#i stare at the bubbles as they dance up the champagne flute

[sciderman]

If you enjoy pimm's, have you tried sangria?

 👎

[baby-yongbok]

Enchanted

Hwang Hyunjin x afab!Reader

-`♡´- Genre - Smut - Boyfriend!Hyunjin x afab!Reader -`♡´- Word Count - 2.1k

“I need to kiss you.” He whispers down at you. “Need to have you close to me without these clothes. Just need you, baby.”

-`♡´- Warnings - Unprotected piv (condoms are fun, y'all), Themes of marriage -`♡´-Requested - Yes `♡´ No

✧ Masterlist ✧

You learned quickly that Hyunjin is the human representation of a love bug. It’s nothing new to you, you’ve known him for years. He’s been your friend, your confidant, your crush and now he’s simply yours. 

You knew from observing his few past relationships that he wears his heart on his sleeve and will sometimes rip it off and offer it to you while blinding you with a smile. You knew that he was passionate and you loved it, you still do. 

“Darling.” Hyunjin’s arm wraps around your waist from behind. He startled you a bit, you’ve been standing by yourself on the sidelines of his best friend's wedding reception, barefoot with a glass of champagne that you’ve been sipping for way too long.

 “You seem like you’re ready to go.” He splays his long fingers over your stomach while his other hand runs down your arm. It’s been a long night, you’ve been dancing, singing, and tending to your needy boyfriend all evening. It seems that weddings activate the love bug in him.

“You’ve asked me that twice, Hyune.” You lean back into him, your head on his shoulder and your pretty eyes staring up into his. “You just want to get me home.”

“I can’t help it, baby.” His hand abandons your arm, leaving your goosebumps lonely on your skin as he takes the flute of bubbles from your hand and sets it on the table. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Doing this with you.”

“You want to marry me?” You turn in his hold, lacing your arms around his neck. “Shouldn’t that be a surprise?”

“You know that I’m going to marry you.” The two of you sway despite the blaring upbeat music filling the space. “How could I marry anyone else?” His hands glide over the fabric of your dress, taking in each dip and curve clumsily and calmly. His heart swells behind his ribcage as he stares down at your sweet smile.

“Why do you want to take me home so badly?” He feels up your back, bunching up the soft satin of your dress a bit before flattening it back. His hands run over your hips then wrap around your waist, pulling you so close to his chest that your heart could sing to his. 

“I need to kiss you.” He whispers down at you. “Need to have you close to me without these clothes. Just need you, baby.”

“Won’t it be rude to leave so early?” Hyunjin looks over towards the dance floor and catches the eye of Felix, his newly wed best friend. “Let’s ask, hm?”

He’s leading you behind him before you can protest. Felix meets him halfway with his now wife on his arm. “Are you two turning in for the night?” You smile over at his wife, Amina, and she gives you a knowing glance. This wouldn’t be the first time that Hyunjin whisked you away in the name of love. 

“Think so, is that alright?” The newlyweds smile over at your lover and he smiles back at them. “It’s expected, Hyune. I’m surprised you didn’t sweep her away sooner.” 

Hyunjin blushes at Amina and Felix pulls his friend into a hug. “You’re next, yeah?” Felix breaks the hug and Hyunjin’s arm is back around your waist in an instant. 

“Yeah, I think I am.” You say your good-byes, wishing the newlyweds a beautiful rest of their night and finding the rest of your group to bid your farewells. Hyunjin’s arm stayed around you the entire time. From the venue to the car then from the car to your front door where he kissed you like his life depended on it. 

The previously calm glide of his hands over your body was hurried now. His clumsy nature is consistent in his present touch. He fumbles with the straps of your dress in a  hurried attempt to free you from the garment. He stops himself once he fails to grasp  the second strap. Shining eyes stare at you through a darkening fog, admiring the woman before him like paint on a canvas.

“I’m sorry, I’m moving so fast.” He hooks a finger into the knot of his tie and pulls it. “I just - you’re just so…” He trails off, falling deeper into the sparkling haze. 

You stand across from him patiently waiting for his thoughts to manifest into words. You lean against the back of the couch, reaching down to take off your heels. He watches you as every emotion falls into place. “Enchanting. You’re everything.”

“You’re sweet, my love.” You beam at him, pulling him forward by his loosened tie and he happily falls into your lead. You wrap your arms around his waist and his hands cup your cheeks. “My love bug, what do you want? What do you need?”

“You.” He breathes and you inhale. “Just you, all that you’ll give. Just need to love you.”

“Then love me, Hyune.” He’s indulging in your taste instantly, gently and just as clumsily as before. His pink lips stamp love onto yours and you return to sender with a gentle hum. His eyes are closed, his heart is beating loudly in his ears and every thought rushing through his head sounds like you. 

“Please let me bring you to bed.” He mumbles against you and you nod into the kiss that follows. With some simple readjustments he’s sweeping your bare feet from the floor, carrying you like the bride you should be over to your shared bedroom.

He’s gentle as he sits you down and unzips the side of your dress. He peels the delicate satin off of you like a petal to a flower. He picks you apart in a gentle game of ‘does she love me’. 

You push his jacket from his shoulders, undressing him with the same tender intention. Once your dress pools around your ankles you step out of it, pushing it to the side with your foot before focusing on Hyunjin again. 

You unbutton his shirt, pressing kisses to the skin that peeks from between the fabric. His fingers dance along your bareskin the entire time that you undress him. Once he’s standing in his boxers before you something breaks within him. It might’ve been the way that you looked up at him. It might’ve been the way that you kissed his hip along the elastic of his underwear. He doesn’t know what did it but he knows that he has to love you, right now. He needs to have his arms wrapped around you and you wrapped around him right now or he’ll choke on the air in his lungs that doesn’t taste like you.

He’s pressing you into the mattress once your lips leave his skin, his hands wander the expanse of your stomach and thighs as he rolls over on his side, lips still on yours as he falls deeper into the sparkling haze that has your name. 

“Closer.” He mumbles, pressing the pads of his fingers firmer into your flesh as he pulls you flush against him. His lips run over the slope of your neck, pressing kisses to every inch that he can reach as he runs his length through your pooling slick. 

“Hyune, I wanna feel you.” His hips buck up against you at the sound of your begging. The head of his cock catches on your entrance and he almost slips in. Almost. “Please, my love.”

Hyunjin’s hands run over your hip, his fingers splay over the smooth flesh of your stomach and he’s pushing into you with a soft slow stroke and a groan to match. 

“Oh my- baby.” His eyes are shut tight as he reigns in every ounce of self control he’s ever possessed but it’s no use. He never fails to get lost in you. He can’t help but drown in the aura you provide him. You’re intoxicating, dizzying, enchanting. “ You make me feel so.. So good.”

He whispers against the shell of your ear as he pulls back carefully and sinks back in with an enraptured moan. Your hands run over the sheets and find purchase at different points before you reach back to hold onto your lover. He meets your wandering fingertips in a firm embrace, holding onto you like you’d vanish if he didn’t.

“More please, please.” A muffled groan is all you receive as Hyunjin picks up his pace. His face is buried in your hair, taking in the scent to keep himself grounded. Somehow you still give him butterflies after all of these years. Somehow being inside of you right now feels like the very first time. 

“God, baby, you sound so pretty.” Your head falls back onto his shoulder, eyes shut tight with your jaw hung slack in pure ecstasy. Wanton moans bounce off of the walls and fill the empty spaces between you two. Hyunjin’s touch is so soft, his movements so intentional that you can’t help but melt against him. “Look at me.”

You blink your eyes open, looking into his as his hips snap into yours. He hugs you into him, pulling you in impossibly close against his chest. “I love you.” Your eyes water as you look back into his. His brows furrowed with pleasure as you clench around him. His cock sinks into you slowly, pressing perfectly into the spot where you need him most. 

“ ‘M gonna marry you.” He brings his hand up to your face, caressing the soft skin of your neck and gently laying his hand over your pulse point. “Gonna make you my wife.”

“Hyunjin.” You pant a moan, tears welling up at the corners of your eyes as you get thrown into a whirlwind of emotions. “I love you too.” He accepts your profession with a groan as his hips rock into you faster. Your breath gets caught in your throat, your nails sink into the flesh of his hip once you reach back to ground yourself. 

“Tell me you’d say yes.” Your legs are tangled in a mess of trembling limbs. The sound of skin against skin is loud around you as he fucks into you harder. “Please, fucking please.” 

“Yes, yes, yes, I’d say it.” Your hand moves from his hip up to his hair. Your fingers tangle in the damp locks, pulling slightly to milk the prettiest moan from your lover's lips. “Only for you.”

“Only for me?” Hyunjin’s hips stutter, the sweet tingle of his release buzzes in his stomach. “You’re mine. My baby.”

“Yours, Hyune.” Your orgasm builds in time with his, your core trembles with the tension of the knot tightening. “Kiss me.” Your whispered words pull Hyunjin right in. He dips his head down, pressing his parted lips to yours in a slow yet heated kiss that makes you moan on contact. 

His lips move in perfect sync with yours. His hand cups your jaw and keeps you in place as he fucks into you like it’s his last chance to. Moans vibrate through the both of you as your orgasms climb your spines. He slips his tongue past your lips to meet yours in a greedy attempt to claim the sounds that you’re making just for him. He wants to taste your love off of the very tongue that spoke it to him.

“‘M gonna cum.” Your hurried whisper barely makes it past your busy lips but Hyunjin hears you loud and clear. “With me, cum with me.” He pants into your mouth, punctuating his sentence with a kiss and that’s all it takes to make you tumble. With a final snap of his hips against yours he’s burying himself deep into your cunt, falling over the edge with you.

“Oh oh, baby, fuck.” Hyunjin’s shaking against you and you against him. His arms wrap tight around your body as your cunt milks him for every drop he has to offer. “C’mere.” 

He turns your head, meeting your trembling lips with his own in a clumsy kiss. You grind down against him, riding your orgasm out as he rocks ever so slightly, giving you the last of himself. “I love you.” You whisper against his lips. “So much, I love you so much.”

He smiles into the kiss, his cheeks growing red with a sweet blush. “Don’t be shy now.” You pull back with a laugh and he groans with a smile. “You make me this way.” His arms wrap around you tighter and you fall into the comfort of the soft silence settling around you. 

“Do you really want to marry me?” Hyunjin hums, leaning in to kiss your cheek softly before following with another and another. “It’s my dream.” You smile into the shower of kisses, pressing back into him. 

“When are you proposing?” You joke, looking back at him with glimmering eyes and he finds himself getting worked up all over again. 

“What’re you doing tomorrow?”

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[husbandhoshi]

title: royally screwed [m]

pairing: joshua x f!reader

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

Here, in the dark, there is just you. 

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

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

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

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

"No, he's on duty." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Enjoy yourself yesterday?" your mother asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

Your mother clears her throat. 

"We have arranged for you to marry someone." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does Jeonghan know?" 

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's me." 

Jihoon. 

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

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

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

"You forgot your jacket," Jihoon replies. 

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

"I'll be in the foyer." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

Late spring is kind to Acros. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a good start, but what did you expect?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Didn't know you had a choice."

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

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

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

"Of course. Do you enjoy reading?" 

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

"Didn't we all?" Joshua chuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too far. 

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

"He's not around, right?" 

Jihoon shakes his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Alright." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

You hate mornings. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah."

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

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

"Ready?" he asks. 

"Let's get this over with."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just want to go back inside and have breakfast. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

"Save me, red wine, save me." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No! No. Absolutely not." 

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn't—no!” You start snatching things off the counter, anything really, and throwing them into your bag. “I just needed to grab stuff for my… my thing. You’re in the way.” 

“Right, because you need four q-tips and my razor to read a children’s book,” Joshua replies, plucking the offending items out of your purse. “It's almost 12:30, by the way.” 

“Shit. Fuck,” you stammer. You can’t glare at him anymore because you know where your eyes will end up and it is not on his face. “Stop distracting me. Whatever.” 

“Have fun,” is the last thing Joshua tells you before you close the bathroom door, that portal to hell, right back up. 

What you can’t do is return the image of what you saw back to where it came from, the wicked, glistening form of Joshua and his B cup tits. He looked so good, it makes you angry. 

Later, on the walk to the library, you reach for your lip gloss. Instead, you pull out q-tip number five and get mad all over again. 

–

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

Your engagement was announced to the public just a few days ago. It came with no fanfare, no warning. You were sitting on your bed, making your way through the smut Joshua called a novel, when the news app on your phone kindly notified you that you were now a taken woman. 

To some degree, the media uproar fascinated you. The idea that people with actual journalism degrees were writing headcanons about your honeymoon when you hadn’t even seen Joshua since The Bathroom Incident was surely entertaining, to say the least. But, like everything, the unsaid pressure of being a perfect princess, now part of an even more perfect couple, hangs heavy over you. 

You remind yourself this is supposed to be fun. A real couple would be pawing at each other in the backseat, perhaps pregaming with champagne or fan-casting their pick for Spirit the horse. Instead, you’re stuck rehearsing your pitch to the reporters when they inevitably ask you about how the hell this happened. You wish you could tell them you’re not quite sure either. 

Silently, you look at Joshua. Joshua looks out the window. The world rumbles under you. 

[10:15 am, race 1]

The air seizes, swirls with clay-colored dust in the morning sun. The clubhouse is already heady with the low buzz of conversation—you watch the freckled sunhats and oily toupees bob up and down in the swell of the crowd, deep in the morning’s small talk. You wonder how many of them are talking about you, given how recently the news hit. You’re used to people ignoring your media appearances, not celebrating them. 

Someone, tipping their head down to greet you, hands you a program. Joshua elects to tuck his in his back pocket. People don’t come to the derby to watch the races. Instead, it’s an excuse to gossip, day drink, and gamble, which would ordinarily be a good time for you if you weren’t overly invested in the racing circuit. 

All the way from the entrance to your seats, you were met with a tidal wave of camera flashes, all hungry for a glimpse of your first public appearance as a couple. Alongside this, a decidedly worse flurry of congratulations paired with an overly familiar touch to the shoulder or a limp handshake. Joshua is quick to respond with either a smile or some trite platitude. Your least favorite: We couldn’t be happier. Now he’s just lying for sport. 

“We should find the reporters doing interviews,” Joshua says the second his ass touches the chair, unfazed by the onslaught of perhaps a million different people. “The Sun probably wants to talk to us.” 

You’re not listening—you can’t let on that this whole ordeal is mildly terrifying for you. He has enough reasons to dislike you, and stage fright wouldn’t exactly be a good addition to the list. 

The racehorses have lined up at the track, their manes catching the daylight like holy fire. You like the one on the end. He looks like Peanut, Jeonghan’s stubborn palomino. 

Joshua says your name insistently, curdled with the annoyance that you’ve now become acquainted with, and you catch a stray camera flash from the stands. You have an audience, and the audience demands a show, even if they’re second-rate journalists like the scum from The Sun.  

“Darling,” you reply flatly. “Relax. Let's enjoy the races.” 

The horses stretch their long legs, anxious for the thunderclap of the starter’s pistol. Joshua raises a tired eyebrow before the same realization dawns on him. 

“Absolutely.” He clears his throat. “Darling.” 

You wrap a hand around his arm—somehow he makes hand-holding seem like third base—and watch his shoulders sink with a sigh, like you just popped him. 

Likewise, your highness. Likewise. 

A shot crackles through the air, and you’re off to the races. 

[12:43 pm, race 2.]

"I just have to know—how did you guys meet?" 

You know the duchess of Pemarlia to be beautiful and unashamedly nosy, and she has yet to prove you wrong on either account. 

The last time you saw her was on the beach at Lake Como last year, where she spent the entirety of your conversation asking if Jeonghan was single (and peeking into your bag to see what brand of lipstick you were wearing). Like everyone, she always seems to have a look of appraisal on her face. What makes her different is that she never really bothers to hide it; instead, she wears it like an en-vogue accessory. 

She eyes you with an intensity, sizing up your dress, your tawdry sunhat, your ring. You wonder if she’d agree that marriage didn’t look good on you, but any shorter of a dress, your mother would call you a stripper. And God forbid you leave the house hat-less. 

Now she’s no minotaur. This shouldn’t be much of a problem, save for one very small issue: you actually hadn’t planned your answer to this. You had quibbled over it briefly in the car, but you were too focused on your interview pitch to worry about minor gossip. 

"Well," Joshua starts. Through his smile, you can hear the warning edge of his voice. “It was quite ordinary.” 

"Actually," you cut him off. Not only would his version of this story be boring, it would also be horribly out-of-character for you. You did not come this far for your cover to be blown by Joshua’s lack of imagination. "Josh's parents hosted a—" 

"Brunch," Joshua finishes. Whether his teeth are gritted because he's grinning or frustrated is none of your business. “It was Easter brunch, wasn’t it, sweet pea? Four years ago?” 

The pet name makes you want to puke. Now he’s just trying to piss you off, but you know this is his attempt to play along. He's annoying, not dumb. 

