he is fond of roasted venison.”

Aemond sips his wine to hide the smile that tugs at his lips that she has remembered such a detail about him.

“Do you hunt?” Cregan asks Aemond, raising an eyebrow.

“I have never needed to,” he responds simply, doing his best to ignore the feeling of shame that washes over him as Lorra’s brother regards him with narrowed eyes.

“You will need more than luck if you hope to fell a deer between the two of then,” Cregan scoffs, returning his attention to his stew.

“We do not have to go, if you do not wish to,” Lorra tells him apologetically.

“No, I want to,” Aemond insists. “Even if we are fruitless in our endeavours, the time spent with you will not be wasted.”

She grins at him. A dazzling, brilliant expression that lights up her entire face, and makes Aemond’s heart squeeze in his chest as he realises just how much he has missed the sight of it.

Aemond walks Lorra back to her chambers later that evening, stopping as they reach the door. 

“Well, I suppose we both ought to get some rest. We have an early start tomorrow, if we are to go hunting,” she tells him.

“It is still early,” he reminds her, “and I have only three days. It would be foolish to cut the first of them short.”

She raises her brows in surprise at this. “What are you suggesting?”

“I thought perhaps you would permit me to come inside so that we can talk for a while? I promise not to overstay my welcome.”

Lorra chews her lip in uncertainty as she considers his offer, before nodding. “Very well.”

Aemond looks around as he walks through Lorra’s chambers, he has never been somewhere that is so personal or intimate to her, and is eager to learn what he can of her from the space. The rooms are decorated with soft furnishings in greys and pale blues, the colours of her house, with ornately carved wolves’ heads and figures upon the shelves that house her books and personal effects. It is clear she is proud of her Stark heritage, just as he is of his Targaryen ancestry.

He casts his eye over her bookshelves, until his attention is drawn to the parchment upon her writing desk. He recognises it as the letter he had sent to her, picking it up as he reads the familiar words he’d written weeks before.

“You kept it…” he utters softly.

“I did,” Lorra confesses, seating herself on the edge of the bed.

Aemond allows the note to flutter back down upon the desk, turning to face her. “Can I ask, what had you planned to do?”

She sighs, fingertips plucking anxiously at the cotton of the bedspread. “Truthfully, I do not know. I wrote back to you countless times, but tore all of my letters up before I sent them. They were filled with hateful, angry words, which I know I would have regretted.”

Aemond nods, though it pains him to know she could ever think such things of him. “And how do you feel about me now?”

“You have made a good effort to redeem yourself, though I would be lying if your rejection of me back in King’s Landing does not still hurt. I am ashamed to admit that I wept most of the journey back to Winterfell. I had not expected you to come all this way just for me, but I am glad you did.”

Cautiously, Aemond steps towards her and, seeing no sign of protestation from Lorra, sits himself beside her on the bed. “It pains me to know you believe your feelings are unrequited. I should never have let you go.”

“Then why did you?”

Aemond presses his lips into a tight line, a wave of unease washing over him. His first instinct is to pull away, to tell her he does not wish to speak of it, yet he knows if he is to have any hope of winning her back he needs to speak openly.

“When I was a child, I watched my father break my mother’s heart more times than I care to count. The irony of it is that theirs was not a marriage borne of love, yet he managed to hurt her just the same. I swore to myself that I would never allow myself to be placed in such a situation, that when the time came I would do my duty, and matters of the heart would not interfere. Then you came along, and you changed my perception of everything that I believed to be true.”

“That is not a bad thing,” Lorra says softly.

“No it is not. But I have lived my life keeping a comfortable distance from others, I always have. I was content in my loneliness, or at least I thought I was. It is disarming to have someone enter your life and feel that you are willing to risk the comfort found in solitude just to keep them at your side. I have never longed for anyone, and yet when you are not near me I find myself looking for you. I did not know what to do with that.”

“And do you now?”

“I am willing to learn.”

Softly, Lorra cups Aemond’s face in her hands. His eye flutters closed, leaning into the warmth of her palms.

“Will you let me in fully?” She whispers. “Let me see all of you?”

He feels her fingertips creep up his left cheek, gently tapping at the leather of his eyepatch, and lurches backwards, heart pounding.

“It would frighten you.”

“I do not scare easily,” she reassures him, placing her hands back upon his face. This time he does not pull away, though he sits rigid as he allows her to lift the patch away from his head, keeping his seeing eye downcast as he holds his breath, fearing her reaction.

Her touch is featherlight as she traces the scar that runs the length of his face, and when he dares to look back up there is warmth in her gaze, where he had anticipated disgust.

“You are beautiful,” she murmurs.

Shock paralyses him momentarily as she leans in, pressing her lips to his, but he is quick to recover. His fingers thread themselves into the silken ebony of her hair as he kisses her fiercely. The soft plushness of her lips feel every bit as divine as they had the first time, his cock stirring in his breeches as their mouths part enough for his tongue to brush against hers.

Lorra presses her forehead to his when they finally break for air, both breathing heavily.

“We really ought to sleep,” she tells him quietly, “tomorrow is an early start.”

“Oh…yes, of course,” he utters, a hint of disappointment in his voice as he rises, preparing to return to his own room.

She grips his arm, stopping him. “No, stay, please.”

Aemond’s pulse races at the suggestion, yet he nods all the same. Stripping down to their undergarments, they lay snuggled together beneath the blankets. It is an odd sensation to hold someone; she lays with her head upon his chest and his arms wrapped around her. Aemond has never done this with anyone before, but he finds that he enjoys the sensation of her flesh against his, her warmth is comforting. Pressing his nose into her hair, his nostrils fill with the familiar scent of rosemary and lavender. Sleep comes much easier to him that night.

As she had promised, Lorra ensures they awaken early the next morning to ready themselves for a day in the forest. They each take a crossbow and a quiver of arrows, though Aemond is uncertain of how much use he will be with his. His disfigurement leaves him at a disadvantage when it comes to the use of ranged weapons.

“I am assuming you can ride a horse?” She asks, as she leads Aemond to the castle’s stables.

“I am not as proficient as I am on dragonback,” he admits, “but yes, I can ride.”

“I have had the stable hand saddle Cregan’s steed for you,” she tells him, stroking a gloved hand over the velvety snout of a large, black horse. “He is more even tempered than any of our other geldings and less likely to throw you off.”

She winks at Aemond as she walks towards her own mount, and he watches with a smirk as she climbs into the saddle of a strikingly white mare.

“Her name is Nymeria,” she tells him proudly. “Cregan’s is named Rhoyne.”

The ride through the forest is peaceful, their horses trotting at a leisurely pace, side by side, beneath a blanket of deep green fir trees so thick that Aemond almost cannot see the sky above them.

“Your Baratheon girl must not be pleased that you are here,” Lorra says eventually, glancing over at Aemond with a demure smile.