"Yes, we sat across from each other.” You playfully dig your elbow into Joshua’s rock-hard side. “He was giving me the eyes the whole time.” 

You watch your hapless victim giggle, her spidery lashes wide with intrigue. Joshua is a little less pleased. 

“If you could call it that,” he replies. “I think you had chocolate on your nose.”

“Which you so kindly wiped off for me, dear.” You try to peek around the flaxen billows of the duchess’s blowout to watch the horses behind her, but to no avail. “After a morning of staring, we had to do an Easter egg hunt, planned by Joshie himself. I had no idea he loved silly little games like that.” 

“It's because people like the princess get so competitive,” Joshua says, with his laser beam grin boring into your eye sockets. “I believe I found you rummaging through the trash for eggs, like some kind of animal.” 

“Oh my goodness,” the duchess laughs. “How...charming.”  

You feel your eyebrow twitch. Only you’re allowed to ruin your own reputation, but you suppose that’s just another thing your horrible fake fiance gets to take from you. 

“Not as embarrassing as seeing Joshua leer at me from behind the corner,” you retort. “He was so enamored that when I invited him to join me, he got right down on his knees to look through the trash together.” 

“Well, did you find anything?” 

“Yes—”

“No—”

“Well—”

Fuck. Luckily, the duchess is either stupid or wildly entertained by the clown show playing out before her. Maybe both. 

“Cute,” she coos. “You must have been too smitten to notice.” 

“Absolutely,” Joshua says, as if there is a gun held to his pretty head. “Among all the garbage and the girl next to me, I suppose nothing else really mattered.” 

“If that isn’t love, what is?” she asks blithely. 

If only she knew. 

[3:45 pm, race 3]

The sun descends on the stadium, swollen and yellow with the afternoon. 

Last year, you and your friends had a betting ring set up during the racing circuit. Obviously, you had won—not too hard when your competition included Soonyoung, who only bet on horses named after food (sadly, it was not Tater Tot’s year). Somi was no better, and your brother thought every horse deserved a participation award.

This time around, things aren’t so simple. But you’d hate to say that you spent a whole day at the track and didn’t bet on a single race. Life could afford you at least one win for today. 

Again, the horses take their positions at the starting line, wound up like a line of rubber bands. The air heaves with bated breath. 

“Joshua,” you say, folding your hands in your lap as you find your target. “I'd like to propose a bet.” 

“You must be a glutton for punishment.” 

You bite back a laugh as you watch your favorite horse, the palomino, ripple in place. Fans would call her a charity case, but you know better. 

“Pick a horse. Mine is number Three, in the blue.” 

“And if mine wins? What’s in it for me?” he asks. Still, he leans forward, corded forearms on his thighs. You watch him squint as he surveys the field with renewed interest. 

“You pick,” you reply. “Choose wisely. I personally cannot wait to call in a favor from you.” 

“The chestnut one. Number Nine.” So he is competitive. “And likewise. Perhaps I'll hold it over your head until the wedding.” 

Before you can reply, you hear the starting pistol rip clean into the air. The racehorses surge forward, as if a silken ribbon through air. 

“Nine makes sense for you,” you say, eyes fixed before you. “He's flashy, the crowd favorite. Spotless pedigree.” 

“I'm picking your punishment already.” 

“I didn't say he would win.” You feel the lilt of your voice rocking upward, the tremulous beat of your heart against your ribs. “You see, Three’s had a rough season. There she is, passing Four right now.” 

“Nine is still first, though.” 

“It’s not about that,” you reply. “She does this, she starts all the way out back and then flies up. No one suspects anything—it’s like she likes proving people wrong. The first couple races of the season, she was just stretching her legs; they were small, small fry. It’s this one that matters.” 

The saddles are just blurs on the track now. To the march of the hoofbeats, Three lunges past Five, Six. The crowd roars. 

“This will be her first win. I'm counting on it. She’s come really close before.” 

Joshua doesn’t reply. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his gaze has shifted. You feel it land somewhere near you, but you’re too engrossed in the race to investigate further. Perhaps he’s admitted defeat preemptively, wisely so. 

“You know your stuff,” he murmurs, the clamor of the audience almost burying him. 

“How can I not?” Three coasts past One and Ten like she’s flying, until it’s just her and unlucky number Nine. “Oh my god. Go, go, go!” 

You and Joshua rise to your feet, as if drawn by a string, now wholly invested in the race. 

“Still beating you, you know.” 

“Not for long! Come on!” 

You watch your darling number Three, against all odds, pull past Joshua’s number Nine, burning a trail past the inevitable finish line. 

From somewhere inside you emerges a joy that you hadn’t felt since this whole ordeal started. You turn to Joshua and clasp his hands between yours, somehow less wooden now, and so, so human. The crowd cheers; they come alive. 

[4:50 pm, races 4 and 5. mainly, the reporter from the sun.] 

The smaller races take place shortly after the headliner, for better or for worse. This forces you to finally face the music—the music being a dull-eyed, greasy journalist ready to sink his teeth into the public’s new favorite topic. 

Joshua is a good sport about it, or at least, he’s good at pretending to be one. 

“It was great,” is his answer to a question you didn’t hear. You’re busy going over the parts of the script that you remember. Your media team spent the better part of the morning repeating it back to you, which was helpful until it wasn’t. You weren’t sure how to tell them you’ve actually never been good at speaking to the press, since you had spent the better half of your life doing the exact opposite. 

“And what did the princess think? It’s not often we catch you for an interview, you know.” 

The eye of the camera seems to pierce through you. You can see your shellacked figure, long and distorted, in the reflection. 

“I—um,” you swallow hard. God. Pull it together. You can already hear the lecture you’re going to get on the way home today. “Yeah, big day today.”

“She’s had to really rein in her excitement, you know,” Joshua adds, chuckling. 

Briefly, you feel his hand brush against yours. Ordinarily, you’d pass it off as a fluke, but you feel the steady, insistent warmth of his palm again, first, to the inside of your wrist, then lower still. Before you’re able to really process what’s happening, he then takes your hand in his all at once, as if to say, I’ve got this. I’ve got you. 

You figure he’s cashing in his favor early–he’d much rather leave you out to dry, let you flounder a bit so you learn to read the PR memorandums the night before. I told you so, he’d say. That’s what everyone else would say, anyway. 

“The races are sure exciting, but I'm sure you’re even more excited about your upcoming wedding.” The reporter grins at you, as if he smells your fear. His hair looks like it’s glued to the top of his shiny head. “If I'm going to be honest, you were one of the last people we’d expect to tie the knot this year. We are all dying to hear more.” 

What? You force yourself to breathe, feel the air fill your lungs, to avoid making an expression you’ll regret. 

“Well, yeah, I'm sure it looks like it all happened quickly,” you answer, feeling your tongue trip over the words. Mostly because it did, in fact, happen quickly, but you can’t let them know that. “But Josh and I feel strongly about, uh, this whole thing, and—”

“Please, don’t spare us the details.” 

Telepathically, Joshua squeezes your hand. This, you understand. He’s telling you to lean on him, and you trust that. 

“Hold your horses,” he cuts in, almost too quickly, which makes the corners of your mouth twitch upward. He was definitely looking for an opening, but you, bizarrely, don’t mind at all. He turns to you and smiles. “What's the fun without a little mystery? It's been a wild ride, but I'm loving every second of it.” 

It’s this one, the lamest and most embarrassing dad joke of them all, that gets you. 

You laugh: a real one, big, loud, and unafraid. It's here, caught in the glare of the camera flash, where you find yourself hoping, even just a little, that this wasn’t just a favor, that this was a sign you could actually survive this arrangement. 

You’re not asking for love—just a little bit of like. and, right now, you think you like Joshua Hong. 

—

In the evening, you find yourself in the oaken parlor nestled away in the back halls of the Acrosian palace. 

There's a piano there, gathering dust. It's a Steinway, spindly and chestnut, almost identical to the one you have at the palace in Cotria. 

You and Jihoon had been unpacking your hodgepodge of things (unsorted, since the act of sorting would have forced you to stomach the fact that you were actually moving), when he had found your old lesson books. 

You should break in that piano, he had said. Either that, or wait for your fiance to find you. He seemed ok at the derby today. 

I guess. 

What Jihoon hadn’t seen was all the photographs you had to take after your interview with The Sun, where Joshua decided to remind you that you were supposed to hate him. By that, you mean that he managed to make every single one unbearable. (A tap of the foot: Stand up straight. A careful brush of the elbow: Let’s link arms. A discerning, tactful glance at your chest: Pull up your dress. That, or he was no better than the average man.) 

You and he hadn’t talked much after that. Hopefully, he’s fled to your cold, dark dungeon of a room to read, so he can finally leave you alone.

“Remember when your parents invited all their friends over and asked you to play?” Jihoon says, perched on the loveseat while he sorts through an old jewelry box. 

“Yeah, and I literally forgot everything?” you laugh. “Freaking Jeonghan had to check on me because I locked myself in my room for 24 hours straight. And then he had the nerve to laugh at me.” 

You thumb through the fattest book of the pile. The binding is soft; the pages now yellow and fuzzed over by time. 

On page 5, Chopin's Waltz in A-flat major. three four time or whatever, you had scrawled in defiant red ink. Page 37, a thick black line through Debussy's name on Arabesque No. 1. This is because you would always laugh at it during lessons, and you wanted to save yourself the trouble. 

“Do you want to keep this?” Jihoon holds up a choker that resembles a jock strap. “When did you even wear this? It looks like a cat toy.” 

You ignore him and start to play. You were never excellent—competent would be a better word. Still, it was enough for you. Soonyoung would ask you to play during drunk karaoke, and you could still keep up with Jeonghan when he played one of his overcomplicated duets. 

Your hands remember the velvet thud of the keys, the glide of the pedal. When you turn the page, there’s a scrawled in BITCH! next to a heavily circled allegro. Piano was one of the only things that your parents forced you to do that you actually liked. The kicker was that it didn’t even do you any good. You weren’t as talented as your parents would like you to be, meaning that, to them, you weren’t talented at all. 

It’s then that your fingers slip, and you miss a chord. In your defense, you have a fresh manicure. Always blame the nails. Your mom hated when you kept them long, even more than your hardass tutor.  

“The prince is helping with the theater production this year, right?” Jihoon holds a single earring up to the light. You think you lost the other one in Ibiza last year. “You gonna help out again?” 

“Maybe.” Another wrong note. You’re losing steam trying to read all the ledger lines and your smeared, illegible writing next to them. “I don't know. He probably won’t even want me to. I'm choosing a different piece, by the way. Bored of this one.” 

The truth about your 21st birthday was that you did actually intend to spend it at the youth theater. It was your idea before it was Jeonghan’s idea, but, at the time, you both still were a package deal.

You were on piano; Jeonghan was on whatever else he pleased. He'd always been indecisive like that. At the bench, you’d hoist the little ones on your knee and regale them with the classical version of the opening song from Paw Patrol. Jeonghan stole prop masks from the back, mostly to hide behind the curtains and scare people, you included. You’d both stay up late, paint spackled on your palms, trying to Michelangelo a backdrop with the combined artistic talent of a TI-84. 

The production became your thing, just you and him, no cameras, no press releases, no parents. But like everything else, neither you, Jeonghan, nor anyone else was able to keep those inevitable truths apart. The set pieces were repainted in Italy, the finger-painted fields turned luminescent with varnish; the pins and needles in the costumes swapped with mother-of-pearl; and, finally, you, replaced by a classically trained pianist from Juilliard. At least he was hot. 

Everyone knows the rest of the story—the red carpet, the empty seats, and the puffy pink balloons outside the mansion in Saint Tropez. 

“Oh please,” Jihoon wheedles. “You and I both know he wanted you there.” 

“Then maybe he should have fought harder.” You flip to a random page, this one marked up in pink gel pen. You remember it bled through all the pages behind it, making it a pain to read but awfully funny during lessons. “It doesn't matter. There’s probably wedding stuff I gotta deal with.” 

Jihoon lets you play this next piece uninterrupted. It’s not that it’s a sensitive subject for you—there were plenty of other things that filled the wedge between you and your brother—but it certainly didn’t help. 

You let your fingers wander over the stubborn keys. It feels good to play, even if you’re almost unforgivably rusty. You reach for the page, when you hear Jihoon again: “You know, you’re allowed to come in, your highness.” 

Immediately, your hands freeze. Like a scolded child, you become aware of how your fingers teeter over the keys, the stumbling, awkward clacking of your nails, the one or two missed quarter notes from the last measure. 

You turn to face the door, where Joshua stands, leaning against the frame like a sleazy model from an Abercrombie catalog. He probably came from the gym. Seeing him dressed down is still very weird, mostly because you can’t decide if it’s because he looks good or if it’s because it reminds of seeing your teacher at the grocery store. 

“Anyone teach you manners?” you ask, unsure if your hackles should be raised. 

“No, I was raised in a barn, just like those horses you like so much,” he laughs. “I didn’t want to interrupt. You’re not bad, you know.” 

“Thanks.” You eye him skeptically. “Thought you were gonna comment on the nails.” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“Preferably not, but it’s not like you‘d listen to me anyway.” You look for Jihoon’s reaction, but he seems to have conveniently disappeared. “Let’s play a duet. I’m cashing in my favor.” 

“Sure,” Joshua replies. “I'm no good, though. Might be more of a punishment for you.” 

You slide over on the bench, and he sidles up next to you. He smells like Le Labo and sweat, the sting citrusy and bright, close enough to linger. 

“No good?” You pick up another fat book from the stack atop the lid: The Joy of Duets. “Me neither.” 

“You have no idea,” he chuckles. “And trust me, I tried.”  

“I’ll do top?” you announce. 

Joshua snickers, and you kick him under the bench (really, just a tap of your foot). 

You spend the next two minutes tripping over a Schubert piece. Terribly, this is endearing to you. You make somewhat of a couple—you, with your horrible form, and Joshua, now squinting at the key signature like it’ll make it easier to read.

“Buddy,” you exclaim. “Left hand goes here.” Laughing, you reposition his hand mid-chord to an octave below. You feel it tense beneath you before yielding to proper technique. 

“Aw, what?” he whines. “See, I told you I was no good. Give me a second.” 

You watch him puzzle over the next few lines, pretty brow furrowed. You conclude that Pajama Joshua is decidedly better than Prince Joshua. He’s funnier, kinder, warmer. Even his hands feel softer. 

“Also, about earlier today,” you start. The words are starting to dry up on your tongue, but you figure Pajama Joshua is an easier target than usual. “I didn't know they trained you in stand-up comedy.” 

“We laugh in this country too, you know.” When Joshua says this, he grins, bumping into your shoulder like you’d been friends for a long time. For once, it feels easy, natural. 

“Well, thanks anyway.” 

“I couldn't leave my fiancée out to dry.” The word must sound ridiculous even to him, because he laughs just the same as he did when he unloaded his ridiculous puns onto the unassuming world. “No really. We’re in this together, unfortunately. It’s my duty.” 

Duty, both the knife and the wound. You can’t say you’re surprised he’s only nice to you out of obligation. So is everyone else, and you don’t know why you thought it’d be any different, especially coming from him. It’s not like you’re wearing your ring now either; you suppose you’re just as guilty. 

“You cross over here,” you tell him, changing the topic. You slide your hand over his, and it bends to you. “Thumb under. Sorry, I couldn't help but notice.” 

“It's ok,” Joshua replies. “I only learned piano because I had to. When I stopped going to lessons, I forgot everything. Now I feel like I put this piano to shame.” 

“Really? Not to stroke your ego, but you strike me as the type to be good at everything.” 

“No,” he chuckles. “Only when I have to be. I actually wanted to learn how to play guitar.” 

“No way.” 

“Yes way. I wanted to have one of those woven guitar straps, get a little pick collection going, be able to play any song from the Beatles discography. All the cliche stuff.” 

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

“Back then, it never occurred to me. We all learn piano.” 

“That's silly,” you blurt out. “Who cares?” 

“That's a little rich coming from you.” 

You frown, feeling all the usual unpleasantries bubble up through your skin. 

“That's not really fair.” You absentmindedly play a few keys, all disjointed. “Taking guitar lessons doesn’t make you a problem child.” 

“It's not about that, though,” Joshua says. He's avoiding your eyes. “It's everything, together. I couldn't just pick up a guitar and be someone else.” 

“Someone else? You mean you? The real you?” 

“Yes,” Joshua presses. “That's the point. I can't just do whatever I want. Sometimes the real you is more trouble than it’s worth.” 

“Someone’s dramatic. If you do everything the same, nothing will change. Maybe getting into a little trouble isn’t such a bad thing.” 

“Forgive me,” he says, mid-chuckle. “You wouldn’t call this trouble?” 

He’s got you there. Childishly, all your pride hardens to a lump in your throat, one you’ve never learned to swallow. 

“Your family needed our help too, remember?” 

“Yeah, and you think I don’t think about that every day? How, maybe, if I had done something different, then we wouldn’t be here?” 

You feel stung. You don’t know how to tell him that you’ve been trying to figure out the same thing your whole life. If you were a better daughter, you’d have spared everyone the trouble. Unfortunately, you’d gotten it wrong so many times, you stopped trying.

What's worse is that he doesn’t even sound mad—you watch his fingertips ghost over the keys of a C-scale, rhythmically, methodically. Piano scales, this marriage, everything: just things to do on his never-ending list. 

A hesitant knock at the door interrupts any possibility of you coming up with anywhere close to the right thing to say. 

“Prince Joshua, the king and queen need to speak to you.” It’s an aide, probably sweating bullets deciding when and how they should intrude on this wonderful conversation of yours.

“Right,” says Joshua, and when he gets up from the bench, he doesn’t look back. 

—

“You ready to get stuffed?” 

Good fucking morning to you—Somi’s voice, fluorescent through your phone speakers, seems to be enough of an alarm clock for you. Joshua, in the doorway dual wielding a coffee cup and the morning paper, raises a tired eyebrow.

After the events of last night, you’d wondered if he would somehow disappear at nighttime in an effort to avoid his eventual fate (you). Instead, you found him on his usual side of the bed, drinking his usual mug of chamomile tea, in his usual silence. 

You've heard that couples shouldn’t go to bed angry, but no one said anything about indifferent. Then again, you and Joshua are hardly a couple. 

“Ew,” you laugh. “No. Maybe? Should I be scared?” 

“Absolutely. You’re eating your weight in food today because I need your opinion on catering.” 

Smushing your phone between your cheek and your shoulder, you watch the mirror as your wavering reflection puts on a layer of mascara. 

“For your party?” 

“Yeah, although on second thought, maybe it’s a bad idea to bring the girl who’s gonna puke everything up anyway.” 

“My IBS is none of your business. Besides, the real food critic is Jihoon,” you reply. “Sometimes I feel like that’s the only reason he still works here.” 

“You’re coming in an hour, right?” 

You check the clock. No, you are not. You’re only halfway through a full beat and if you don’t get any caffeine inside you within the hour, you will commit a crime. 

“Nope.” You pop open your compact. “I have to change, and I desperately need to locate a coffee. I will suck a fucking bean off if i need to.” 

“I'm hanging up on you,” Somi whines. “It's too early for you to be gross and late.”  

“As if you weren’t talking about getting stuffed.” 

“Whatever.” Click.

At this point, you feel like Somi’s party is both the proverbial and literal light at the end of the tunnel. No expectations, no rules, and no semi-arguments between you and your doomed fiance. 

Then you notice that Joshua’s disappeared from the room���he probably couldn’t stand listening to your end of the conversation. Briefly, you wonder where he is. Off running an errand for his dear parents, perhaps, or maybe at the gym you still haven’t discovered yet. Even from the hefty distance he keeps you at, you can still appreciate a man who looks like he’s touched a dumbbell. 

It's only when you’re halfway out the door, almost an hour later, juggling your purse and your phone and the distinct absence of a caffeinated beverage, that you find him. 

“Come to ruin my day?” you ask, maybe three-fourths joking. 

“Don’t give me any ideas,” he replies. Under the bluebird sky of late morning, lips upturned and eyes bright, Joshua may be a sight you could get used to. Someday. “Brought you a coffee. I can’t have you sucking off a bean—the reporters would go crazy.” 

Jihoon, hovering by the car, chokes on his water. 

“Oh!” The surprise knocks the sound out of you. “Thank you. Really.” 

“Gladly,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.

He holds all your stuff as you clamber into the car, before handing it back to close the door for you. You’ll admit it’s nice, but as Jihoon starts to drive, you feel a familiar twist in your chest.

“Interesting,” he remarks. “Didn’t know you were on a coffee order basis.” 

“We’re not,” you answer. You pop the lid open. It's a cappuccino, made the classic way, milk foam bubbling out the top. Not your favorite, but it’ll do. 

More than that, it’s an olive branch. Yesterday did get weird, but you’re getting the impression that it’ll always get weird. Undoubtedly, there is someone out there who’ll get Joshua. His schedules, his straight-backed obligation, the polished photo ops and the cappuccinos made to a perfect one to one to one ratio. You know this because this is the world you came from, one that should be home to you. 

Instead, you circle each other in an unsure, clumsy dance. You can’t quite get it right. It's all the same now. The bite of a horse saddle not made for your body, the glow of your heirloom ring, now cheapened by your graceless hand, Joshua’s lonely, reaching palm as he disappears in the rearview mirror. 

—

On your arrival home in the evening, you return with two things: a few extra kilos and an absolutely horrendous copy of the Daily Mail, courtesy of Somi, who saw it at the grocery. 

"Great showing from the couple of the year," you say, shucking your copy at Joshua. "It looks like we're in Shark Tale." 

Even from a distance, the cheap ink-spackled cover shows more than enough. LIP LOCK FLOP!, it reads, although you wouldn’t really call it a lip lock. 

It was at the derby—Quick, they’re looking at us, you had said. Then what you would call a nun’s version of a kiss: you, already halfway out the door, and him, lips hesitant and pursed, as if he was asked to smooch his withering, dusty great-grandmother. 

"I'm not even going to ask what you mean by that," Joshua answers, voice level. "It's not that bad." 

He puts his book down to pick the magazine up, holding it at a distance like the image will jump out of the page and bite him. You see his expression flicker, and that's all you need to confirm your suspicions. 

"Ok, it's a little bad." He places it on the nightstand next to him face-down. "It'll be alright. It's not like the wedding will be called off over one bad picture." 

"You know that's not the issue." You sit on your side of the bed, about a full meter away from him. You kind of want to look again just to see how bad it is, but you're sure it'll be inescapable by the morning. 

"Since when did you care what the press thought of you?" 

"Since it mattered." You stare at your lap, eyes fixed on the too-new, wiggly hem of your pajamas instead of him. You can tell he's still looking at you, though–you think those big, watery eyes have some sort of flashlights in them, and you don't like it. "It seems wrong if our mistakes take up space." 

You hear him make a small noise of agreement. Joshua still won't admit that you're right, but you suppose you like that a little. At least he'll be stubborn about something, even if it's about clearly not liking you. 

"What do you suggest?" he asks, putting his book down. “We didn't choose each other, so I'm not surprised there's no attraction." 

"Ouch." He's right, but you'd rather be the one saying it. "I'm a good kisser. You aren't." 

"I'm just not good at kissing you," he retorts. 

"Evidently." You shimmy towards his side of the bed, where the sheets are cooler under your thighs, the pillows still neatly arranged on the headboard. "What I'm saying is that we should at least try to look more realistic. Like–" 

"Are you saying we should practice?" Joshua looks at you over the frames of his glasses, incredulous. 

"Yeah," you say, now too far in it to back out. "Like exposure therapy. For unwilling couples." 

The room gets quiet, as if it wasn't unbearably so before. You watch Joshua pick up his book again. He puts the bookmark in, two-thirds from the spine of the book so as to not ruin the binding, and places it over the doomed tabloid. 

"Okay." To your surprise, he turns to face you. The lamplight catches the lens of his glasses and makes his eyes look warmer than they truly are. "How should we do this?" 

The way Joshua's gaze settles on you makes you feel like you're being evaluated. An exam in Kissing 101, except the test would rather not have anything to do with you at all. For the first time in your life, you let your eyes wander to his lips, rosy and full, and you feel the pit of anxiety in your belly grow wider. Somehow he's managed to take all the fun out of one of your favorite activities, but you'll be damned if he walks away from this thinking it's you who's the problem. 

"Just...let me lead," you say quietly, now leaning closer to him. You have to ease yourself into it. You let your body respond, feel the skip of your heart, a heady flush wash over your cheeks. He smells like spearmint and clover. 

You've kissed a lot of people. None of this should feel new to you. His eyelashes skim against your cheek, and you can hear the breath he takes, quivering, gentle.

Despite all this, the first kiss is no better than any of the other ones. his lips meet yours, hesitant before they start moving. He's shy, and it would almost endear him to you if he wasn't so annoying. But then the charade is over. His nose clocks yours and it startles you both enough to draw away, ever so slightly. 

"Not my fault," you murmur. You're so close, you can see your reflection in his pupils, glassy and dark. 

"Thought this was practice," responds Joshua, unfazed. 

So you lean in again, giving it another go. Two is better—sweet and succinct. a first date type of kiss. You can taste the berry of your lip balm on him. 

Then again, except this time it's him who goes in, chases your lips. 

The scary thing is that you thought this would be much harder. You had stood in the bathroom, looked yourself in the mirror, and psyched yourself up to do the impossible. 

But the moment you meet him, now so close there's no room to breathe, you feel an impenetrable, unshakable desire crawling up your bones. Your palm finds the flat of his chest. Even under the silk of his ridiculous pajama top, you feel the heat of his skin, the restless quick of his heartbeat, and your stomach flips. 

Four, five. You're losing count. Joshua's hand trails up your arm to cup your cheek, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel your breath catch in your chest. 

He's warm, so warm. When your other hand finds the back of his neck, he makes a small sound in his throat and you like it.

It's at this point you realize there is no point in pretending. Maybe you don't want to kiss Joshua at any other moment during any other day, but you do now. You really do. 

When your tongue meets the seam of his lips, it feels all too natural. At first, predictably, he buffers a bit. For a split second, you envision him pulling away and saying you've gotten more than a lifetime's worth of practice in. 

But he doesn't. Instead, an arm winds around your waist and that's all it takes for your body to stop listening to you altogether. Lips still connected, you lift yourself to straddle his lap, right over the folded up covers, and his hands, devastatingly strong, find your hips to keep you rooted there. 

You're starting to think he isn't such a bad kisser after all—maybe he really was holding out on you, but there's something weirdly rewarding about him waiting until he liked you just a little more. Whatever that means. 

You learn that his hair is soft, really soft, at the base of his neck. You learn that he likes when you bite his lips and you learn that his spearmint mouthwash does, in fact, taste as good as it smells. 

You also learn that you, paradoxically, might not know how to love Joshua Hong, but you sure do know how to kiss him. 

--end of part 1--

[part 2 -> ]

[whereforarthur]

Wedding Day Bliss~

Request: I had this idea if a wedding day. Like the whole wedding day leading up to the end of the night. Like the saying their vows and it being really emotional and George tearing up when she is walking down the aisle and the reception and all their friends and family watching them be so in love. Also their first dance as husband and wife I think would be so cute then sharing kisses and just being in their own bubble with George’s friends making speeches.

Pairing: George Clarkey x reader

Rating: PG-13

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 3.3k

*****

"The best thing you can do is find a person who loves you for exactly who you are: good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what have you. The right person is still going to think the sun shines out of your ass. That's the kind of person that's worth sticking with." —Juno

"You okay, mate?" Arthur's voice cut through the early morning chill as George stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His hand hovered over the shaving cream, his eyes bloodshot from last night's festivities.

"Yeah, just trying to remember what year it is," George joked, rubbing his hand over his unshaven face. The wedding was in a few hours, and the nerves were starting to set in. He had never felt so alive, so ready to embark on a new chapter with the love of his life. Yet, the gravity of the promise he was about to make weighed on him like the hangover he was pretending not to have.

The house was buzzing with activity, the air thick with excitement and anticipation. The smell of fresh flowers wafted in from the open windows, mingling with the faint scent of his mother's famous breakfast spread. He could hear the distant chatter of the bridesmaids, the occasional burst of laughter, and the clinking of champagne flutes as they toasted to the soon-to-be newlyweds. George took a deep breath and turned to face the day ahead.

When she reached him, George's hand trembled slightly as he took hers. The priest's words were a gentle hum in the background as they exchanged vows, their eyes never leaving each other's.

"Y/N," George began, his voice clear and steady despite the tumult of emotions churning within him. "Thank you for loving me, for understanding me, and for putting up with my friends. They're a wild bunch, but they're mine, and you've welcomed them into your heart without question." He paused, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he thought of the countless nights spent cleaning up after their drunken escapades. "I promise to stand by you, to cherish you, and to laugh with you, even when they're singing off-key karaoke at three in the morning."

Each word felt like a promise etched into their very souls, a declaration that no matter what life threw at them, they would face it together. And as he slipped the ring onto her finger, he knew that he had made the right choice.

The congregation chuckled softly, and George felt a warmth spread through him. He took a deep breath and continued, "I vow to support you in your dreams, even if it means watching every cooking show on Netflix with you." He winked, remembering her passion for culinary mastery, which often resulted in kitchen disasters that only she found amusing. "To be your partner, your confidant, and your rock, as you are mine."

"And now," the priest announced, turning to Y/N, "it is your turn to speak your vows." She took a deep breath, her hand tightening around George's. Her voice was steady and sure as she began, "George, my love, from the moment I met you, I knew you were different. Your kindness, your humor, your unwavering loyalty—these are the traits that have made me fall in love with you over and over again."

The room grew still, captivated by her every word. "I promise to be your home, a place where you can always find comfort and peace. I vow to stand by your side, through every challenge and every victory, holding your hand through it all. I will laugh with you, cry with you, and maybe even dance with you when you're feeling particularly courageous."

Her eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief, and George felt his cheeks warm at the thought of their many dance floor disasters. She went on, "I will cherish every moment we share, from the mundane to the magnificent, because each one is a gift that I never knew I needed until you gave it to me. I will love you fiercely, George, because you have shown me what it means to truly be loved."

The room was silent as the gravity of her words settled over the guests. The emotion in her voice was palpable, and George felt his heart swell with love for this incredible woman. He couldn't wait to spend the rest of his life making her as happy as she made him.

"You may now kiss the bride," the priest announced, breaking the spell. George leaned in, his heart racing, and kissed her softly. It was a kiss that spoke of their future together, a gentle promise of love and protection. The congregation erupted in applause and cheers, and the organist began to play the wedding march.

They walked back down the aisle, hand in hand, smiling at their friends and family. The warmth of their union seemed to radiate outwards, wrapping everyone in a blanket of joy. The light from the stained glass windows painted them in a rainbow of colors, as if the very walls of the church were celebrating with them.

*****

The reception was held in the manor's lush gardens, under a grand marquee that had been set up especially for the occasion. The air was filled with the sweet scent of roses and the sound of laughter. The guests were already mingling, eager to congratulate the newlyweds. As they stepped outside, George and Y/N were greeted by a shower of confetti, thrown by their exuberant friends and relatives. It was like stepping into a whirlwind of love and good wishes.

Throughout the evening, George couldn't help but steal glances at his bride, her smile never fading, her eyes always sparkling. They danced, they talked, they laughed, and with every shared moment, he felt his heart swell with love. The speeches from his friends were equal parts embarrassing and endearing, each one reminding him of the incredible journey that had led them here.

But it was Arthur's speech that truly stole the show. He took the microphone with a grin that was a mix of mischief and affection, his eyes twinkling as he began to recount their escapades from over the years. The room grew quieter, anticipating the tales that were about to unfold.

"Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends," Arthur started, his voice carrying over the clinking of silverware and the gentle hum of conversation. "I stand before you today, not just as George's best man, but as his confidant, his wingman, and occasionally his designated driver." The crowd chuckled, setting the tone for the heartfelt roast that was to come.

"Now, I've known George for what feels like an eternity," Arthur continued, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "We've been through it all—the good, the bad, and the questionably legal. And through it all, he's remained the same lovable, slightly disaster-prone man we all know and love."

The crowd chuckled, and George felt a warmth spread through him as Arthur winked at him. "But today, we're not just celebrating George and Y/N's love story," he said, his tone growing serious. "We're also saying goodbye to the bachelor days, the nights out that ended with pizza on the floor and George's head in the toilet." A collective groan echoed through the room, followed by laughter. "And Y/N, let me just say, you're a brave soul for taking him on. You're not just gaining a husband; you're inheriting a lifetime subscription to 'What the hell was I thinking?' magazine."

Arthur raised his glass, and the room fell silent. "But in all seriousness, George, I couldn't be happier for you. You've found someone who not only puts up with your terrible taste in music and your obsession with superheroes but also makes you a better man. And Y/N, you're not just stealing him from us; you're giving us back a George we haven't seen in a long time—one who's more at peace, more content, and dare I say it, more responsible."

The room erupted in laughter, and George couldn't help but feel a twinge of truth in Arthur's words. Y/N had indeed changed him for the better, bringing order to the chaos that was his life and filling his days with a warmth he hadn't realized he was missing. He looked over at her, her cheeks flushed with a blush that made her look even more radiant, and knew that every second of this new journey with her would be worth it.

As Arthur wrapped up his speech, the DJ took over. The air was electric with joy, and George found himself drawn to Y/N, ready for their first dance as husband and wife. The first dance was a slow, sweet melody that had been playing on the radio the first time they had kissed. As George held her in his arms, their bodies moving in perfect sync, he whispered into her ear, "Thank you for choosing me." Her eyes searched his, filled with a love so deep it seemed to hold the secrets of the universe. "I've always chosen you," she murmured back, her voice filled with a gentle certainty that washed over him like a warm summer rain.