“I have no Baratheon girl,” Aemond tells her.

“Oh?”

Aemond tightens his hold on the reins of his horse, his posture stiffening slightly. “It is…regrettable, what you overheard between my grandsire and I. The truth of the matter is that he had intended to send me to Storm’s End to petition Lord Baratheon for the hand of one of his daughters in marriage. I refused.”

Lorra laughs softly. “He cannot have taken that well.”

“He was not pleased, no. I came here instead, on the promise that I would secure an alliance with House Stark.”

She says nothing, averting her gaze towards the trees, and they continue to ride in silence. Aemond glances at her every so often, hoping to catch her eye, but to his disappointment she is always on the lookout for game, or is at least pretending to be. The quiet hangs heavy between them, the only sounds are the gentle hoofbeats of their mounts and the distant chirping of birds.

“I know it is not ideal,” he tells her, no longer able to bear her silence, “to have this obligation hanging over us, but it is my duty. But I need you to know, I am not choosing you out of duty. To have you in my arms as I did last night was no easy thing for me, and it is not something I take lightly.”

“I know,” she says softly.

“Do you think that joining our Houses is even possible? Your father and brother do not seem fond of me.”

“Lords of the North are not quite so tyrannical over their daughters as they are in the South. My father and brother are wary of you because they are aware you have hurt me. But my father will respect my decision and pose no opposition to an alliance with your House, if I choose to marry you.”

“So, you accept?”

Lorra laughs, rolling her eyes. “I said if.”

They lapse back into a more comfortable silence, though there are no deer to be found. Aemond can feel his teeth begin to chatter, despite how warmly he is dressed, he has not acclimated to the chill of the air of the North. It nips at his skin, feeling as though it seeps into the very bones of him.

“I think Cregan had the right of it,” Lorra sighs, “we are to have no luck today. I expect our chatter has likely frightened off any deer we might have hoped to see.”

“Do you wish to turn back?” Aemond asks hopefully.

“You are cold. Fortunately, we are close to one of my favourite places to warm up.”

Aemond’s curiosity is piqued, and despite the cold that stiffens his joints, he continues to ride alongside her, until the trees clear, revealing an opening in the side of the rock face.

Lorra dismounts from Nymeria, securing her reins to a nearby fir tree, and Aemond does the same for Rhoyne.

“In here,” Lorra gestures towards the rock face.

Aemond’s brow furrows, but he follows her in regardless, immediately enveloped in warmth and darkness alike, the furs and leathers he is wrapped up in suddenly feeling much too hot. He picks his steps carefully, walking slowly behind her until light from an opening above them beams daylight down upon a steaming pool of vibrant blue water, nestled within a basin among the craggy stone.

“Hot springs,” Lorra tells him happily, unfastening her cloak and allowing it to drop to the ground. “It is the best defense against the cold while out on a ride.”

She begins to undress and Aemond freezes, his first instinct being to look away, but he finds that as more of her flesh is revealed to him he cannot keep his eye from her. Desire flickers hotly in his lower belly as he looks upon the swell of her breasts, the inwards dip of her waist, and the curve of her hips as she peels her clothes away from her body, dropping them to the floor, before stepping into the water.

He is taken aback by just how brazen she is, unashamed as she turns, once submerged up to her thighs, and looks at him with a grin.

“Are you going to join me, or just stand there gawping?”

Aemond’s eye widens, he opens his mouth to speak, but finds no words will come to him.

Lorra giggles. “Shall I turn away?”

He clears his throat, shaking his head. “N–no…”

His breaths come shakily as he disrobes, wishing to get it over with as quickly as possible. Once fully bare, he steps into the water, his lack of modesty almost forgotten with the sigh of relief that leaves him as the heat of the water soothes the ache of the cold in his joints.

“You forgot this,” Lorra tells him, stepping towards him and reaching for his eyepatch.

“Wait.” He grabs her wrist, stopping her. “I need to know…if you have not decided if you wish to marry me, then why are you doing this? Sleeping in the same bed with me, bathing together. If this is all a game to you, then I can go no further.”

Lorra lowers her gaze, pursing her lips. “I do want to marry you, my feelings have not changed. But I cannot accept that you have changed on words alone. I need to see that you desire me as a husband desires their wife, I need to know it is real.”

Aemond pulls away his eyepatch, discarding it to the side with the rest of his clothing, and pulls her to him by her waist. He inhales sharply as he feels the softness of her dampened skin meet his. “Is this real enough for you?”

The ends of his long, silvery hair are beginning to form loose waves due to the humidity, and her fingers reach up to stroke through them.

“Do you think you could grow to love me?” She whispers.

Aemond’s thumbs trace lazy circles against her sides as he gazes down at her, carefully considering his words. “I am not certain I know what love is. I think of you often, I crave your presence when you are not there. I feel a sensation akin to physical pain when you are sad, and your happiness serves to elevate my own. Perhaps that is love? And if it is, then I believe that I already do.”

Lorra smiles, her blue eyes shining as she looks up at him. Her hands press gently against Aemond’s chest, pushing him back to sit on a ledge, submerged in the hot spring, where the water rises to just above his navel. She sits astride him, the brush of her thighs and womanhood against him making him painfully hard. His breath hitches, as he clings to her waist like a lifeline.

Her fingers caress his jaw gently, and she kisses him softly, their lips meeting slowly and tenderly in an unhurried gesture of affection.

“I would marry you tomorrow, if I could,” he utters against her lips, “wed you beneath the heart tree in your godswood, in the tradition of the Old Gods.”

“Really?” She sighs as Aemond presses his lips to her throat, his hands sliding from her waist to travel up her torso and palm roughly at her breasts.

“If you wish it, once we are married we can return to Winterfell and do just that.”

“Mmm…I would like that.” She tilts her head back as Aemond lowers his mouth to her chest, capturing a hardened peak between his lips and suckling gently.

Aemond has never desired anyone like this before, though he has never cared for anyone in the way that he cares for Lorra. He craves her touch, the need for her making him feel as though he teeters on the very edge of madness.

He removes his mouth from her breast, an appreciative groan rumbling in his chest as she begins to roll her hips against his, and his lips capture hers once more, gripping her hips to urge on her movements against him.

If he had known she would feel this exquisite, he would have barred the doors of the Red Keep and forbade her from ever stepping foot outside of it.

He pulls away, breathless as he stares up at her. “I want to marry you in the tradition of Old Valyria too. Once Aegon is King, and our ancestral seat is returned to us, we will travel to Dragonstone and do just that.”

“What does that involve?” She asks huskily.

“We shall wear the traditional robes of Old Valyria, red and white, and you will have a beautiful headdress.”