*****

The evening passed in a blur of shared glances, whispered promises, and stolen kisses. The air was electric with love and happiness, and every moment felt like a precious memory in the making. As the night grew darker, the stars began to twinkle outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, echoing the sparkle in their eyes.

Their friends and family watched with smiles, some with misty eyes, as the couple moved in perfect harmony. The lyrics of the song spoke of a love that had withstood the test of time, a promise of forever, and George felt it resonate deep within him. He whispered sweet nothings into Y/N's ear, her cheek pressed against his chest, and she giggled, her happiness infectious.

He couldn't stop thinking about how lucky he was to have her, to call her his wife. Every few seconds, he'd lean down and press a gentle kiss to her forehead, her cheek, her lips—any part of her he could reach without breaking the rhythm of their dance. Her eyes would flutter closed with each touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips, and he knew she felt the same overwhelming love that he did.

A silent conversation of love and adoration that didn't need words to convey the depth of their feelings. The music swelled around them, a cocoon of sound that blocked out the world and left only the two of them, spinning and swaying to the beat of their hearts. The warmth of her body against his was a reassurance that she was real, that this wasn't just some beautiful dream he would wake up from.

From the sidelines, George's friends couldn't help but tease him. They had never seen him so lost in a moment, so utterly consumed by happiness. "Look at him," Chris murmured to Arthur Hill, his own partner in crime at past escapades. "He's gone soft."

Arthur Hill chuckled, raising his glass. "It's about time," he said, a hint of sentimentality in his voice. "He's been chasing that love bug for years. It's good to see him finally catch it."

Their banter grew louder, a playful jab here and there, but the affection behind their words was unmistakable. "You know, I never thought I'd see the day when George Clarkey would be this whipped," Arthur quipped, earning a playful glare from George.

Chris, Max, Arthur, and Arthur Hill had been the life of the party, charming the guests with their wit and camaraderie. They had been an integral part of George's life for years, and seeing them interact with Y/N and her friends was a delightful reminder of how intertwined their worlds had become. Their banter was light-hearted, their laughter infectious, and their love for the couple palpable.

As the night grew later and the music grew softer, the four friends—now bonded by more than just friendship—gathered around George and Y/N, raising their glasses in a toast. "To new beginnings," Arthur said, his voice a blend of joviality and sincerity. "May your love be as wild and unpredictable as our adventures, yet as steadfast as the foundation of this ancient city we call home."

Chris leaned in, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "And may you never run out of patience for each other," he added with a knowing smile, "because with us around, you're going to need it." The group erupted in laughter, the tension of the day giving way to the easy camaraderie that had carried them through so much.

"To Y/N," Max said, raising his glass higher, "for saving us from ever having to listen to George's dreadful dating stories again." The room buzzed with knowing chuckles, and George couldn't help but laugh along. The group's laughter grew as they reminisced about his infamous Hinge dates—stories of catfishing, awkward silences, and that one girl who had stood him up a record eight times.

Y/N leaned into George, her eyes shining with mirth. "But I'm the one who finally caught you," she whispered, her voice a gentle caress against his ear. "And I'm so happy I could be the one to save you from a life of swiping and ghosting."

Their friends' laughter grew, but George's gaze never left hers. "You didn't just save me," he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "You gave me a reason to stop looking." He placed a tender kiss on her cheek, the warmth of his lips leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

As the music played on, George watched his wife dance with her father, her smile never fading, her eyes shimmering with happiness. The moment was so perfect it hurt. He felt a gentle pat on his shoulder and turned to see Arthur, a solemn look on his face. "You know, George," Arthur said, his voice barely above a whisper, "you're the luckiest man here."

George nodded, the weight of Arthur's words sinking in. "I know," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. "I never thought I'd find someone who could handle all of this—me, us, the fans, the chaos. But she does. She's my sanity in a world gone mad."

*****

The night grew later, the music slower, and the room more intimate. The air was thick with the scent of happiness and the warmth of a love that had conquered all. As the final notes of their first dance played out, George leaned in to kiss his wife, the sweetness of their union echoing in the silence that followed. Their friends and family cheered, but the couple remained lost in their own little world, oblivious to the applause.

The reception wound down, and the photographer captured their love in a series of candid shots, the flashes of the camera a stark contrast to the soft glow of the candlelit room. They mingled with their guests, thanking them for their presence, sharing laughs, and receiving well-wishes that felt like warm embraces. Each moment was a treasure, a memory to hold onto forever.

The rest of the night passed in a whirlwind of dance, laughter, and love. Each moment with Y/N felt like a gift, a precious memory to be stored away and cherished for the rest of their lives. They shared dances with their parents, the joy in their faces reflecting the happiness of their children. They watched as their friends paired off, spinning and laughing, the music weaving a tapestry of memories that would bind them all together for years to come.

Y/N leaned into George, her arms wrapped around his neck. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for choosing me, for loving me, for saving me too."

George pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers. "Saving you?" He cocked his head, a question in his eyes.

Y/N nodded, her smile softening. "From a life of questionable life choices and questionable haircuts," she teased, her thumb gently tracing the line of his freshly trimmed hair. "But mostly, from the loneliness that comes from not knowing your soulmate is out there waiting for you."

George's heart swelled with gratitude, his eyes never leaving hers. "You've done more than that," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "You've made me whole, Y/N. You've given me a purpose, a reason to wake up every morning with a smile."

Their friends had cleared the dance floor, giving them space to continue their intimate moment. The soft glow of the fairy lights above them cast a warm, romantic hue over the two of them, as if the universe itself was bending to highlight their love. Y/N's hand found its way to his cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped his eye. "And you've done the same for me," she murmured. "You've shown me that love isn't just a word in a book or a scene in a movie. It's real, it's messy, and it's beautiful."

Her words hit him like a tidal wave, the depth of her feelings resonating through his very being. He leaned into her touch, feeling the warmth of her skin, the gentle beat of her heart. "I never knew I could love someone like this," he confessed, his voice a whisper in the stillness of the night. "But here we are, and I can't imagine a single day without you by my side."

*****

The moon had risen high in the sky by the time the party began to wind down. The guests slowly started to say their goodbyes, each one offering congratulations and well wishes for a long and happy life together. As the last of the cars pulled away, George and Y/N stood on the porch, hand in hand, watching the taillights fade into the distance. The cool evening breeze danced around them, carrying with it the promise of a future filled with love and adventure.

Turning to face him, Y/N looked up into George's eyes, her own sparkling with a hint of mischief. "Ready for our grand finale?" she asked, a playful smile playing on her lips.

George raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Grand finale?"

"Mm-hmm," she nodded, her smile growing wider. "The part where we finally get to be alone."

"Alone?" George echoed, feigning innocence. "What could possibly happen when we're alone?"

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. "Oh, I'm sure we can think of something," she teased, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper.

The banter between them was light, a playful dance of words that had become a hallmark of their relationship. George's cheeks flushed slightly, the humor in his eyes betraying his excitement. "First time as husband and wife, you mean," he clarified with a grin, squeezing her hand.

"Ah, yes," Y/N giggled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "But you know what they say, practice makes perfect."

Without a moment's hesitation, George bent down, wrapping one arm under her knees and the other around her waist, and scooped her up into his arms. She squealed with delight, her gown fluttering around them as he spun her in a circle. "Let's get to it then, Mrs. Clarkey," he said, his grin growing wider with each passing second.

Her laughter was like music to his ears, a sweet symphony that had played on repeat in his mind since the moment they first met. "I can't wait," she exclaimed, her cheeks flushed with excitement. The night was still young, and the possibilities stretched out before them like a never-ending horizon.

Carrying her over the threshold, George felt his heart swell with a love so profound, it was almost painful. This was it—the start of their forever, a journey they would navigate together, hand in hand.

He kicked the door shut with his foot, the sound echoing through the now empty house. The quiet was a stark contrast to the buzz of the wedding, but it was a welcome one. The world outside could wait—this moment was theirs, and theirs alone.

[swallowedbymadness]

❅ no sound, it’s all around ❅

Pairing: Seongwha x chubby!fem!reader

Genre: that good romantic smut that makes angels cry

Summary: No power, no heat, and you’re stuck inside during a blizzard. You definitely didn’t expect things between you and Seonghwa to heat up as quickly as they had that night.

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: Surpriseeee! Two fics in one week? Who is she. I have returned with another sexy love makin’ fic for your peepers. I present the prince himself, Park Seonghwa in all his glory. This one is very special to me. I was going to wait until Sunday to post it, but I was just too impatient to wait. So, you get it now as a little treat from me to you lovely babes. Listen to “Snow on the Beach” by Taylor Swift & Lana Del Rey for THEEEE VIBES. This fic is heavily inspired by it, aka I wrote this with it on repeat 💀 18+ content, so please, minors DNI. Enjoy! 🤍

Warnings: soft dom!Hwa, allllll the praise, a sprinkle of breath play, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, cream pie, squirting.

Proofread: Yes! Thank you to the phenomenal @babesindestroyland for reading over this for me. You know the drill. If you see a mistake, no you don’t. 😇

White. It’s a color that represents purity, innocence, and perfection. You were surrounded by various shades of the color that night. The alabaster walls glowed and the silk sheets shimmered beneath the candlelight, while snow was silently beginning to stick to the bedroom window from the blizzard outside. The scene painted before you was simply picturesque as you both stood bare in front of one another, the shadows dancing across your bodies as your eyes spoke every confession of love that your tongues could not.

You weren’t sure how you and Seonghwa ended up here. Everything before this moment was now a blur. It was just the two of you, a quiet blizzard outside and your head was dizzy from the strawberries and champagne he had brought over just before the worst of the storm hit. The power had gone out not too long ago, the air within his apartment chilling slightly but not unbearable due to the fireplace burning brightly in the living room. You remember him feeding you a strawberry on the floor in front of the fire, the bubbles fizzing in your champagne flutes. You remember his eyes staring intently at your lips as they wrapped around the base of the summer fruit and how a bit of the rosy juice dripped down your chin. You weren’t embarrassed, but only because you saw his eyes watch it drip slowly down your skin before he took his thumb and wiped it off. You remember feeling a familiar flutter in your stomach as he popped his thumb in his mouth, humming to reassure you it was just as delicious coming off of you. You remember Seonghwa murmuring something before leaning in and connecting your mouths in a delicate kiss, his finger gently gripping your chin. You remember how his tongue tasted sweet like the champagne that glimmered in the firelight.

“It tastes better on your tongue,” he whispered into your ear, your earlobe soon being sucked between his teeth as he lightly nibbled on the cartilage. You remember sighing out loud and feeling the flush creeping onto your face when you heard him chuckle under his breath against your ear. “I wonder if you taste just as sweet.” You remember his lips moving down to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin every now and then to hear the small whimpers leave your mouth as you felt the dampness of your arousal begin. His hand ran softly up your thigh, the floral dress you wore that evening giving him ample room to feel every part of you he wanted.

You remember tilting your head back as he placed sloppy open mouthed kisses against your throat, his hand ghosting over the area once he let go of your chin. You remember grabbing his face and allowing your tongue to slip into his mouth as you shared intimate kisses for awhile next to the warmth of the fire. You remember him breaking apart from you and standing up, his hand held out for you to take so he could pull you up. He never let go of your hand as he silently walked you into the Parisian inspired bedroom, and stood you in front of him at the foot of the king sized bed.

Now here you were with his hands falling to your shoulders, his fingers dipping underneath and encouraging the dainty fabric to fall from your body. You found yourself reaching over next to unbutton his crisp cotton shirt, his tan skin glowing in the candlelight. The pressed clothing fell to the carpeted floor, and eventually you did this until both of you were shed of everything. You remember his eyes, and if a man could get drunk off of sight alone, he would be so far gone. Everything about you made his heart pound aggressively within his rib cage. He let his fingers follow the curves of your body, feather light touches as he grazed the silky skin. You stood before one another for what seemed like an eternity to allow eachother to memorize every part of your bodies in the most vulnerable state they could be in.

“Hwa…” your voice came out no more than a whisper, your throat feeling like it was closing as you felt his eyes burn holes into your face.

“Yes,” it was more of an answer than a question, and you couldn’t recall what you wanted to say in that moment, because he didn’t give you time to think. He stepped toward you and had his hands roamining your body as his eyes never left yours.

“You’re beautiful,” your fingers were soon carding through his inky hair as you pushed it out of his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?” His expression remained neutral as he tried to figure out your feelings in the current moment.

“All of this. You wanting me, us standing here together as we are now...it seems impossible.” You allow the words to fall from your tongue, heart beating wildly beneath your breast. His eyes crinkled as his beaming grin lit up the whole room.

“And why is that?” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes radiating the utmost fondness for you as you looked up at him.

“Seonghwa. Look at you. You’re like an angel, and I’m-” your eyes drifted to the floor between you two, insecurities from your past flooding into your thoughts. He was quick to bring you right back up to the surface to him, not allowing you to drown in that right now, not ever again.

“Weird,” your eyes narrowed, his teasing nature making your heart dance, and he released a breathy laugh. “But fuckin’ beautiful.” His lips were back on your neck, peppering kisses all the way to your chin before his lips hovered above yours. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” he breathed against your mouth, not wasting any time before he pulled your body against his and pressed his lips to yours feverently. He leaned you back against the milky silk sheets beneath you, goosebumps forming all over you as the cold fabric met your skin. His mouth was instantly back on you, his tongue mapping out a wet trail as he kissed down your collarbone to your shoulder, then down to your plump breast, his tongue drawing a circle around your nipple. He took the hardening bud into his mouth and gently sucked, eliciting a soft moan from you. You watched as his member began to swell and grow an angry shade of red as precum leaked from the tip. His mouth glided across your breast to give the same treatment to the other one, the warmth beginning to bloom in your core as you watched a string of precum stick to his stomach. He kissed his way past your navel and down to your core. Not wasting any time, he began his ministrations, his tongue causing waves of pleasure to move through your whole body, his hands griping your thighs as his nails dug into the plump flesh.

“You taste so divine,” he growled as he gave your clit kitten licks before running the entirety of his tongue between your folds and dipping it into your pussy. He hummed when he tasted you on him, your arousal driving him wild. He looked up at you from under his lashes, pressing rushed wet kisses to your sopping pussy. “Like angelic nectar straight from the heavens.” He pushed his tongue back into you, his fingers abusing your clit before his mouth went to work you up again. Whines poured from your mouth, your hand grabbing a fistful of his midnight hair. You began to grind yourself against his face, his nose rubbing your clit deliciously. “Angels wish they could taste you on their lips. But you’re mine,” he lifted himself up and on top of you, positioning himself at your entrance that ached to be full of Seonghwa. As if sharing the same thought as you, he slowly pushed his swollen member between your throbbing walls. A gasp fell from both of you, the fit filling you up wholly, completely. A feeling you didn’t think would send this much emotion rushing through you, igniting your blood and setting it on fire, brighter than the embers that sparked from the logs in the fireplace just outside of the bedroom walls.

“Oh, Hwa” you sighed as his hips began to push into yours, quick and sharp so he could feel you as much as possible. You lifted your leg and he hooked it around his hip to get deeper inside of you. When he felt the tell tale signs of you approaching your end, he was quick to pull out and flip you over onto your stomach. He came back over you and laid on top of you lightly, pushing himself back inside of you tentatively. You felt his hot breath against the shell of your ear, little grunts and moans hidden under them filled your head and made you dizzy. You felt his lips on the back of your neck, as his member slid in and out of you with intent.

“No mortal is worthy of you,” He spoke lowly as he wrapped his hand around your throat gently and squeezed lightly. “My goddess divine.” Spots danced in your vision as he took your breath away, your pussy no doubtedly coating his dick with your slick at the slight pressure. “You are ethereal.” He praised into your skin, his moans mixing with yours as he took his time thrusting in and out of your plush walls. He savored every second of it, like he was experiencing something so spiritual. “Scream my name to the gods so they know who your most devoted disciple is.” His thrust began to get sloppy and harder as he saw the little bit of spit dribble from the side of your mouth. “Tell them who.” He said through gritted teeth, sweat falling from his brow as he lost himself to the pleasure that was you. “I want you to see the very stars you fell from as you cum for me.” His hands were soon smacking down on both of your ass cheeks, gripping at the plump flesh, his eyes widening at how they jiggled underneath his sweaty palms.

“You Seonghwa, only you!” You shouted, your knuckles white as you gripped the slippery sheets, inaudible ramblings falling from your lips as his dick slammed into your g-spot. “Fuck! Hwa,” you screamed into the mattress as he fucked you right into it, plump tears staining your cheeks. You felt the build up in your core finally explode, the sheets soaking up your fluids as they poured out from the depths of your walls and coating his dick even more. That sent Seonghwa into a frenzy, his cock twitching as he felt himself unravel above you.