He pauses, eye fixated upon her as she raises up slightly on her knees, causing him to hiss through his teeth as she grasps the length of him, positioning him at her entrance. His stones tighten, mind going utterly blank, rendering him speechless, as the tight heat of her sinks down upon him, his fingertips push into the flesh of her hips hard enough to bruise.

She stills once seated fully upon him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Keep going,” she urges, “tell me more.”

“We will use dragon glass–ah, fuck!” He screws his eye shut, hips bucking up to meet hers as she moves against him.

“Use dragon glass to what?” She asks teasingly, her pace never faltering.

Aemond swallows thickly, the pressure building at the base of his spine almost too much to bear. “To…to slice against our palms...the blood that spills is collected in a cup which we will drink from.”

Lorra whimpers softly in pleasure, the rise and fall of her hips becoming more urgent, causing the water to lap in gentle ripples against their bodies. Aemond snarls at the increase in pace, pressing the flat of his palm tightly against her lower back, as he buries his face in the crook of her neck.

“Is that all?”

“No…” Aemond’s voice is strained, struggling to get the words out against the haze of pleasure that overwhelms him. “We will use the same dragon glass to cut our lips, the resulting kiss in addition to the combined blood we have consumed serving to bind us together forever.”

“If that is your wish…”

“Yes…bind yourself to me…”

Lorra gasps, her arms tightening around him as he feels her insides spasm around him in quick, successive pulses, her body trembling against his. He continues to thrust up into her, until the pressure within him gives way, causing his cock to pulsate as he holds her to him, spilling inside of her.

They remain as one, wrapped around each other in the steam of the hot spring as they each struggle for breath, slowly recovering.

Aemond strokes Lorra’s hair away from her face, running his fingers through it as he takes in her blissful, relaxed expression. In this very moment, he has never been more certain that this is love, and to experience what he has just felt makes him feel foolish for having pushed it away for so long. There is no doubt in his mind that there is no one else in the world for him, only her.

“So, will you?” He asks gently, continuing to stroke her hair. “Bind yourself to me?”

She gazes at him softly, a lazy smile upon her lips. “You have barely used two of your three days yet. I am sure there is lots more convincing you could do until they are up.”

Aemond smirks, tugging her against him in a tight embrace. That is an arrangement that he is more than happy to satisfy.

Chapter two || Series masterlist

[candiedspit]

Praise

Often, I yearned for my mother; I imagined her sitting at the table with Crystal, my younger sister and they mourn and drink sprites of tea, complaining, trading gossips to further bury my absence. Crystal with her damaged hair and sad eyes. Once, she came home with a black eye. A boy friend.

A mistake, she said over and over again.

He didn’t mean it, she said. He lost control.

I didn’t understand what she meant, not until I had a gun in my hand and not until I blasted the gun, used my life force to expand the bullet, not until I aimed at someone’s head and let out a scream as the impact happened, a furious crash of red. Not until someone left earth on my own accord. It was a moment of white, as though I was being born again. I left myself and my hands went numb and when I returned to the hot moss and clear skies and great sweeping vines and a tap on my back. The loose fabric of my clothes, I realized I was trembling from the effort, exhilarated and exhausted, almost weeping. Russian tapped me again, telling me we had to leave, to come on. I blindly followed him, leaving behind the hole where someone had been a moment before, thinking and seeing and breathing.

I had taken a life. I had lost control. As Crystal said.

The feeling stained me for days; I lost sleep. Russian told me it happens the first time.

You stay in that moment, he said, as we ate dried biscuits and drank black tea.

Your life is split into two parts, the before and the afterwards. This is your new life now, he continued. You are a person who takes things and you don’t mean to be but you can be cruel, selfish. You destroy things. Welcome to the world.

I ruminated in this as we saddled up and set our in foot cross the vines and grass troughs and blossoms of dirt. The world was a beautiful, open place. The heat sunk into my skin like venom. My head was shaved. Russian was my friend. A few years older than I was, he was the first person to speak to me. The other men, beautiful and brooding men shunned me. I arrived with bright skin and good teeth, I was a kid, eighteen years old. Still dreaming of schoolbooks and girls. I knew nothing of what was to come. Had no fucking idea. Russia spoke in a metallic accent and stood over me and told me the gist.

We are here to kill, he said. And we are here to cleanse. This is your mission. You might not get the rest of your life. Keep careful. Keep awake.

I followed his grace and made my way through months of grime and brutality and harsh sunlight. Sometimes, Russian and I stayed awake reading poems. He spoke in a low voice and recited the news. I praised these words. I ate them. And sometimes, Russian would rub my head and call my kitten. I would bow to his touch. I needed to be reminded of my realness. I accepted his aggressive, hushed love. I would climb on his back and laugh into the treeline and pull on his ears. The other men called me a pansy and told me to go back home.

You’re not fit to fight, one man said.

I had been there for seven months when the fight came about. The enemy surprised us, a sudden explosion. Men, dead. Blood shed. I was all reaction and feel and spider senses. I acted without thinking, impulse and forget the strategies. I shot and kept shooting. The sun about us bleeding out, witness to the spectacle. Russian was somewhere behind me. I could hear his grunts. I knew which grunts were his. I knew his vocal patterns. My man. My big man.

As I shot, I thought of the nation. The nation had a cup of coffee and shook off sleep and worked in decimals and droned and dreamt of atomic bombs and feared death. I shot someone ten yards off gritting my teeth and heart on fire and sweat in my eyes and the nation was asleep.

[riseatlantisss]

♧♧♧ Turn me Up ♧♧♧

Rockstar!Kyūma x gn!reader

TW : Fluff, light smut, our King of Clubs being hot AF, as per usual 

1,2K words, part 2 soon :)

Widely inspired by THIS feel free to listen on repeat while reading ! The fact that there’s no full version of this song available is a crime and I might sue. 

The Sology rocks the stage tonight. And Kyūma, the band’s singer who also happens to be your boyfriend, is on fire. 

Tonight, in Tokyo, the place to be is The Sology concert. The venue is completely sold out and in the pit, people are standing absolutely jammed together, yelling, cheering, jumping up and down, pushing each other around. Girls from the front row are screaming I love yous at the top of their lungs. It’s ridiculous and amazing and perfectly fitting for the band. Even though everyone seems to be having the time of their life, you count yourself lucky to be able to enjoy the show from backstage, away from the madness. One of the perks of dating a rockstar.  

Kyūma, standing right at the front and center of the stage, is clearly stealing the show. He looks ethereal, almost god-like and sounds fucking amazing. He glows and glitters and shines, you think, and don’t even bother to scold yourself for exaggerating, because you’re not. To you, Kyūma is everything. Seeing him bounce around on stage like he owns the place warms your heart. Up there, surrounded by bright lights and intense heat, he is completely in his element. You couldn’t be prouder of him.

You got a mind and a tongue of silver so,

His powerful, hypnotic voice echo through the whole venue, all the way back to the last rows. All of the energy of the room seems to be directed toward him. His dark eyes glitter brightly underneath the spotlight. All you can do is stare in awe. Sometimes you still can’t believe you get to have him as your boyfriend. It’s a gift beyond compare.

Please oh please I gotta get out.

Kyūma clutches the mic tightly and thrashes his head with excitement, his hair weeping accordingly, and the audience erupts. God he is fucking sexy. His broad shoulders and the rigid lines of his muscles are obvious underneath his black t-shirt, now soaked with sweat. He is a total shameless thirst trap on stage, but you think he’s hottest when he’s not even trying, when he laughs so hard he falls over, or distracted on his phone, his eyes wide and lips parted. When he performs, he looks deceptively smug and serious, but you know him better than anyone and you know that deep down he is a sweet, goofy, caring idiot. It was definitely that side of him that you fell in love with.

I can feel the same thing, 

It’s coming down like a fever over me,

I ain’t feeling like that now with myself.

As the band members continue playing, they sing along with him, harmonizing and amplifying his voice. He grips his microphone and carries it with him, the dark wire trailing behind him as he turns towards you, facing away from the crowd. His eyes didn’t take long to find yours despite the blinding lights and thick smokes invading the stage. He now looks right at you, smiling a mischievous sort of grin, and you want to catch on fire and melt on the floor. Those signature looks he gives you, the ones he’s always given you ever since you met, filled with love, hunger and malice, will never cease to make your heart race and your knees weak. Even after all this time.

So turn me up right now!

He sings that line to you and you only. You smile wide and try to fight the impulse to run to him, jump into his arms and do things to him that are definitely not appropriate in public. He turns back to the crowd as they cheer louder than ever and winks at you one last time over his shoulder.

-------

The last song fades out and the crowd roars at the end, having sung along throughout the entirety of it, as you try to regain control of your racing heartbeat.

TOKYO! We’ll see you soon!

The lights come up and the crowd goes wild, cheering for the band, chanting their names as they walk to the edge of the stage and bow, hand in hand, waving goodbye to the crowd. 

Kyūma immediately rushes over to you. He wraps his arms around your waist and kisses you. Sweat is pouring down the sides of his face, his hair damp and his shirt completely soaked through, but you didn’t care. You put your hand behind his neck and tilt your head slightly to deepen the kiss. You can feel him smile against your lips. You slip your hand under his shirt, splaying it across his flat abs. After several long, hot seconds, he pulls his mouth away and breathes harshly against your throat, still riding the wave of euphoria from the performance.

“So, what did you think?” He pants.

“The show was absolutely amazing.” You wrap both arms around his neck. “You were amazing. Most of the time I was just… watching you and no one else.”

“Of course you’re a tad biased!” He chuckles and shakes his head, disbelieving and flattered, flushing just barely. He runs his fingers through your hair, his eyes crinkling in the most adorable way as he smiles. “You know, I was nervous before I got on stage, knowing you would be watching the entire show.”

“What?! Kyūma Ginji was nervous? That’s a first!” 

He lets out a sarcastic huff of laughter. “I know, right! You should be flattered.”

You laugh and grab the buckle of his belt to pull him closer to you, further reducing the already thin gap between your bodies. 

“You look so hot on stage.” You say, licking your lips. “I had a hard time having to just watch you from afar when all I wanted was to get my hands on you.”

“What, and you made me wait around until now?” Kyūma teases and pushes you against the venue wall behind you. He claims your mouth once more, more hungrily this time, like he’s been waiting all night. The kiss is quick to devolve into a sloppy make out session that’s all tongue and teeth and you find it harder and harder to restrain yourself. You want to kiss him harder. You want to undo his pants. You want him to rid you of all your clothes and to fuck you so ha –

“Alright boys, let’s make this quick!” Your foreplays are cut short by road crew members shouting and running around the stage to pack up the band’s gear. You almost forgot about all of this. About the fact that you are still in a public place. Lucky for the both of you, your apartment in Tokyo is private. And nearby. And it has a bed. And a couch. And a shower.

You discretely reach for his crotch and gently stroke his cock through his pants, as to give him a foretaste of what he could and should expect from you later. He is already so fucking hard. He throws his head back and moans loudly. You put a finger against his lips and whisper into his ear.

 “Take me home, Kyūma.”.  

 He grins and looks at you with lustful eyes.

 “Oh, it’ll be my pleasure.”

[bad-boy-supreme-official]

HEYY GANGGG

Anyways, as you all know, I'm Leo Valdez, the saviour of Olympus and designer/builder of the Argo 2, though most people recognize me as the Hot One™ of the Seven 💪🏽💪🏽 (this is a rp account! my personal interpretation of leo and hcs of him!)

Cabin: CABIN 9, the best cabin fr Status: Head counsellor of Hephaestus cabin

Date of Birth: July 7th

Favourite colour: Orange... if you couldn't tell... Music: Eminem, Kanye, Rolling Stones and def not Taylor Swift 🙄

Family: Son of Hephaestus! Got a shit-ton of half-siblings too (and if Harley asks, he's my favorite )

Relationship: Single! Lucky for ya'll 😏😉

Anyways, I'll be at Bunker 9 if you need me. Just come in, don't knock cuz Festus is sleeping. AND IF CHIRON ASKS, IT WASNT ME!!!

OH! Go follow my friends! @wise-girl-official (only one who understands my blueprints) @seaweed-brain-official (we are currently working on setting fire to the rain) @goat-boi-official (BANNED! HE KEEPS EATING MY PROJECTS!) @sunnysolace7 (southern bestie <33 ) @nico-ghostking (emo kid 🙄) @blond-superman-official (57% of my impulse control and my boyfriend-) @gems-and-jewels (my grandfathers chick??) @beauty-queen-official (MY PARTNER IN CRIME and spa days) @rachel-elizabeth-dare-official (chaos demon <33) @reyna4ever (mi hermana! wont allow me to hit on the hunters 🙄 )

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

OOC: Please send asks and tag me in stuff! I love all of em and will try my best to respond <33 Just nothing inappropriate cuz I am a minor! PFP: Credit to frostbite.studios Banner: All pics from Pinterest

ALSO! this is based off of my headcanons so Leo and Calypso broke up after Lester left and Leo moved back to Camp Half-Blood! You can ask/talk about it but please don't argue about it <33 also Leo is pan cuz i said so, feel free to send your ships/hcs

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[miupow]

can we maybe get more insight on crave! tyunning 👉👈 we chat about the choi line so much but what about tyunning? especially hueningkai! is he aggressive or forceful with reader or is he sweet? i really wanna know!!