“Oh angel, I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m-” You felt him spill into you as his pace slowed, allowing your rigid walls to pull his orgasm from him. He collapsed next to you, his flesh sticky and chest heaving as he stared up at the ceiling. You rested your cheek on your forearm as you looked at him, adoration the only thing present in your irises currently. You placed a hand above his heart, the organ rattling under your palm.

“How long?” You questioned, not needed to say more for him to know what you were asking.

“When I saw your eyes shine like starlight under the first full moon of the summer. We were walking along the beach, nothing but the sound of waves crashing against the sand under our feet. You had a sparkler in your hand, skipping around like it was the greatest thing you’ve ever seen. When you looked at me, the grandest smile adorning your face…that was when I realized.” You felt the strings holding your heart in place snap as it fell to the pit of your stomach.

“You’ve felt this way for that long? Why didn’t you tell me?” A part of you felt upset that you’d gone that long without a confession being made. If only he had told you sooner…you couldn’t help feel like so much time had been wasted not together.

“I didn’t realize you felt the same way.” He stated simply. You groaned, hiding your face in your arm.

“How did you find out?” You peeked one eye above your arm, looking at him curiously. He stared at you from the corner of his eye for a moment, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He felt his heart melting at the sight of you. Ruined, but still glowing ever so radiantly. All because of him.

“Because,” he pulled you to his chest finally, a content sigh leaving him once the weight of you rested on him comfortably. “I saw the same fondness in your eyes that I knew I had in mine whenever I looked at you.” You didn’t dare question it, because you would never admit that you felt the same way for just as long as him. You knew in your heart exactly when you fell for Park Seonghwa.

He was nothing but a mysterious blur at first, but when your eyes came into focus and saw him for the very first time, it was like an angel descended from heaven that very night. The glow of the Christmas lights illuminated his soft features, his blinding smile enraptured you. The moment he said hello to you, you willingly handed your heart over to him. Little did he know, he’s had it in his hands this entire time.

“So, you love me?” He chuckled under his breath at the question, but he silently nodded.

“I am absolutely captivated by you.” He traced invisible patterns into your back, his eyes drooping shut as his voice became thick with exhaustion. “Always have been. And I always will be.” He pressed a delicate kiss to your hairline before falling gracefully into unconsciousness, his chest beginning to rise and fall at a steady pace. You laid there and watched as the snow fell silently outside. As each flake swirled in the midnight air, you reveled in the fact that your love for one another was like the frozen crystals that danced with one another.

It came down, no sound, and it was all around.

[abiiors]

haunt // bed - pt. 2

a note about the banner: the photo in it is only meant to describe the dress, not the race, body type, hair colour, etc of the reader <3

a/n: truly out here manifesting the g and charli wedding with this one

minors dni!! part 1, part 3

wc: 3.3k

matty gently clinks a fork against his champagne flute, demanding the attention of the room. 

you are standing in a corner, leaning against one of the pillars and surveying the room as you casually sip on some champagne yourself. it’s good stuff, bubbly but not too sweet. it fills up your head with fuzzy goodness. enough to make you smile at the insufferable man in the ridiculously nice suit over the rim of your glass. 

“speech!” someone yells at the back of the room and a few weak laughs echo before everyone focuses their attention on the best man.

“george, charli,” he raises the glass at the couple who have their arms around each other, leaning into each other. “six months ago, you asked me if i would write something for the first dance. i was terrified, at first,” he laughs, “of fucking up, naturally. i wanted my best friends to have the perfect wedding that i did.”

you’re suddenly aware of his eyes on you; a kind of soft intensity that’s hard to look away from. his wedding—your wedding—was indeed perfect. you just didn’t think he would still have that opinion. a warmth spreads through your chest; it’s the alcohol, you tell your brain. stop drinking like a fish if you don’t want heartburn by the end of the night. but this warmth is tingly…it lingers too long in your stomach, perhaps in your whole body. 

“i did write something for you,” he continues, looking away after a second, “and i hope you love it as much as i love you.” he smiles and a cheer goes up. 

you straighten in your spot, no longer leaning leisurely against the column. someone brings out an acoustic guitar, making you very aware of the fact that this is the first time in almost a year that you will hear him sing. a small tremor goes through your hands and the liquid sloshes dangerously in the flute. 

someone brings out a stool for him to sit on, and fixes a mic in front of him. people clear the dance floor, making room for the newlyweds. you stay transfixed in your spot; unable to move and desperate to flee. 

what’s worse is that his date is already behind him, running a hand over his arm. she stumbles slightly and it’s not a surprise, you’ve already seen her down two glasses of wine. maybe that’s the key to this evening. 

you look at george and charli on the dancefloor, already swaying softly in each other’s arms before he’s even begun strumming the guitar, completely lost in each other. is this what you and matty had looked like all those years ago? 

your sour mood is not fair to them. this is their day, not yours. you should be honoured that charli’s asked you to be in the wedding party, not sulk in the corner like a seven year old being denied her favourite toy. 

you stare at the champagne, at the bubbles rising up to the surface rapidly. time to suck it up and stop being a little bitch. with a surge of newfound annoyance, you knock the glass back, drinking the entirety of it in one go. you stagger, lightheaded for one solid moment, but it passes and matty strikes the first chord on his guitar. 

his voice is all around you, echoing so clearly that for a second you wonder if it’s just the two of you in the room. his fingers move effortlessly on the frets while his other hand stums away at the strings, slows down to pluck them individually during slower moments and then speeds up again. 

it’s not surprising that he sings of love and happiness. his words are full of emotions and when they fall short, the sweet tune compensates for it. what surprises you is how it makes you well up with tears. 

matty has his eyes closed, smiling softly as he sings the lyrics. “so splash me with water / when we do the dishes together / i’ll take it over kisses in the rain”

one perfect curl falls on his forehead and just like that you’re back in a warm kitchen, past nine in the evening, hands slippery from the dish soap, singing along to the best of queen. matty’s hips bumping into yours as he gets too immersed into a song and forgets to rinse the plate properly. you reaching up to immediately flick him on the wrist. him tickling you as revenge, wet hands leaving damp spots on your old t-shirt. 

there were happy days. in your heart, you knew it wasn’t all lonely nights and a cold bed. 

his voice is replaced by loud claps and cheers as soon as the song ends. you open your eyes to a room full of people in some state of tearing up. charli has her head on george’s chest, blissfully unaware of the others. you’re glad the tears running down your face are not out of place. 

“matty, that was wonderful!” his date chimes in loudly, breaking the spell. 

this is the first time you’re hearing her voice. it’s high-pitched and american so when she says his name, it sounds more like ‘maddie’. and you’re once again fighting a losing battle with your brain not to stereotype her further. 

“thanks, babe,” he turns to her and gives her a warm smile. the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, the kind that makes him look twenty-two again. 

the kind that feels like a gut punch to you. 

“careful, darling,” denise’s voice startles you. she’s been standing close to you this whole time—just a bit ahead, watching matty just like you had been. 

“careful,” she says again, “the glass might break.”

“what?” you follow her line of sight, right down to the glass in your hands and your death grip on it. your knuckles are white, clutching the delicate stem so tightly. she’s right, the glass might break any minute. 

“oh…uh, sorry.” heat rises up the back of your neck and up your cheeks. “i didn’t realise.”

“‘s alright,” she smiles, studying your face for a moment. “i just don’t want you to get hurt.”

the party is in full swing around you, and you have found one more thing your ex-husband was wrong about. whiskey does start to taste exceptionally amazing; especially when you’re trying not to throttle not one but two people in front of you. 

“dance with me!” charli calls for you from somewhere on the dancefloor. 

she’s already discarded her heels somewhere in the corner in favour of comfy shoes and sweated off her makeup. but she still looks stunning and radiates with joy at the centre of the dancefloor. “come onnnnn,” she calls for you again, almost slurring her words, and makes a run to drag you to the dance floor. 

“i can’t dance in heels,” you laugh, trying to get out of the dancing without offending her. the heels do hurt, not as much as you’re making it out to be but your feet are starting to get sore now. 

standing and sulking in one spot all evening will do that. 

“so take them off!” she’s in front of you now, holding onto your wrist and pouting like a kid. she knows you can’t resist that face. “please!! you can’t say no to me today, come on!”

it takes absolutely two seconds for you to give in. she’s right, you can’t—you shouldn’t—say no to her. not today of all days. 

“only for ten minutes,” you grumble and set the glass aside. then, on second thought, you pick it back up and down the last two sips. it burns as it goes down but this fuzz is good. this fuzz will help you ignore the man and the blonde in his arms.

as long as it makes charli happy. and by the looks of it, she’s ecstatic; loudly singing along to a brittany spears hit. you shake your head at her, laughing at first and then joining in. this is fun—normal wedding fun. this is what you’re supposed to be doing at a close friend’s wedding. you are meant to get wasted and dance like a dork on the dance floor. 

you even get twirled around by ross as soon as he sees you dancing. it’s almost like the old times, all your friends having fun together again. and for a brief, blissful moment the presence of the date doesn’t even bother you. 

until you feel yourself trip over your dress and stumble. right into a pair of familiar arms.

he grunts, first from being so unexpectedly knocked into and then when your elbow hits him in the stomach. a small amount of satisfaction sparks in your brain but quickly gets overshadowed by a flood of mortification. 

your entire back is pressed up to matty’s chest, almost a lovers embrace as he steadies you on your feet. 

“careful, darling” he warns, bending to whisper it right in your ear. funny how he repeats the same words his mother had said twenty minutes ago, yet you doubt the thumping of your heart has anything to do with the dancing you’ve been doing. 

the retort is on the tip of your tongue, don’t call me that, four small words that simply refuse to come out. 

“thank you,” you reply breathlessly, clearing your throat against the sudden lump that’s lodged there. 

“steady?” he asks.

his scent is all around you, the same fucking cologne he has worn for the last decade. the same perfume that you can still smell on your pillows sometimes, no matter how many times you wash them. 

“mm-hmm,” you nod, “you can let go now.” you make it a point to stare straight ahead at a bland spot on the wall. fuck your body for hyper-focusing on his heartbeat, fuck your head for spinning at one whiff of his cologne. and absolutely fuck your heart for breaking the second he lets go of you. 

you stay still, only just touching him, still staring ahead until charli comes in your line of vision again. from this close you can smell the alcohol on her breath. she’s almost wasted at this point. 

which is why it’s not really a shock when she gasps loudly. 

“oh my god!” she slaps a hand on her mouth, eyes wide and excited. “you, me, george, and matty. like the old times!” she squeals, slurring half the words. 

“char, no. no—”

“we should dance!” she declares.

“no, pl—”

“george, come here,” she yells over you, unbothered by your protests. and you know you’re doomed when an equally inebriated george comes into view. 

there’s no way of getting out of this. the brittany song is on the last of its notes, about to change into something else. a sense of dread gnaws at your stomach. 

“no, cha—”

“let’s get it over with.” it’s matty, placing a hand on your elbow and spinning you around to face him. he is so close, close enough for you to note the light stubble on his face; not clean-shaven like you’d thought at first. you know exactly what the stubble would feel like if you ran a hand over his face. 

his pink lips are parted slightly, his chest rises and falls with each breath he takes, and his curls fall on his forehead. your hand twitches, desperate to brush them away because you know by the end of the night, they will be falling into his eyes. your stomach turns at the thought of how easily the urge comes. every feeling, every old habit rushing back to hit you full force. 

“shall we?” he asks again, hand extended and waiting for you to take it. but all you can do is stare at it dumbly.

“right,” he says, placing his hand on yours for emphasis, “i don’t want to do it either. but i want to make my friends happy.” 

his friends? indignation flares in your chest, burning hotter than the alcohol. suddenly any and all resurging feelings you’d felt for him just minutes ago evaporate into thin air. if he wants to act like he’s doing you a favour, then fine! if he wants to be an asshole then you can be a bitch right back. the song begins, something sweet and romantic but you narrow your eyes at him, ready for the battle to begin. 

and if you are to win it, then you can’t be focusing too hard on the way his hand comes to rest on the small of your back; warm and reassuring and so so familiar. you can’t be relishing the feel of his warm breath on your shoulder, sending small, delicious tingles down your spine; can’t deliberately feel the way his hips press into yours, creating friction and something much more urgent. 

no! so you square your shoulders and stand tall. 

let’s get this over with then. 

he steps to one side as the music begins to pick up; ever accustomed to taking the lead, and you step to the other side; equally determined to make this difficult for him. he knows of course, because he knows you and how your mind works. more importantly, he knows how your grudges work. 

“are you really going to be difficult again?” he asks, just low enough for you to hear it over the music. “you can’t keep your pettiness aside for five minutes?”

his voice skitters over your bones, taunting and gravelly; matty from years and years ago who would raise goosebumps on your skin and make your blood heat up just by looking at you. 

“my pettiness,” you grit out, “is none of your fucking concern.”

“it is when it’s my best friend’s wedding,” he cuts you off sharply.

“your best friend? as if they are no one to me?”

he tuts, condescending little shit, “can’t have the attention taken away from you for one second can you?”

your voices are rising; no longer the harsh whispers from before. and the distance between your bodies is almost negligible. his hand clutches tightly, is it his intention to hurt or to hold on? you don’t know. you don’t think he knows either. 

“says the man who constantly whines for validation like a little baby,” you spit out, noses almost touching each other’s. 

his eyes, warm and hazel once, are cold hard chips of brown. the anger in them turns his veins red. you imagine he’s seeing red right now, especially as his gaze dips to your mouth—painted red and curled in a sneer. 

“you really have reached a new low, haven’t you, matthew?” you laugh in his face, brutally and sharp enough to cut. a sick and twisted part of you relishes in the fact that his date can see you in his arms. “oh, what must your arm candy think of you for twirling your ex around like this.”

“arm candy?” he scoffs, clearly taken aback. he must have imagined the wedding to be a fancy affair where he would get waisted and twirl his date around until they go back home and fuck in a drunken, sloppy rhythm. he would grope at her breasts like a starved man and she would hook her legs around his waist; much like how you once used to. then she would fall to her knees and satisfy all his needs. “don’t bring grace into—”

“grace?” you snap out of your disturbing train of thoughts about your ex-husband’s bedroom habits. instead, you choose to find happiness in the fact that it won’t be as smooth sailing for him as he thought. “oh, you’ve got to be fucking with me, yeah? your toy is called grace?”

you regret the words as soon as they’re out of your mouth. and not even for the right reasons. 

“that sounds an awful lot like jealousy, darling” matty croons, finding his footing once again. 

your breath hitches. the word is meant to be a weapon, hell, you two are right in the middle of an almost screaming match (again) yet he precisely knows how to wound you with his words (like always).

“don’t,” you warn. you’re falling for the bait by doing so, you know it, he knows it. but you’ll take the small bit of defeat over this. for emphasis, you yank your hand out of his and place it on his chest, as if to push him away. 

his chest heaves slightly and suddenly you’re very aware of the muscles under the fitting white shirt. you should move away, fuck, you should stop touching his chest but your blood turns to lead, heats up your entire body as rage courses freely. 

“don’t pin this on me.” you push him back just slightly, “it’s your need to overcompensate,” another push, “that’s why we’re here,” a third push. 

and then his massive hand is wrapping over yours. you have no time to involuntarily mourn the loss of it on your waist; those tingles have already moved to your hand. 

“losing your cool?” he tuts. 

the infuriating bastard!

there’s a sudden urge to stomp on his feet with your four-inch heels, or better yet, to just knee him in the crotch. but you happen to catch the look on charli’s face. her eyes are wide, worried. this shouldn’t be happening. none of this should be happening. you’re not supposed to be creating a scene at one of your best friends’ wedding. 

“would you look at that…” you peel yourself off him. the lump in your throat is almost overwhelming now and you’d be damned before you cry in front of him again. “you’re ruining your best friend’s wedding.”

before matty can reply, you turn on your heel, keeping your eyes sharply on the exit. this is too much. this evening was a mistake. saying yes to the dance was a mistake. coming here…

a lone tear escapes, tiny and pathetic. it makes you want to slap yourself that you would put your disdain for matty over your love for charli. after everything she’s done for you in the last ten months, after every night you’d spent crying in her bed and in her arms, this is the least you could have done. and yet you’ve failed; as a friend, as a wife, even as a person at this point. 

footsteps slap on the marble floor behind you, getting closer as you step out into the corridor. of course, he’d follow. of course, he wouldn’t know when to leave it alone, picking at all your wounds that are only just scabbing over. 

“stop!” he calls out, “you fucking coward.”

the shock of it alone is enough to freeze you in your place. 

“what did you just say to me?” you blink at him slowly, taking in his cold eyes and lips pressed in a thin line. 

“you fucking coward,” he repeats, “running away from every situation when it gets tough.”

“fuck you, matty,” you spit out, taking a step forward. “fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” you punctuate each of them with a jab to his chest, stabbing your nails repeatedly into the soft spot over his heart. let him feel it. let him experience a million small deaths. 