-🩸

hiiii 🩸 nonnie!!! yayyy finally some crave tyunning appreciation!!! a lot of the focus when it comes to crave is on the choi line... i love crave tyunning sm thank you for giving me an excuse to talk ab them :(

crave!taehyun was the one to oppose keeping reader as a denmate-- not out of good will but rather because he didn't want a human living in their pack and messing up the order of things. taehyun hates humans with a burning, sick passion, because of backstory and plot im keeping from everyone lol ^^ but because of this he's very cold and aloof with reader, not necessarily overtly rude but just.. he wants absolutely nothing to do with her. won't talk to her, won't address her as anything except "the girl",,, just completely closed off.

however reader's found the cracks in his stone wall, using his duty as her unofficial bodyguard to get to know him better, crawl under his skin.. she really gets on his good side when she patches up all of his wounds for him, even when he turns her away and hisses that he doesn't want her touching him hehee ^^ soon all reader can see in tyun is a poor touch starved baby :( can't get enough of her hands on his skin..

despite being the second youngest tyun has remarkable control over his wolf, isn't one to ever lose control or act on impulse-- tyun is the brains of the pack, that's his pride... but reader makes him more wolfish than he's ever felt before and he hates it! :3 especially when it comes to his possessive streak... crave!tyun is very territorial...

crave!hueningkai is very hot and cold-- he's good natured and polite, easily the least corrupt of his pack... but as the youngest, he has the least control over his wolf. he tries to fight it, he really does, but it's just so overwhelming; when his wolf take control, he's simply a slave to his instincts. because of this his temper is easily the most volatile of the entire pack, the smallest things can send him into a violent fit of blind rage if you aren't careful... he can become so overtaken by possesion and so territorial, growls and snaps at his hyungs when he really doesn't mean to :( kai is learning how to keep a level head, trying his hardest not to scare reader.. but he can only do so much. he's still young for a wolf.

but when he's not fired up he's such a sweetie! loves physical affection, loves cuddling and scenting reader, is such a sweet shoulder to cry on when reader needs support... he's just a big puppy!! but ohohooho when he's in rut... complete monster. that scary, wolfish side of him that reader's afraid of? that's all there is when he's in rut, no regular sweet kai to be found...

[sodalebooks07]

Why Katniss was always going to choose Peeta

Gale was never even a real option for Katniss, it was always going to be Peeta.

Gale was always *physically* there for her in the sense that he could hold her hand/hug her/hunt with her/take care of her family etc. which was confusing for her because 'why would she choose Peeta if Gale was literally right next to her?' But Peeta was always *emotionally* there for her, in the way that he understood her and knew how to comfort her versus Gale sometimes not realising there was more to healing than just Katniss's exterior healing like broken bones mending.

Katniss knew Gale for years, he was easy to love because she was familiar with him, she understood him, could read him like a book. It was the plain, simple fact of her being around him for so long.

She didn't agree with Gale's opinions or plans, and I don't mean the ones he threw about in the woods criticising the Capitol, but the ones where he could justify killing (murdering) innocent children. And I don't mean her disagreeing in like a casual, argumentative way, but she genuinely felt sick to her core at some of his ideals, found them horrific and him barbaric.

Peeta and her shared a traumatic experience, twice. They both went through the Games, and both survived, barely. And I know it could be argued that this could have confused them into being in love, but it really didn't. It wasn't the Games that made them fall for each other, we know Peeta liked Katniss way before them, but it was how Peeta helped Katniss to recover from them. It was the aftermath- the nights on the train- that fuelled their feelings.

Gale was the fuel to Katniss's fire, but Peeta could calm it. Gale and Katniss were both too similar, hot headed sometimes, could be a little impulsive, very strong minded. Whereas Peeta was very gentle, he could soothe Katniss, give her a sense of security and comfort.

Gale and Katniss had similar childhoods so automatically they felt drawn to one another, and I think it was difficult for Katniss to kind of separate herself from Gale because of that. Like, he understood that part of her, but in a way he never got how she was later on. He didn't want her to change from the girl in the woods. But she did change, and he couldn't accept that to some degree. Peeta might not have understood Katniss's childhood like Gale did, but he tried to. Gale never really openly talked about what it was like for Katniss in the Games. I think he assumed he knew what it was like just from watching it. And maybe that came from a good place- him not wanting to drag up bad memories (???)- but it wouldn't have hurt for him to help her open up about it.

Gale (whether unintentionally or not) blew up Prim. Ofc he didn't mean to, but he did. AND HE HAD NO REMORSE FOR THE BOMBS, JUST THE FACT THEY KILLED PRIM.

Peeta fell in love with her twice.

"You love me, real or not real?" "Real."

[ragingbookdragon]

Even If I Knew, The Day We Met You'd Be The Reason This Heart Breaks, I'd Love You Anyway

It’s a bit cliché to label them fire and ice, but in all reality, it’s true. To Simon’s cold and calculating, she’s hot and impulsive. And Simon’s no fool. A girl like that will send him to an early grave, but God if he isn’t already a dead man walking. It’s a long time before he finally drops his walls enough to let her inside, mostly because she’s always worming in places she shouldn’t be, asking questions she doesn’t need to know the answers to. That degree in psychology really starts to make sense when she needles him with the ones that instead of him glowering at her and snapping back, he falls silent and broods—he doesn’t brood but she swears he does.

She contradicts Simon’s frosty exterior with an inferno of life, and he begins to wonder if maybe he is too afraid of caring that he doesn’t let himself love. Which is why her words are so jarring as they come across his face, a verbal slap that has him reeling harder than any hit he’s ever taken.

“Simon, I can go on a mission by myself. I’m not a child.”

“I’m know. But I still don’t want you to go.”

“Okay, but you’re not my direct superior. So, I’m going.”

“Well, considering the fact that even if you’re a lieutenant commander. you’re in the 141. And if I recall, I am Price’s second in command.”

“You don’t get to control what I do just because you fuck me.”

It startles him, the way she bites that out and he shakes his head, a little disbelieving that she would say that—especially the way she did. “I’m not trying to control you, love,” he stresses. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

And then it happens. Her eyes slant in a way he’s never seen before and he never wants to see again, a frigid sneer crossing her face as she barks an ice-cold laugh. “Keep me safe? You couldn’t even keep your own fucking family safe.”

And that has Simon faltering a step back, throat tightening, heart beating so loud and so hard that it might come out of his chest.

“You fucked around with the wrong people, and you got all of them killed. Your own family. Your own fucking nephew.” Her laughter is dark. “You couldn’t keep anybody safe. What makes you think you can save me, you fucking failure?”

This isn’t his love. This isn’t her. He doesn’t like this version. She’s supposed to be hot; he’s supposed to be cold. She isn’t supposed to be cruel like this. He’s the cruel edged sword, she’s the fiery voice of reason.