“what? nothing witty to say now?” his hand wraps around your wrist, holding it still in place. no matter how much you struggle, he won’t let go. 

his face is inches away. he moves forward, backing you against the wall, holding onto your wrist tightly, mouth open and almost panting as if he can’t get enough air. 

you can’t either. your head spins; so close to him, too close. your faces are inches away and involuntarily you stare at his lips, trembling with rage. this whole evening was a mistake but that doesn’t stop you from fisting your hands in his shirt and crashing your mouth onto his.

lemme know what you think pls <33 🤭

[ladylooch]

I might have to request Nico fluff cause the last one you wrote was absolutely brilliant😭 and if you want to add some spice to it I'm down

The answer to any Nico fluff request will always be yes. Forever. He is so easy to write. And I really love this AU. So how about the fluffiest fluff there ever is in human existence 💍

This is part of the What My World Spins Around AU. Catch the other blurbs on my master list here.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warning: 18+ Content!, fluff, drinking, swearing because I like the F word... and smut LOL.

The final bubbles of my glass of champagne pop and sputter against my lips as I bring the flute to my mouth. I finish the drink off, glancing over my shoulder. I scan the inside of the restaurant, searching for Nico. He’s been in the bathroom for awhile. I hope he’s okay. Not seeing him in my immediate view, I turn back to the street just beyond our patio seating.

We are back in Switzerland for another off-season. The Devils year ended short of a Stanley Cup, but their captain is in much better spirits compared to last summer. The team grew so much this year; Nico did too. He became stronger in his leadership, more sure of the direction of the team and the future management has been promising him since he was drafted.

It feels like their hard work has pushed them forward enough to ease the sting. Instead, he can barely wait for the puck to drop next season.

I watch as a couple of bikers stride through the street towards the setting sun. It’s hinting at beautiful colors tonight. I pull my phone up to attempt a picture, but it’s pointless. The colors are prettier than the phone can even show.

I reach for my flute again, disappointed when I remember I already drank the last of it.

“Sorry, babe.” Nico announces his presences as he moves to stand next to me.

“Are you okay?” I ask, placing my hand on his wrist. He looks flushed and like he’s a bit troubled.

“Yeah. Just got caught up in a conversation inside.” He assures me. I nod in understanding. It’s a common occurrence when we are here. “You up for a walk?” He extends his hand to move my hair behind my ear, then off my shoulder. My dark curls cascade down my back drawing his brown gaze as they cover the bare skin of my upper back. I look around for our waiter, not seeing him in immediate view. “I already paid.” He tells me. I pause, wrinkling my nose at his weird behavior.

“A little impatient tonight.” I chuckle, grabbing my purse and accepting his outstretched hand.

“You do see this sunset right? It’s amazing. If we can get beyond the buildings in the next few minutes, it will be even better.”

I trust the Swiss native at his word and allow for him to hustle me down the street. My wedges hate the cobblestone path, so Nico has to continuously steady me as we go. We break through the buildings into an open area that leads to the marina and glacial lake we live on the other side of. 

“Oh, wow.” I whisper. “You should have picked a house on this side of the lake.”

“They won’t build anything new over here. Ground is too unsteady in the winter.” His gaze is intense in front of us like he’s facing a fierce opponent, not staring at a gorgeous, summer sunset.

“Bummer.” I pout, following him down to the public pier that leads into the clear, blue water. 

As we walk, the colors begin to change from soft glows of yellow to bursting warm colors beginning with pink and ending with orange and reds.

“Wow.” I whisper to him, completely mesmerized.

Our fingers are linked loosely together as we walk, swinging between our bodies. The colors intensify more, causing the lake to toss diamonds across it’s glass surface. The hues dance along the Swiss Alps causing an idyllic glow in the valley. It’s breathtaking and indescribable. My eyes drink in the sight, barely noticing when Nico’s fingers drop from mine. I stand rooted to my spot, trying to remember each flick of light across the mountains.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen-” I turn, to face Nico completely. When I see him down on one knee, my words get stuck in my throat. “Ah.” Sputters out with what is left of them. 

“You are without a doubt the love of my life.” His voice shakes as he pulls in a breath. My hand clasps over my mouth as I close my eyes, whispering ohmygod over and over to myself. “I love you in ways I didn’t know were possible to love another person.”

“Yes.” I whisper to him, nodding my head and reaching for his shoulders. I drop to my knees, sliding my hands around his neck to stroke his cheeks with my thumbs. I tug his face to mine for a desperate kiss.

“I’m not done.” He laughs against my mouth. 

“Yes.” I insist again, pressing my lips more forcefully to his.

“I haven’t asked.” He reminds me, but his tongue comes out of his mouth to tangle with mine. I pull back to look at him. His face swims in my growing tears. One spills over my bottom lash so he catches it with his thumb. My lips wobble, trying to stuff the happy sob in my throat. I end up bitting into my tongue until I can taste blood in my mouth.

“I never want to know what it’s like to not have this. I want you with me for every moment, good and bad and average, for the rest of my life.” He smiles as more tears dash down my cheeks. I nod enthusiastically in wholehearted agreement. He reaches out for my face. I gasp as I lean into his touch. “Will you marry me?” It’s an excited whisper that has an effervescent grin pulling my cheeks tight.

“Yes!” I squeal, head tilting back and spilling electric laughter. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

He pops the black ring box open and I practically faint.

“Oh… my GOD. Nico.” I am flabbergasted by the size of the diamond. It’s an oval cut in a platinum setting with several smaller diamonds that form a V down the sides of the band. It’s better than my wildest fantasies or any ring on my Pinterest board.

“You like it?”

“I love it.” I watch my hand tremble as he slides the ring onto my finger. 

“Whew, it fits.” He grins at me when he secures it in place.

“Oh.. how I love you.” I whimper to him, pressing our lips together again. The kiss is filled with sweetness. We share soft, open presses of our mouthes while his hands hold us firmly together.

Cheers break us apart. I look behind Nico and see his parents rushing towards us. Katja has her arms thrust into the air in excitement. Rino hold his hands up to his mouths to hoot at us. I smile, hiding my nose in Nico’s shoulder.

“I think we know those people.” I say, kissing the crook of his neck.

“They insisted on watching.” He chuckles, maneuvering us both to stand. I catch the glint of my ring as I brush a piece of my hair behind my ear. I can barely believe this is happening. Nico wraps his arms around my hips as we watch their final, joyful approach. His touch is grounding, but just in case this is a dream, nobody wake me up.

Nico keeps the celebration with his parents quick. We snap pictures, doing all the ring related poses and popping of champagne. Strangers embrace us with hugs and warm wishes of congratulations. I’m overwhelmed by the feelings of love and joy sweeping from every part of my body. Before I know what is happening, Nico is ushering me back to the car.

We crash into the house when we get home, beginning to strip each other’s clothes off. 

“All I want on you is your engagement ring.” Nico tells me, tugging my dress over my head. My matching red, peek a boo lingerie has him groaning.

“You sure about that?” I ask him, watching as his eyes drink me in. He steps forward, leaning his head down to suck my nipple into his mouth through the fabric. The barrier is too much. He shoves the cup down, gripping my breast tightly in his hand before sucking me deeper into his mouth. “Ahhh.” I whine to him, fingers threading into his long locks.

“Yeah I’m sure.” His nostrils flare when he pulls away. On the counter, the world demands our presence. Vibrating and flashing with text messages and phone calls, begging to hear about how the Swiss captain proposed.

They can wait. We can’t.

Nico reaches around to unclasp my bra, happy when it falls to our feet. 

“So fucking beautiful.” He hums, reaching for my other breast, tugging the pink nipple into his mouth. His teeth scrape lightly against it, making me wiggle impatiently in his arms. I reach for his hand, sliding it into my panties and beginning the motion I want from him. He grins, hooking my leg around his waist so he can run his thumb in tighter circles. My head knocks back to almost between my shoulder blades as I cry my appreciate to my future husband.

When my head snaps back, I turn into a vixen.

“You got on your knees; it’s only fair I repeat the favor.” I drawl. His glinting brown eyes watch my descent to the floor. He tugs his bottom lip into his mouth watching as I pull his thick shaft from his pants. His palms come to gather my hair at the back of my head. He tugs the hairs tight, holding my head back as his erection bounces against my tongue. He leers down at me as I stroke from base to tip. My wet mouth encloses around his head completely, sucking in steady pulses around the sensitive skin. Nico’s knees almost buckle.

“Look at how pretty my fiancé looks with me in her mouth.” He moans as I suck him deeper. 

“Ring looks good too.” I point out, showing him the glittering of the diamond against his taut skin.

“Mmm, almost as good as you.” He groans as I swirl my tongue along his seeping head. I take him as deep as I can, letting him set his hands on my head to fuck my mouth. His thrusts deepen and I resist the urge to gag around his hefty length. He sighs heavily as he falls from my mouth. “I can’t.” He confesses. “Not going to last long enough to get inside of you.” He reaches for my hands to pull me up. “Where?” He asks.

“Right here.” 

“Nah.” His head shake is assertive. “You deserve better than the floor.” He kisses my lips, swirling his tongue in my mouth to taste the last bit of himself there. His hands press into my hips, steering me towards the living room. We get to the couch wrapping our arms around each other, falling on it together. Our tongues meld as one, enjoying the company of one another’s mouthes. 

Nico reaches between us, gripping his cock to put himself between my folds. His fingers play with me, massaging me until I’m whimpering beneath him again.

“Nico.” I’m exasperated, too empty to keep playing this game with him. “Please.”

“Beg a little more.” He asks me watching my face as my eyebrows pull together in need.

“I can’t… please, I can’t wait anymore.” I don’t even need to play it up. I’m that desperate for him. He likes the sound of my pleading. One more stroke down my heat and he smoothly pushes himself inside of me. 

“Oh.” We both moan at the same time.

“So good.” He whispers into my mouth. He kisses me sloppily as his thrusts push me up the couch. The crown of my head hits the arm of it quickly. I wince slightly and Nico adjusts the pillow to protect my head. “Better?” He asks me, watching my face intently. I nod eagerly. With my head safe, he begins to increase the tempo. His hips snap and roll, then his staccato thrusts increase as he widens my knees.

“Fuck, baby you are gorgeous. So.. god damn perfect.” His long locks dance in front of his face as he looks down at us connecting. His gaze returns to mine when I scratch my nails down his arms. “Keep looking at me like that.” He murmurs, hand coming down to stroke my face. “Don’t look away.” I bite my lip, causing Nico to groan again. “So sexy.” My eyes close and he squeezes my cheeks as a reminder. “Me baby, eyes on me. I want you to see who makes you feel this good.” My fingers move from his arms to his ass cheeks, forcing my nails in to make him increase the tempo. “Tell me.”

“I want more, Neeks. Please. Just a little.”

He tilts my hips up, adjusting me so he can go deeper. I lurch off the couch, arching my back as he strokes my inner walls just right. My hand comes down, touching my clit in soft circles. Nico brings a hand to my breast, massaging it beneath his fingers. 

“Baby.” It’s a breathless whisper that falls from my swollen lips greedily. I grit my teeth, eyes closing. Nico leans down to my ear, hot gulps of air enclosing the space between us.

“I’m so addicted to you, sweet girl.” He murmurs, thrusting faster into me. “The rest of my life still won’t be enough of you.” My fingers grip the back of his neck. Then, my nail beds turn white against Nico’s skin as I come, taking him right with me.

I’m shaking when Nico jerks a final time inside me. His strong arms hold most of his weight over me, but our chests stick to each other. I feel his nose on my shoulder. He glides his way to the dip of my neck then kisses his way up my cheek to my lips. Our breathing collides between our faces in ragged exhales.

The way he looks at me has tears building in my eyes.

“Do I really get that look forever?” I whisper to him, fingers ghosting along his face to brush his hair back from his eyes. He doesn’t speak just nods.

There are some things words can’t describe.

The feeling of laying in Nico’s arms, newly engaged and freshly loved, is definitely one of those things. 

[teennyyweennyyy]

summary: stuck at a boring event that didn’t interest you in the slightest, you decided to call chris and ask him to pick you up. in the end, you both just ran away—you from the event, him from a wedding. warnings: intense make out session, biker!chris, fluff.

It was already past nine, and you were completely over it. This whole event—stiff conversations, fake laughter, and overpriced champagne that didn’t even hit right—felt like a complete waste of your time. You were supposed to be enjoying yourself, mingling, maybe even making connections, but instead, you felt trapped in a never-ending cycle of small talk and forced smiles.

You had dressed up for this. A silky black slip dress clinging to your body in all the right places, thin straps resting on your shoulders, the smooth fabric gliding against your skin with every movement. A delicate silver chain sat just above your collarbone, catching the soft glow of the chandeliers. Your heels gave you that extra bit of confidence—at least, they did when you left the house. Now? They just felt like shackles. And your hair, styled into loose waves, was starting to lose its shape from all the hours you’d already wasted here.

It wasn’t like you didn’t try to have fun. You really did. You had humored a few conversations, let a couple of men introduce themselves with their overly rehearsed lines and expensive cologne. But the moment they started leaning in too close, flashing cocky smiles like they were entitled to your time, you lost all interest. You had a boyfriend. Not that any of these guys seemed to care.

So, after the third half-hearted attempt at conversation, you just… gave up. You nursed your glass of champagne, let your eyes wander around the room, watching as people danced, laughed, and actually seemed to be enjoying themselves. Must be nice.

With a sigh, you finally caved and pulled out your phone, your fingers moving almost on autopilot as you scrolled to Chris’ contact. He was at a wedding tonight, stuck with his brothers and his whole family, but you didn’t care. You needed an escape, and he was the only person you wanted to see right now.

You: This party is absolute bullshit. I’m bored as fuck.

You stared at the message for half a second before deciding to add some dramatic flair—snapping a picture of your champagne glass, the golden liquid catching the dim lighting just enough to make it look like you were trying to have fun.

The reply came faster than you expected.

Chris: From where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re having plenty of fun, baby.

You rolled your eyes, already typing back.

You: Come get me? I can’t sit through another four hours of this.

You attached your location and waited, watching the little "typing..." bubble appear, disappear, and then finally, a response popped up.

Chris: Give me a few minutes, baby.

And that was it. No hesitation. No questions asked. Just the assurance that he was coming.

Waiting for Chris was, unsurprisingly, boring as hell. You sat there, legs crossed, half-heartedly swirling the last sip of champagne in your glass while mindlessly watching the people around you. Fake laughter, shallow conversations, and an overwhelming sense of pretentiousness filled the room. Yeah, this wasn’t your scene. You stole a glance at your heels, regretting every single life choice that led you to this moment.

Thirty, maybe forty minutes passed before your phone finally buzzed.

Chris: I’m outside. Waiting.

A slow smile crept onto your lips as you read the message. About damn time. Wasting no more seconds, you set your champagne flute down, grabbed your clutch, and made your way toward the exit. The moment you stepped outside, crisp night air replacing the suffocating atmosphere inside, you spotted him—Chris, leaning against his damn bike like he was straight out of a movie.

And God, did he look good.

Dressed in a suit—black, tailored to perfection, just loose enough now that he’d ditched the jacket—he looked effortlessly hot. His tie was slightly loosened, top buttons undone, and those sharp blue eyes flickered with amusement as he watched you approach.

You didn’t hesitate, slipping into his arms, wrapping yourself around him in a quick embrace. His scent—something woody, a little smoky, mixed with the faintest trace of whatever cologne he always wore—hit you instantly.

"I tried to have fun, I really did. But this whole thing was fucking pointless," you muttered, rolling your eyes before pressing a quick kiss against his jaw.

Chris smirked, one hand settling on your waist while the other ran up your back, fingers toying with the thin straps of your dress. "So you decided to rescue me from my family in return?" His voice was low, teasing, and dripping with that cocky charm he wore so well.

"Oh, please. You could’ve just said no, and I would’ve gotten an Uber," you shot back, shivering slightly as the cold air bit at your exposed skin.

Chris noticed immediately. Without a word, he slipped off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders, adjusting it so it covered you properly. His hands lingered for a second, brushing against your arms, his smirk softening into something more… fond.

"You didn’t dress for the weather, baby," he murmured, shaking his head slightly, as if you were the most reckless thing he’d ever laid eyes on. "Bet you got plenty of attention looking like this, huh?"

You smirked, stepping back just enough to glance at him through your lashes. "Way too much."

And just like that, you walked past him, effortlessly slipping onto his bike, your smirk widening when you felt his gaze still burning into you.

Chris swung his leg over the bike, settling into the seat as he revved the engine, the deep purr of the motor cutting through the quiet night air. Without hesitation, you slid onto the seat behind him, your arms wrapping around his torso, holding onto him as the bike jerked forward. The city blurred past in streaks of neon and headlights, the cold night air whipping against your skin, sending chills down your spine. Your nose and cheeks were probably already turning red from the wind, but you didn’t care.

His jacket still hung loosely around your shoulders, carrying the scent of his cologne—something dark, musky, with a hint of spice. You inhaled deeply, unconsciously pulling it tighter around yourself. It felt warm. It felt safe.