Simon doesn’t even remember what they’re fighting about. And frankly, he doesn’t want to remember. But her laughter burns his ears, aches something in his body, he reaches for her, world suddenly tumbling in on itself and her cruelty is the last thing he hears.

He shoots up, heart hammering in his chest, throat tight as he sucks in a deep breath, sweat running down his temples and in a sheen on his chest. Simon takes a moment to assess that he’s in his room, he’s had a nightmare—a fucking nightmare of his girlfriend. His eyes draw down to his side and before he can even curse, her eyes are fluttering open, a sleepy-haze in them and he knows before she even says it.

“You okay?”

“‘m fine,” he mutters, reaching up to wipe his forehead. “Just hot.”

She stares at him, the sleep beginning to clear as she retorts, “It’s sixty-five in here and you’re covered in a sheet.” Her hand comes up to rub the sleep from her eyes and he grunts at her. “Just hot my ass.”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Simon doesn’t fight when she sits up beside him and leans into his arm. “Bad dream?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna—”

“No.”

She pouts. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“Because I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Her gaze is sharp, and he sees the inferno he loves building in them but uncharacteristically, she ceases needling and lays back down, and Simon thinks for a moment he’s in the clear before she grabs the back of his hair and yanks hard enough that he knows a smirk is on her face when he bites back that certain grunt low in his throat. He falls back, rolling onto her, head on her chest.

Her hands are cool from the temperature of the room, but he feels relief as she rubs his back and soothes everything away.

“You know I’m always here, Si.”

“Mhm.”

“I know you don’t like to talk about things that haunt your dreams but I’m always open to listen—without doctoring you to death.”

“I know.”

“Simon, I know I’m not everything I could be for you, but I love you, and I’ll follow you till the end. I’m in for the long ride.”

Simon looks up at her, a lifetime of exhaustion in his gaze, but a softness in the gruff of his voice as he admits, “Love, you’re the best thing I got.” She blinks and he lets out a long, deep sigh, repeating more to himself, “You’re the best I’ve got.”

Her hands become softer than he’s ever felt, and she brushes her fingers over his face, all had jaw and cheekbones. “Go back to sleep, Si,” she murmurs, her voice a halo of protection over him and their bed. “I’ll guard your dreams for you.”

[blackwolfstabs]

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 27

ATTACKED

Continuation of day 17: THE CATCH → for greysandmarvelfan & mlgx on AO3

WARNING!!! contains rape/non-consensual elements. (yes, i live for angst and venting what fucks with me through my writing, this isn't new, and we should shut up and move on ok? k great)

“Holy shit, it’s that psycho girl!”

“That’s her?”

Overlapping comments and laughter burned Sam’s ears as she led the way out of the frat party. Her heart still thumped like it never broke from its adrenaline-induced fit that had come with beating the ever-loving shit out of Frankie. She could feel the eyes of the partygoers studying her like she was a feral, stray dog being walked out of civilization by Animal Control. No matter how close the voices to her were or how deep each word was, Tara’s desperate voice overpowered them all. It was her voice blending in and out of another voice that was even more familiar… her own. 

And the thought of what could’ve been with one and what was with the other made her entire being run hot. Very hot, the touch on her back letting her know she was backed by the Meeks-Martin twins actually feeling cool.

She broke out of orange and purple lighting into the crisp outdoors. Moonlight was considered fraud amongst the lively streets of New York, but she didn’t need any source of it to find her way to her baby sister.

She should’ve known better. She should’ve known that Tara would go to the OKB party anyway. She was impulsive and sick of being chained to the apartment, outside of going to her college classes. Sam had begged her—begged her—not to go. 

And Sam never begged. Only for Tara, did she ever. 

This was why. She couldn’t trust anyone, especially after Richie’s betrayal and her secret about being Billy Loomis’ daughter getting out. Either she was the wolf in sheep’s clothing or someone else was. She thought Tara would feel the same, having her own best friend for years betraying her over the orchestration of a fucking requel. If that didn’t destroy Tara’s trust, what would?

But it didn’t matter. Tara was nearly raped at that party, and as much as it was her own fault for getting herself into that situation, Sam took just as much blame. Had she not been in therapy, Tara would’ve never had the chance to make it out the door of their apartment.

There wasn’t much of a breeze to tame the invisible fire burning beneath her skin as she followed Chad, who’d passed her and his sister up with his longer strides. It was then that she started running.

She couldn’t get Tara’s voice out of her head, and every time she replayed it, her vision turned everything in sight into a more distinct shade of red. Until it was blood red. Like the blood that painted Frankie’s face. Like the blood left on her hands. Like the blood still smeared on her lips. Like the blood lingering at the back of her throat. 

Like the blood that was once shed in a similar situation, at a similar time, but with an opposite outcome.

Having Tara scream her name, be trapped beneath a repulsive human being, and barely escaping what would’ve become another tragedy she’d have to recover from was only half of the battle that nearly had Samantha losing it all. 

She should’ve known better.

Because when she was 20, she had been exactly where Tara had been…

—

(flashback / Sam's past inspired by Tanto Amor: Chapter 62 (14:58 - 17:16))

She hadn’t wanted to get caught up in any of this. She’d been a rebel, on the run, and so good at getting herself in and out of suspicious situations, anyone could code her Houdini. But she did not favor Halloween in the slightest. She didn’t like the idea of people hiding themselves behind masks, costumes, and hours of make-up, so no one knew who they were. They all became characters rather than real-life identities, and with that advantage, came a thousand things they could get away with.

All it took were 2 girls who’d befriended her for a few days. They’d begged her to come to this stupid party. They told her she didn’t have to dress up, just come for a good time that would allow her to cut loose. She cut loose more than she let on but always did it on her own terms. No one was going to bark orders at her like her mother had done. No one was going to pin her down and handle her however they pleased.

Until someone did… 

And those 2 girls she thought would look out for her didn’t. They didn’t care. They just knew her standoffish personality and impressive beauty would model a perfect bone for a dog to go chase.

She wound up in the garage, encouraged to go fetch more drinks. And she did it for the sole reason that she could get away from the noise and crowd for a moment. What she didn’t know was that doing so would curse this night into becoming the 2nd worst night of her life, after the night her father walked out on everything their family once had all because of what she did.

She leaned against a long, wooden shelf that was bolted against the wall, holding her head with her fingertips on either side of her temples. Having a drink on a mostly-empty stomach was a stupid mistake, even if she had only taken a few sips. She applied pressure, trying to ease the throbbing pain if she could. 

She just wanted to go home, wherever the hell home was going to be for the night.

Behind her, the door opened, making her pick up her head to look over her shoulder. Her heart skipped a beat. She knew it was a man. He was in all black with the exception of a clown mask covering his entire face. It was white, a tri-brid of yellow, blue, and red paint distinguishing different designs as facial features. Complimenting that were three red horns coming out either side of his face and one at the top of his head. 

He stared at her the whole time, keeping her eyes that did the same. He shut the door and locked it, leaving her to drop her gaze to confirm before looking back up.

Sam instantly felt sick to her stomach, the worst feeling imaginable flooding through her just by laying eyes on him. And it wasn’t because he was in a haunting clown mask. It screamed at her to run, even though there was nowhere to run. As much as she wanted to look away in order to find some form of defense, she couldn’t. Her heart seemed to thump her chest hollow as he began to slowly walk towards her.

She bit back a whimper and replaced it with, “What are you doing?”

He didn’t say a word, just kept coming towards her. That was all she needed to know to figure if she was going to get out, she wasn’t giving him a second chance to speak. He looked hungry for lust. She was young, but she’d been around long enough to know that look anywhere.

She tried to move aside to walk around him, but he did the same and blocked her. She moved the other way, and so did he. So, she did what her instincts were telling her to do. She tried to run.

But he caught her, grabbing her arms and pulling her in, earning a yelp.

Sam felt one arm wrap around her waist, while the other lassoed her shoulder blades, making her grab onto him to get a grip on her stability. But that only lasted for a fleeting second, for he was trying to knock her off balance.

This was when full-blown panic set in, and her rationality was no longer her own. “No! Stop!” She retreated her arm that gripped his shoulder to push away from him. But it was to no avail. 

And still, he said nothing, just fought with her.

“Stop it!” She felt his hold grow stronger around her thrashing. “No-ho!”

Yet, no matter what she did, he handled it better, leaving her struggling whines and whimpers echoing off the walls of the garage.

“No, no!” She began to cry without even realizing it, gripping onto his clothes to avoid falling but still resisting him, nonetheless. 

He caught her around the waist, low enough to tilt her at an angle she had to submit to. The grip he held on her arm was promised to leave a bruise as he lowered her to the ground.

Carpenter tried to brace herself in protest, but she couldn’t, which left her spitting out the only words that she could even process. “Please! No, noooo!” her voice pitched into a squeal as he got her pinned on the floor. 

He straddled her churning legs in the process, leaving him battling for control of her arms.

The burning in her chest and inescapable hurricane running her auto-pilot a million miles per second kept her from putting up the fight she might’ve been able to with a leveled head. She tried to push against him, realizing he was trying to get her wrists above her head. Tears fell from her eyes as she begged him, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, please…” Her muscles burned out, leaving him to have his way, yet again. “Ple-hease! Don’t do this!”

But he couldn’t care less. He just wanted what he wanted, still refusing to say a word or spare any hint of vocalization. With her wrists secured in one hand, he began to feel down her flank, squeezing at the curve in her hips and filing his fingers to her beltline, where he found the button to her jeans.

“No, no— No-hoo! Nooo!” She tried to buck, to kick, to twist. Nothing worked. “Let me go-hoo!” There was only one other hope she had left. “Heeelp! Help me, pleee-hease!” She knew they were people by the garage door and outside too. Someone had to hear her…

Right?

The man had gotten her jeans undone and moved to clutch the collar of her shirt, trying to tug it down, but not missing the chance to rub his hand against her breast in the process.

This just made her panic even more. “Somebody, please!” she cried, “He-heelp!” She pulled her knee up to make another attempt at kneeing him off. “Get o-hoff of me— Nooo!” By now, she was beginning to sob, which made her words struggle to come out clearly. Her next attempt to shout was replaced by a desperate cry. Even with her arms pinned, she still tried to pull them down. 

But then he stopped feeling up and down her body and raised his fist.

She knew what that meant, and as much as she didn’t want to live what would happen next, she couldn’t let herself lose consciousness. “No, no, please! Please, don’t!”

It came down hard and fast.

Pain blasted through the side of her head, and then her whole world went black.

The next morning, she woke up and couldn’t remember a thing… She could smell blood dripping out of her nose. She sat up, confused on where she was or how she’d gotten there. But then she saw her pants down to her knees and her underwear in an awkward straddle around her thighs. Then, the pain hit her head and privates all at once.

And then she knew. She remembered it all… And she broke down into tears of disbelief, shock, and horror.

The worst thing about it was… they heard her. The people at the party the night before… they knew.

It was just that no one cared.

—

All of the rage and merciless sanctions that had fueled her for the last however-many minutes vanished the second she caught sight of her baby sister hugging her knees and crying on a bench. It was like they were back in the ages of 6 and 11, Sam about to be scolded by her mother for not watching Tara and keeping her out of danger, like she was supposed to.

It was her responsibility. 

She had a responsibility to Tara, to love her and protect her, the same as she’s always had. She didn’t ask to be an older sister, but she didn’t have to. It was built-in. It had been since the dawn of Tara’s time—to watch over her throughout her life, to bark when she was in danger or lunge when she couldn’t outrun that danger, to run and play with her when she was happy, to hold her close when she was lonely, to wipe her tears when she cried or make her laugh when she was about to cry. 

That’s why she was called a big sister. That’s why Tara had called her Sammy. That’s why she was still a Carpenter rather than a Loomis.

She knelt down next to Tara, wanting to place a comforting hand on her leg or touch her in some way, like she always used to do. But she knew she couldn’t… Not right now anyway. “Tara?”

Before Tara could respond, Anika interjected, “We got her asthma under control. She’s just still really shaken up.”

Both, Mindy and Chad, gave the sisters space as they moved over to where Anika was standing with Ethan, who had ditched the party when they were trying to get Tara out of the house.

Sam didn’t look away from her little sister. “Tara…” Her voice had lost all of its darkness and animalistic traces, leaving nothing but concern and softness.

She was shaking. Her baby girl was trembling uncontrollably, and it wasn’t because of the crying. She slowly lifted her face from being buried in her knees to reveal glossy eyes that held regret, hurt, and fear. There was no resentment, annoyance, or rebellion. Just a longing that pleaded for comfort. For rescue. “S-Sam…” Her voice was quiet and delicate, close to breaking with the quivering of her lips.

“I’m here,” she assured her, reaching her hand up to gently caress her shoulder. “I’m here, Tara.” She could feel her own emotions start to get the best of her, but until she certified her sister’s safety, she’d hold them all at bay.

“Sam,” Tara choked out, “You were right…” She had to take a moment to keep herself from drowning in more tears, her breath hitching as she sucked in some air. “I-I never should’ve g-gone…” Then her face creased, and she broke down. “I-hi’m so so-horry!”