Chris maneuvered the bike effortlessly through the near-empty streets, occasionally pressing down on the throttle, making the engine growl beneath you. There was a certain recklessness in the way he rode—not dangerous, but freeing. His grip on the handlebars was firm, controlled, but every now and then, you felt his fingers tighten around yours where they rested on his stomach, a silent reassurance.

The faint scent of your perfume—vanilla and something warm, like freshly baked cookies—drifted toward him, making his jaw clench slightly. You always smelled like that. Sweet. Comforting. Fucking addictive.

Eventually, the familiar sight of your place came into view, and Chris slowed the bike, coasting smoothly to a stop in front of your building. The deep rumble of the engine faded as he cut the ignition, stretching slightly as he sat up straight.

You pulled your arms away from him, hopping off the bike, the heels of your shoes clicking softly against the pavement as you landed. A relieved grin tugged at your lips as you let out a small sigh. “Finally home.”

Chris smirked, swinging his leg over the bike as he stood up, his gaze flicking to you. “So you gonna let me in? Or are you kicking me out?”

His voice was teasing, but there was something else laced beneath it—something smug, something expectant. You bit your lip, suppressing a smirk as you nodded, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the entrance.

As you rummaged through your purse for your keys, Chris stepped in behind you, his presence warm despite the lingering cold outside. Then, suddenly, you felt his lips against your neck—soft at first, then lingering, pressing gentle, slow kisses against the chilled skin. The contrast of warmth against the cold sent a shiver through you, and when you exhaled, a small cloud of breath formed in the frosty air.

"Chris—" you mumbled, but your voice was breathless, barely a whisper.

He smirked against your skin, his lips brushing over the spot just beneath your jaw, the one that always made your stomach twist. “What?” he murmured, voice low, amused, knowing exactly what he was doing to you.

Your fingers fumbled slightly, but eventually, you found the key, sliding it into the lock and pushing the door open. The second you both stepped inside, before you could even shut the door completely, Chris was on you.

His hands grabbed your waist, pulling you flush against him as he kicked the door closed behind him. His lips crashed against yours, hungry, demanding, tasting faintly of whiskey and something uniquely him. The kiss was messy, deep, stealing the breath straight from your lungs, leaving you dizzy.

He pressed you back against the wall, his fingers already tugging at the lapels of his jacket that still hung over your frame. His grip was firm, impatient, as if the barrier of fabric between you was the most frustrating thing in the world. His lips never left yours, only pulling away briefly to mutter against your mouth—

"Take this off, baby."

The moment you shrug off Chris's jacket, letting it slip to the floor, his hands are on you again-firm, steady, like he knows exactly what you need. Your heels are killing you, your legs aching from standing too long, but his grip keeps you upright, pulling you into him, his body warm against yours.

You let out a breath, your fingers ghosting over the fabric of his shirt before you take a step back, catching his gaze with a teasing smile. Then, without a word, you turn, leading him toward your bedroom. He follows, close behind, the heat between you two growing with every step.

As soon as you reach the bed, you push him back onto the mattress, straddling him effortlessly. A chuckle rumbles from his chest, low and deep, as his hands settle on your thighs. You lean down, your lips brushing against his before you bite down on his lower lip-just enough to drive him crazy, the way you know he likes. He exhales sharply, his grip on your hips tightening as he pulls you even closer.

"You really love teasing me, huh?" he mutters, his voice rough around the edges, his fingers curling into the fabric of your dress.

A small smirk plays on your lips as you tilt your head, pretending to think. "Maybe."

His fingers slide up your back, pushing your hair over your shoulder as he tugs the zipper of your dress down. "Take this off," he says, his voice quieter now, more controlled, but you can hear the way his breath catches slightly.

You don't make him ask twice. The dress slips down your shoulders, pooling at your waist before you finally step out of it. Chris watches you, his gaze dark, intense, like he's memorizing every inch of you. You reach for the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, pushing the fabric off his shoulders until it joins your dress on the floor.

His hands roam your body-soft, warm, exploring the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the smooth skin of your thighs. He hums in approval, his fingers tracing the delicate lace of your lingerie, before he hooks a finger under one of the straps, sliding it down your shoulder.

And then, with a sudden move, he flips you onto your back, hovering over you, his lips capturing yours again. His kiss is slow, deep, like he's savoring every second. You can taste the faint hint of whiskey on his lips, mixing with the sweetness of your own champagne, and for a moment, everything else fades-leaving just this, just him.

Your hands move instinctively, reaching for his belt, your fingers fumbling slightly in the haze of it all. Chris lets out a quiet laugh against your lips, shaking his head before kissing you again, his hand tilting your chin up.

"Patience, baby," he murmurs, his voice nothing more than a whisper.

You exhale sharply, your fingers finally working his belt free, tugging at the button of his pants. His lips don't leave your skin, tracing heated paths down your neck, his hands exploring-firm, steady, claiming every inch of you. Each touch sends shivers rippling through you, your body arching into him as if instinctively seeking more.

He chuckles against your skin, the sound low and husky. "So sensitive," he murmurs, his breath warm against your collarbone. The way he says it-like he enjoys watching you fall apart under his touch-sends a new wave of heat through you.

Chris shifts, kicking off his pants, the fabric hitting the floor with a quiet thud. And then, before you can anticipate his next move, his tie is suddenly in his hands. He slides it over your eyes, knotting it at the back of your head-not too tight, just enough to take away your sight.

A rush of anticipation floods through you, your other senses heightening in response. You can't see him, but you can feel him-the warmth of his breath just inches from your lips, the brush of his fingertips tracing along your bare shoulders, the weight of his body hovering so close yet maddeningly out of reach.

"Better?" His voice is softer now, teasing, but there's something else in it too-something dark, something possessive.

You nod, barely able to find your voice, your breath hitching as he trails slow, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, over your collarbone, lower still. His hands move with purpose, sliding down your arms, over your sides, until they rest on your hips, pulling you closer.

And then his lips are on you again-exploring, tasting, learning every little reaction you give him. He takes his time, drawing quiet gasps and breathless sighs from your lips, leaving you completely at his mercy.

Chris's hands glide over your back as you lie on the bed, your breath coming out in soft sighs. His fingers move with practiced ease, tracing along your spine before carefully undoing the clasp of your bra. With a quiet rustle, the fabric slips away, disappearing somewhere onto the floor. A small gasp escapes your lips-not out of surprise, but from the heightened sensitivity coursing through you. The silk of his tie, snug over your eyes, sharpens every sensation, turning the darkness into a canvas for every touch.

His lips find their way down to your collarbone, pressing warm, lingering kisses against your skin. There's a teasing slowness to his movements, a quiet reverence in the way his mouth trails lower, mapping every curve, every inch of you with featherlight touches. His breath is warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine as he presses closer.

You exhale shakily, fingers curling into the sheets as heat pools in your chest. Every kiss, every gentle graze of his lips ignites something deep inside you, leaving behind a trail of warmth that you can still feel even after he moves. It's intoxicating-this quiet, unspoken language between you, the way he lingers just long enough to make you ache for more.

author's note: kkk ik i left it hanging but for some reason i feel like you should continue what could happen next (obviously)

[oohnotvery]

Wherever Is Your Heart (Chapter 1)

PART I

Scully

It’s been a long time since Scully has felt this drunk. She hadn’t meant for it to happen, but the Bureau’s annual holiday party has been more fun and the champagne more free-flowing than she had anticipated. Plus, something about the way people are staring at her ass in this dress is giving her a boost of confidence she didn’t know she needed.  

She’s never quite lacked confidence in the way she looks, but lately, she’s cared far more about who’s looking. For most of her career, she’s operated under the assumption that despite the affection and camaraderie that they share, nothing would ever heat up between her and Mulder. Falling in love and jumping into bed together are too risky for a partnership like theirs.

But the attraction and chemistry and the he likes me/he likes me not that bubble just under the surface of their professional relationship have started to rise. Lately, in those quiet moments between cases—on long drives, while writing reports, when walking down the street with matching coffees—she’s been catching him staring. It’s happened often enough that it’s changed her calculation just slightly, tipping the scales in favor of he likes me. He hasn’t tried anything, exactly, but she doesn’t think she’s reading him wrong. Those long, lingering glances seem to be filled with a certain yearning that she’s never before noticed in his eyes.

So on nights like this, when she’s allowed to be as feminine, as divine, as lovely as possible, she takes the chance. Because maybe tonight’s the night that Mulder will finally make his move.

She knows she looks good. In her line of work, it is a rare thing to get to throw on a slinky black satin dress and a swipe of Dior’s famous Christmas-red lipstick. It is unusual to show as much skin as she is showing tonight, her full back exposed down to her sacrum, her breasts spilling out of the corseted top. It is special to be noticed—and not just for being Mrs. Spooky. 

But it’s ten p.m., and Mulder hasn’t bothered to show, that bastard. Even after she harassed him, harangued him, threatened him, bothered him, enticed him . . . he doesn’t turn up. 

In a haze of wine and whiskey, she decides she won’t let this night go to waste. She will revel in her beauty, her womanhood, her want. She will let loose and have fun. She will flirt and be flirted with. If Mulder isn’t going to make an effort, she won’t deny herself her own pleasure.

And so she drinks, letting first A.D. Skinner and then a stranger from accounting take her for a spin on the dance floor. Twinkly, starry lights swing from the ballroom’s chandeliers and light her skin with a warm glow. She basks in the attention of men she has never met filling up her wine glasses, of a handsome new special agent bringing her a bubbly sip of champagne.

“Agent Jacobs,” the man says by way of introduction, his bright blue eyes striking against his jet-black hair. He presses the flute into her fingers and smiles sweetly. Her lips lift into a satisfied grin as the sparkly feeling of champagne trips down her throat.

“Dana,” she replies coquettishly, already ready to give this stranger a chance at being on a first-name basis.

“Tyler,” he replies with an even wider smile, and she feels his hand warm the dip in her spine. “Care for a dance?”

His face tips close to hers and she feels the scratchy material of his wool suit scritch temptingly against her arm. She instantly wants to bury her face in it.

“Mhmm,” is all she can muster as alcohol drips through her system.

Time floats by without notice. One minute she is swinging with Tyler to a festive, upbeat song, her heels slipping and sliding gleefully against the floor; and the next, he is pressing her into his chest, gripping her hand tightly to his heart, whispering naughty, exciting things in her ear as a crooner sings an old-school melody.

“Let me take you home, Dana,” he whispers, his stubble raking deliciously across the soft skin of her cheek. There is nothing more intoxicating than a man who wants her back.

With half-lidded eyes, she begins to nod, because she wants to be touched, wants to be loved, and who better than this handsome man she’s never met, this man who’s paying her all the attention in the world, who’s making her feel wanted, special, adored?

Tyler grips the back of her head and she feels his lips pressing into the crown of her hair, and it feels so good to be treated like this, to be touched like this. She melts.

And then she feels fingers at her elbow, a gentle tug, a few quiet words, and Mulder comes into view.

His smile is warm but concerned, his expression tender but firm.

“Come on, party girl,” he murmurs in her ear, his arm draping possessively around her shoulders. “I’ll take you home.”

She blinks dopily up at him.

Oh, yes. Oh, yes. How could she have forgotten? Mulder. Mulder is going to take her home. Mulder, with his patient eyes and kind smile and delicious jawline. Mulder, with his heart only for mysteries and monsters. Mulder, with his brilliant mind and kissable lips.

Mulder wants to take her home.

“Mulder,” she says with a growing smile, all thoughts of Tyler forgotten, “you made it.”

He cocks his head at her and she runs her hands up his arms.

“Steady there,” he whispers conspiratorially, and when Tyler tries to butt in and explain himself, Mulder just tugs Scully into a private corner.

In some far-off recess of her mind, she hears Tyler calling after her that they should get drinks soon. With eyes only for Mulder, she doesn’t even acknowledge him.

In the corner of the ballroom, Mulder places a hand on her shoulder and with his other hand, tips her chin up to meet his eyes. He’s going to kiss her. She just knows it. She feels her eyelids growing heavy with want.

“You want to go home with that guy?” he asks, his brows furrowed.

She opens her mouth to reply, but the words come out garbled.

“Scully,” Mulder tries again, squeezing her shoulder a little. “Dana, Dana look at me.” Her eyes lift lazily to his. He’s so beautiful in his black Armani suit. She tells him so. His lips quirk into a quick smile. “Dana Scully,” he asks slowly, his face the picture of seriousness, “do you want to go home with Agent Jacobs?”

She shakes her head naughtily. “I want to go home with you,” she whines, tugging him closer by his bowtie. “Take me home with you.”

He chuffs a little laugh and nods. “Okay, Scully, then let’s go.”

She feels her knees buckle slightly at his words. He’s going to take her home. Finally. This is finally happening.

She doesn’t remember how they get back home, or why they’re at her home instead of his. It doesn’t matter. She stumbles through the door and turns to face him. His features are masked in the dim light of her apartment but she can see that he’s smiling slightly, almost like he’s enjoying seeing her like this. Well then. She has a lot more to show him.

“Come,” she says with a tug of his hand, and she drags him into her. When he bumps into her chest, she stretches her arms up over his shoulders and slings them around his neck, pulling him down for a hug.

He hugs her back but it’s only for a minute before he’s gently prying her arms off.

“Kiss me,” she hears herself say, but she’s not embarrassed because he brought her home. He took her away from Tyler for just this reason, to bring her home.

His eyes grow dark for a minute and then he’s laughing nervously and she hears him making excuses.

“I want you so bad,” she whispers as her hands fall to his belt. He yelps when she sloppily tugs at his trousers and her hands pass over his groin. “I want to taste you,” she slurs, dropping to her knees and pressing her face into his thighs.

“Oh—Scully, Scully,” he’s repeating over and over, and she feels his hands tugging at her biceps, first gently and then more roughly, until she’s being forced off the ground and held firmly at arms-length.

“Scully,” he says with a stern look, “you’re drunk,” he tells her, but she knows that. It doesn’t make any difference. I still want you, all the time, even when I’m sober. She may say that out loud, but she isn’t sure.

She feels him turning her around and marching her to her bedroom, lifting her in his arms when she refuses to walk. This is it. This is the moment. He’s going to throw her onto the bed and ravage her. She trembles a little with excitement but instead, he lays her down gently, then makes quick work of her shoes. He doesn’t even touch her beautiful dress or her heaving breasts.

“Touch me,” she whines again, pulling at the hem of her dress until it rides up to her waist. She’s wearing the tiniest G-string she owns and she watches as his eyes flit over her thighs quickly before red colors his cheeks.

“Scully. Jesus, stop,” he says firmly, yanking her dress back down.

A sour mood fills the room as she tries to read his expression. For years, she has catalogued every Mulder expression he’s ever made—profiler Mulder, investigator Mulder, comforter Mulder, Agent Mulder—but this . . . this one she doesn’t know. It’s something like exasperation and amusement and horror, all wrapped into one. Her alcohol-addled brain doesn’t know what to do with it.

He leaves the bedroom without a word and she closes her eyes for a moment, reveling in the spin of the room around her. When he comes back, he is carrying water, coffee, and aspirin, which he forces her to take before he will let her close her eyes again.

“I’ll be on the couch if you get sick,” she hears him telling her, and she feels a hand in her hair, petting her like she’s a dog.

“No,” she wants to say, “stay with me.” But her words are caught in the back of her throat, trapped there by alcohol and the heaviness of slumber.

She falls in and out of a restless sleep. When she gets sick, she barely makes it to the toilet, and she feels Mulder rushing in to hold her hair. Her dress twists around her waist as she retches on her knees.

Brushed teeth and a glass of water later, she is back in bed, but now she is fully awake. She knows she can’t be drunk anymore. Alcohol doesn’t last that long in the system, right? Something smart in the back of her brain tries to explain otherwise, to tell her that the effects of alcohol actually linger for quite some time, and certainly don’t disappear after two hours. But she traps that part of her intelligence away.

Convinced that she’s no longer drunk, she decides to try again.

Fumbling out of bed, she trips to the couch, where Mulder is staring listlessly at the T.V., his suit jacket thrown over the back of the chair, his Oxford shirt unbuttoned and untucked. He glances at her questioningly.

“You okay?” he asks, and she knows he wants her too. She felt it in the way he took her away from Tyler—so possessively.

She nods and hitches up her skirt, then throws her knee across his waist and straddles him. His eyes widen in shock and she grinds down on his lap.

“Fuck me,” she says as flirtatiously as possible, hoping her makeup still looks good, hoping she still smells nice. She drapes her arms across his shoulders and tangles her hands in his hair. This is how she always imagined it. Riding him like this without abandon.

His hands grip at her waist and yes, he wants this too.

But he’s holding her back from him, he’s telling her she’s drunk. But doesn’t he know that she’s not drunk anymore? She shakes her head and ignores the way the room spins when she does. She grinds down on him again and he holds her off again, pushing her from his lap. She loses her balance and starts to careen to the floor but he steadies her with strong arms at her back.