But her big sister shook her head, “No, no, no, love, it’s not your fault.” She moved up onto the bench as Tara dropped her legs, showing that she wanted to be held. And Sam did, pulling her in against her chest and feeling her trembling arms wrap around her waist. She shushed her quietly as the younger began to whimper in between small sobs. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for not getting there sooner. I’m sorry for choosing therapy over making sure to keep you home tonight. Don’t you ever apologize for what someone else did to you. You did nothing wrong, Tara.” She promised her all of this through a blurry lens of her own tears. Her voice dropped to a whisper after placing a loving kiss on Tara's head, “Nothing wrong at all…”

Tara clung to Sam’s waist, holding her tight as if someone was going to try to take her away. Maybe in another world, she’d have been stopped by Mindy, Anika, or Chad from following Frankie up those stairs. Maybe in another world, Sam would’ve showed up, and she would’ve been completely embarrassed. Maybe in another world, instead of sitting on this bench, they’d be standing-off in the street, shouting about where they’ve been and where they planned to go—how one was able to move on and the other was still stuck.

Maybe in another world, she’d have told Sam that she had to let her go…

Not tonight, though. Tonight, she wanted Sam to hold onto her forever.

“Thank you for coming, Sammy,” she whispered, hugging her tighter. And she felt her head be kissed again, while a comforting hand rubbed her back, the bowing of her guardian angel’s head leaving her long, black hair to shield her face from the rest of the world. She was safe in Sammy’s embrace.

And Sammy replied. 

“Always.”

i don't know whether to apologize for writing this THIS way or not, but i'm sorry??

special thx to @doctorwhoarchive for chatting with me about Tanto Amor (yes, u told me i had a while to go before reaching this part in the show, but there were 3 problems: 1) i'm too curious for my own good 2) i piss myself off for no fucking reason, and 3) i have access to YouTube so I WENT TO FUCKING FIND IT BC STUPID FUCKING ME and so here we are) i don't blame u tho, dw! much love 🩶

All my best ♡ - parker

[flashflames]

𝖆 𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖘 … have a drink at my table , allow me to tell you stories — stories of dragons and burnt men . tell me about lady zhao keran .

( zhou ye , female , she/her ) : ̗̀➛ twentyfour years young , a firebender from the noble house of zhao . many know them to be rakish & untempered . how unfortunate , truly … i’ve always found them to be lively & open-minded . they oft fulfill the duties of a sergeant in the fire nation army . oh , i should tell you — they oppose the rule of house yi . well , you know how every storyteller bends the tale they tell .

ruvi here and bringing you a hot girl, quite literally! she's loyal only to their family and the soldiers she's sworn to protect, though she's taken a detour along the way that's shaken things up. like the post to plot and i'll send a message here or send you my disc ♡

youngest of house zhao, she's a sponge for the best and worst parts of her family. fully entrenched in the military mindset, the only thing that matters to her is strength—everyone's equal in a fight, and the strongest person is always right. and she's strong, too, trained from young to reach the rank of captain in the fire nation army by nineteen.

but she has a moment of rebellion at twenty, a moment's impulse when she ditches her section and sneaks away from the capital. her forethought only goes as far as her fists, and she'd been curious about life on the other side. her siblings, being the ones who run the military, cover up her absence for as long as they can while on the hunt for her, eventually finding her moonlighting as a barkeep under a new name.

keran gets freedom for a year or so, working at a tavern with no expectations or lives to be in charge of. it pokes holes in her life philosophy, seeing the way might can be misused—and sometimes, just outright wrong. at least she's always strong enough to right it, but she learns to value strengths that aren't just useful for a fight. though she still thinks a fist is the strongest of them all.

but a leash comes back for her, dragging her from the urban centre back to hari bulkan. she's demoted down to sergeant, and has been stuck there for a couple of years more. she's getting antsy about it, along with her realisation that a leash is still a leash, no matter how many military medals you put on it.

she thinks house yi might not deserve the throne, having seen what happens in the urban centre, and resenting the tight leash that bites into her neck. she wants them taken down, but hasn't gotten far enough to think about who should be put in charge after.

there's a biased sense of equality to her—she's open to everyone, as long as they can beat her in a fight. she's reckless and fun loving, but can be quite dogged once she's got her teeth into something. doesn't have a head for politics, off-puttingly honest, and isn't playing the long game—most members of house zhao die young, so she might as well make the most of what she's got.

wanted connections

sparring partner, someone she pulls no punches with and seeks out when she's itching for a fight, often

a dream she owes, she met them while moonlighting as a barkeep and left a promise unfulfilled

childhood enmity. they've never gotten along, but now they've got a common goal (against the royal house) that's changing things up

childhood betrothed no longer, their engagement was called off after her stint of missingness/demotion, possibly by their parents or it was their decision

an anchor/foil that grounds her, who provides a differing opinion that tempers her impulses

complicated familial relationships! a sibling with clashing egos and desires for the future of their house. a sibling she's a little shadow of

a moth to her flame, inexplicably drawn to her despite a myriad of misgivings

[manda-kat]

Introducing the monster kids. Left to right we have;

Rory. Enjoys ancient Egypt, reading the encyclopedia and tying knots. He has blood magic that makes his life very uncomfortable, as he is accutely aware of all the blood around him and his own control over it.

Jericho. Very angsty. His body is going through a lot of changes. Like constantly. He's a shapeshifter. Unfortunately he can't control his abilities and his transformations are usually moreso of the 'unbelievable body horror' variety rather than the 'actually helpful' variety. He doesn't want anyone to so much as look at him.

Jesse. The chillest kid in town. Jesse is probably the most confident of the group in regards to the whole monster thing. He doesn't make eye contact, however. I wonder why. He always wears that beanie, even if it's super hot outside. He can use it to hide his snakes or cover his eyes in a pinch.

Rosalie. Sheltered vampire girl who is always 100% there, even when you kinda wish she would tone it down a bit. She has a big crush on Rory, but it's actually a result of her bloodlust. Something about his powers triggers her vampiric tendencies and she misinterprets it as love. I can't see any way this could go wrong or lead to people getting hurt.

Lottie. From a big family of werewolves, Lottie is capable and clever, but doesn't work well independently. She was Jo's best friend before Jo transformed and the two of them had a falling out over Lottie hiding what she was. Lottie hates conflict and was a driving force for the kids starting a club together.

Wade. An outgoing slime who really wants everyone to like him. Wade has a very fragile ego and is very clingy to his friends. He is also hotheaded and impulsive. He's only responsible when it comes to his baby sister. In fact, he loves being seen as a role model for younger kids. Wade is way too concerned about the future and is afraid of dying alone.

Jo. She only recently transformed and part of her thinks monsterism is contagious and hanging out with Lottie all the time is what did this to her. She can grow vines and pumpkins and summon fire. Her pumpkin head can be removed and replaced by pumpkins she grows. The flame under the lantern never goes out. Jo quickly realized that this fire is like a physical representation of her soul and as such it feels very awkward and intimate to show it to others- which is why she covers it with a pumpkin. If she takes off her head around you, it means she's willing to show you her deepest vulnerabilities. So good luck to anyone who wants to see her without it. Not happening.