“I love you,” she tells him, because it’s true but also because maybe that will do the trick.

His eyes flit between hers for a long moment and she wonders if he’s making up his mind. “I love you,” she repeats more quietly.

“Scully,” he whispers, standing and lifting her with him. “Let’s get you back to bed.” Pain seems to cross his face and she frowns, shaking her head.

“No, no,” she pleads, “no.”

He nods more firmly, taking her by the arm and half-dragging, half-carrying her to her room.

“I’m going back to the couch, okay?” he tells her as he settles her back into bed, and she feels tears leaking traitorously down her cheeks. He brushes a thumb under her eyelids and more tears start to fall.

“You’ll be okay,” he tells her, before pressing a kiss to her forehead and leaving the room.

She cries herself to sleep.

[ungraceds]

a   laugh   bubbles   out   of   her   ,   incapable   of   disguising   her   amusement   at   his   effortless   retort   .   as   if   the   irony   wasn't   so   ,   so   sweet   .   "   oh   right   ,   because   there's   not   a   whole   room   to   stand   in   ...   "   muses   with   mirth   dancing   in   big   ,   doe   eyes   ,   "   you   can   admit   you   just   wanna   be   close   to   me   .   i   won't   tell   anyone   .   "   gently   teases   before   snatching   two   champagne   flutes   off   of   a   passing   waiter's   tray   and   handing   one   to   him   ,   and   keeping   the   other   for   herself   .   despite   knowing   fully   well   her   date   was   off   at   the   open   bar   grabbing   them   drinks   :   it's   a   party   ,   afterall   .   head   tilts   as   she   stares   up   at   him   ,   offering   a   nod   of   her   head   .   "   and   so   what   if   i   am   ?   don't   think   asking   around   about   you   is   a   criminal   offense   .   "   but   it   is   a   dead   giveaway   that   he's   on   her   radar   enough   to   intrigue   her   and   that   in   itself   is   a   dangerous   game   to   play   .   doesn't   make   a   habit   of   mixing   business   and   pleasure   ..   especially   with   men   who   have   a   track   record   .   "   a   hockey   player   ,   actually   .   for   the   new   york   rangers   .   "   a   small   ,   teasing   smile   imprints   itself   on   her   lips   as   she   leans   forward   ,   as   if   sharing   a   secret   ,   "   maybe   you   two   can   measure   sticks   later   .   " 

"  no  ,  you  just  happened  to  be  standing  where  i  was  .  "  and  just  like  that  he's  caught  ,  already  .  but  he  can't  bring  himself  to  mind  —  he's  gotten  her  attention  back  on  him  ,  after  all  ,  albeit  temporarily  .  the  feeling  of  her  eyes  on  him  was  intoxicating  ,  a  concept  so  ridiculous  it  was  laughable  .  "  paying  attention  to  me  now  ?  "  wants  to  entrap  her  the  way  she's  done  to  him  so  effortlessly  .  "  who  is  it  ?  another  musician  ?  "  he betrays  himself  ,  knowing  it's  going  to  plague  him  all  night  if  he  doesn't  ask  —  but trying  to  school  his  expression  all  the  while  to  portray  nonchalance  .

[writingsbychlo]

“Did you just lick me?!”

Could be funny 😂

this IS gonna be funny (I hope), a little bit of tipsy mates being stupid at starfall.

Slumping into Azriel's side, you giggled, and he only chuckled down at you as he wrapped both arms around your body to steady you. "Alright there, angel?"

"Very, very alright." Peeking up at him, your eyes scanned over his face, taking in every starlit mark and dimple and freckle. "You're so pretty."

"You stole my line." Lifting one hand up, he ran his thumb over your jaw, forehead coming down to sit on your own and he smiled. "Pretty, pretty girl."

"Pretty, pretty boy." You echoed, and he only hummed, cheeks flushing with warmth. He always did that, blushing when you complimented him. You were determined for him to one day see himself the way you did, for him to know that starfall was the second prettiest thing you'd ever seen, but nothing would ever beat the sight of him with that smile he only gave to you.

His lips closed over your own, slow and soft and warm. He tasted like champagne and he kissed messily. It wasn't often that Azriel did anything lazily, sloppy, but this kiss was one of them. A hand that was halfway between your hip and your ass, fingers digging in roughly as he groaned. Your lips parted, tongues melding together, no rush and no cares in the world as your hands smoothed over his chest.

He pulled back, twisting his head just enough to get a rushed breath sucked into his lungs before his lips were slamming back down onto your own. Reaching idly to the side, he placed the half-empty champagne flute down on the table, before he was gripping you tighter to his body.

Dragging you in by handfuls of expensive silk in layers of thick skirt, until your hips were pressed to his, chests flush together. Your hearts beat erratically together as he bent you back, lips never parting. He nipped, twice at your lower lip, until his name was a whimper on your lips, the hands flat on his chest scrunching up, wrinkling the pressed suit he'd donned for the evening. The twitch of his wings at his beck showed you just how much he'd liked that.

"Seriously? My child is here, and you two look like you're about to make him a cousin right against the wall." Rhysand's voice was a lazy, low drawl, and yet in the middle of this moment, it felt more like a scratch of nails on a chalkboard.

Pulling back, your face was flushed, lips tingling and swollen and Ariel looked no better. Pink cheeks, red lips, messy hair and eyes that screamed 'fuck me' as he stared at you, straining to get his breaths under control, just as you were.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd love to see a little shadowsinger running around, but I don't want to see how it's made." He smirked at Azriel, knowing that the mention of kids tended to freak him out, but the man before you just glared right back.

"Well, since you've so kindly cockblocked us, you won't be getting on anytime soon, will you?" Rhys ooo'd dramatically hands raised as he baited Azriel, and you smoothed your hands along his chest when he tensed. The lord wandered away to find his family with the refill of his drink in hand, and Az scoffed, downing the rest of his champagne in one mouthful and wincing at the onslaught of bubbles in his mouth.

The stars would begin falling soon, and so with a new drink in hand each, you mingled instead, joining the festivities. You danced, you drank, you ate, and Azriel's touch never left you, the two of you moving like a unit through the crowds.

When the lights finally dimmed and the stars began to fall, the only thing to light up the dark atmosphere, you allowed yourself to curl back into his body. One arm wrapped around your shoulders as he stared in wonder up at the sky, and you twisted your face a little further toward him. He smelt good, like mist and cedar and a little spicy, and you ran the tip of your nose along the base of his neck.

He shuddered.

You did it again, and he reacted the same. The third time, you dipped your tongue out, smoothing the wet muscle along his skin, and he audibly groaned, biting it back after half a second and the arm around your waist squeezed so tight you gasped.

"Did you just lick me?" His voice was thick with gravel and low, and his head dipped to whisper the words in your ear. A secret for just the two of you. He retaliated by licking over the shell of your ear. "Why don't we go home, and I'll lick you right back."

"Promises, promises.." You beamed, leaning in to repeat the action, and he twisted enough to wrap both arms around you, shadows coiling at his body as they prepared to drag the pair of you into darkness.

"Oh, you've done it now, baby. I'm gonna' take you home, where there are no interruptions this time." Shadows folded around you both, and only seconds later, you were standing in your bedroom, saying a little, only inches from the edge of the bed. He pushed, you fell. Splayed out on the bedding, his knees hit the mattress, his hands following, crawling up the bed toward you. "Maybe I'll make good on Rhys' request, huh? Let a little shadowsinger run around."

"Lot of talk, Az, let's see some action.." Your words may have been cocky, but the deliverance was needy and breathy and almost whined, and he ate it up. The look in his eyes told you that you were in for a very long starfall night, by the end of it, he'd have made you see stars in more ways than one.

[milfgyuu]

Remind Me Pairing: Choi Seungcheol x Fem!Reader Tags: 2.7k, fluff, humor. Summary: You’ve had a little too much to drink at your sister’s wedding and can’t understand how or why Choi Seungcheol of all people is assigned to babysit you.

Warnings: mc gets drunk, cheol sleeps in underwear only (u can fight me on this), like one (1) unintentional innuendo.

Okay, so…in retrospect, getting absolutely wasted at the wedding reception was not your not your brightest shining moment. 

To be fair though, you had warned your sister about the overwhelming nerves you were having over not only being her Maid Of Honor and ensuring her perfect day was indeed perfect but also being the one delivering one of the biggest speeches of the night. 

She told you to relax, have a drink. Everything would be just fine. 

And she wasn’t wrong, of course, she never was. The ceremony went off without a hitch. You didn’t trip coming down the aisle. No crazy exes showed up to object like they do in the movies. The reception began and you downed a second flute of champagne allowing the little bubbles to soothe your shaking hands. You gave your speech and made the room swell with emotion and laughter and then, it was done. The cake, the special dances, the photography sessions. 

All that was left was the deejay, an open dance floor, and for you? Three glasses of tequila and lime to unwind and enjoy the fruits of your labor. 

Upon the delivery of your fourth drink, you’re well on your way out (of consciousness). You reach for the glass but someone else beats you to it, pulling it away from you. With a huff of irritation, you look up to find your new brother-in-law’s best friend staring back down at you. 

“Seungcheol,” you grin, flipping your hair over your shoulder, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He purses his lips for a moment but exhales a little laugh, “You’re officially cut off.”

Your smile drops in an instant you reach for the drink but he pulls it further away. “What do you mean I’m cut off? I’m a big girl. I can handle my liquor. Thank you.”

“I left you alone for ten minutes and you drank half the bar,” Seungcheol chides softly, “I thought you were dancing with your friends.”

You grumble kicking your bare feet out from beneath the table cloth, “My feet hurt,” you visibly pout, wiggling your toes, “I’ve got blisters from my shoes.”

He chuckles to himself and reaches for your hands, “Come on,” he says scooping up your discarded heels with one hand and pulling you out of your seat with the other, “The party is starting to wind down anyways. Let’s get you out of here.”

Your cheeks burn as he leads you away from the table and through the crowd. You tug on his hand and he looks back at you curiously. Your eyes dart from side to side. “Cheol, wait- won’t people get the wrong idea if they see us leaving together?”

Seungcheol bites his lip to keep from laughing. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s something to worry about.”

He continues walking toward the exit and you cling onto his arm because your legs don’t want to work and also he smells really, really good. Your sister spots the two of you and walks over with a smile, “Are you guys leaving already?”

Seungcheol smiles back, patting your hand still tucked into his own. “Your sister decided to drink half her weight in tequila. I’m going to tuck her in if that’s alright with you.”

You peer up at his face, utterly scandalized and you imagine your sister must be as well but she simply laughs and kisses your cheek. “Absolutely,” she says, “Thanks for taking care of her Cheol. See you guys tomorrow!”

How could your sister just let you leave like that? With a man? With Seungcheol no less?! Beautiful, beautiful Seungcheol. 

You’re absolutely bewildered and somewhat walking like a baby deer because not only do your feet hurt but you’ve got these stupid drunken sea-legs that just don’t want to cooperate and Seungcheol notices how slowly you’re moving. He stops abruptly and you nearly bounce off of his solid frame. He catches you and chuckles. 

“Alright, this is not working that well and this hotel is massive,” He turns around and squats, “Jump up, we’ve got a long way to go.”

You stand there in shock. No way! How could you let him carry you? It’s bad enough he’s taking you to your room. It's…indecent. 

“Nuh-uh, Cheol.”

He stands up and lets out a long sigh, “You’re so lucky you’re cute,” he mumbles to himself before turning around and sweeping you up bridal style. You squeal in surprise and wrap your arms around his shoulders. 

“Cheol, this is embarrassing! What if people see us?”

He shakes his head and laughs a little, “Again. Not sure why you’re so concerned with that. Why don’t you just relax. Save your energy.”

Your eyes widen and your arms tighten around his neck, “Save my energy for what?!”

“You’ve still got to get ready for bed,” he answers, “Change out of your dress, take out your hair, take off your makeup, wash your face, brush your teeth…”

Your eyes roll back in your head and you’re back to pouting, “Okay, okay. That already sounds exhausting.”

“I’ll help you,” he says softly and your heart rattles inside your chest. 

Seungcheol manages to get you both into an elevator and up to your floor with no problems and thankfully, no run-ins with people who might know you and get the wrong impression. He sets you down right outside your door, number 303, and produces a key from his back pocket. He swipes it and the little light turns green before he’s pushing the door open. 

You brows furrow, “Wait. How did you get that?”

He flips the key over in his hand thoughtfully, “Uh…the front desk? Now will you come inside or are you sleeping out here tonight?”

The thought of such a travesty makes you rush into the room and you face-plant onto the bed. Seungcheol looks at you with a fond little smile and kicks his shoes off at the door, placing your heels beside them, emptying his pockets on the dresser nearby. 

His voice startles you and you flip over in bed, looking at him with wide eyes, “Cheol, what are you still doing here?”

He takes a deep breath and steadies his patience. “Getting you ready for bed.”

For some reason, your instinct is to cover your chest, which is still covered by your dress, crossing your arms as if you’re suddenly bare. 

“Oh my god, I am never letting you live this down,” He whispers under his breath before speaking louder for you to hear. “Come on. Into the bathroom.”

You’re no match for his strength and he tugs you right out of the bed. You follow him hesitantly to the bathroom and allow him to sit you down on the toilet lid. You watch him with big round eyes as he takes each pin out of your hair until he’s able to run his fingers through it and massage your scalp. He takes out a few makeup wipes and you let him clean your face without a word. 

“Let’s get you out of this dress,” he says and your hands come up to cover your mouth in shock but he presses his eyes shut and sighs, his voice coming out short and flat, “Out of your dress and into pajamas. Worry not, little flower, your virtue is safe with me.”

You pull your hands away from your face but look at him wearily, “Let’s say I believe you,” You poke him in the chest, “No funny business lover boy.”

“Literally not what you said last night…”

You blink one too many times because the bathroom lights suddenly go out and he’s pulling you back into the bedroom, “What was that?”

“Nothing at all, babe,” he answers with a shrug and small smirk. 

You trip over the bottom of your dress and stumble into him, “I- babe?! Bold! Real bold, Choi Seungcheol.”

He merely winks at you and reaches out for your waist, “Need help with this?”

His hand slips around the back of your dress and you hold your breath as he runs his fingers up the zipper. Damn him. He’s so attractive with his fluffy hair and pouty lips. He finds the zipper and pulls it down but once it reaches the middle of your back you panic and tear out of his arms, running to hide in the closet. “I’ll just change here! Stay out!”

You slam the door shut and squeak when you realize the lights are still out. After fumbling for a few minutes you find them and quickly slink out of your dress and then…then you realize you have nothing in here to change into. Your bag is in the room but now you’re practically naked and Seungcheol is out there and what are you gon-

There is a knock at the door and you peek your head out of a tiny crack to see a pair of pajamas being thrust at you. “Don’t worry, at least one of us is sober.”

You mimic his words sarcastically and snatch the clothes, slamming the door shut again. You have to get him out of here. 

It takes a few minutes of struggling to get your head and arms through the right holes and similarly, with your legs into your shorts but you finally get them on and throw the closet door open. To find Seungcheol completely shirtless. 

Your eyes gloss over at the sight of his broad shoulders, head tilting as your eyes dip to appreciate the way the muscle in his back tapers as you get lower and lower. You can see the band of his underwear now and realize he’s got his belt undone and if he were facing you the front of his pants would just be open and-

“Damn,” He whispers as he fiddles with the latch on his wristwatch and you suck in a quick breath, alerting him of your presence. 

He flicks his eyes up to you nonchalantly and holds his arm out, “Hey, can you get this off for me?”

“Get you off…” you reply, eyes glued to his torso until he chuckles, “Wait. What?”

He can’t stop laughing as he walks a little closer and you take a step back, “Can you please help me take my watch off?” he holds his wrist closer and your lips form a perfect ‘o’, “The latch is stuck.”

You fumble with it for a moment but the mechanism clicks and comes apart, and Seungcheol rubs his wrist, laying the watch on the dresser with his other things. You’re glued to the floor, watching him walk back around the opposite side of the bed. 

“Why are you taking your clothes off?”

He dips his thumbs into the waistline of his pants and shoves them down, “Because I’m not sleeping in my suit?” 

Your eyes find the ceiling and you whine, “But why are you taking them off in here?!”

“Because I’m sleeping in here?”

Your eyes dart back to him and you swear his pectoral muscle jumps on purpose. “You can’t sleep in here! Are you crazy?”

Seungcheol raises a brow and pulls back the blanket, getting in and making himself comfy in the bed, “Are you getting in or what?”

Your brain short circuits and Seungcheol watches you pace around in circles. “You can’t just sleep in here with me?! What are people going to say when they find out? It’s my sister’s wedding for heaven’s sake! My parents are on the floor below us! We have to have breakfast with them in the morning! How am I supposed to look my mother in the face when you were in my bed in your underwear the night before?”

Seungcheol crosses his arms over his chest and god you try not to look but he’s so thick and deliciously well put together and you’re hopeless. “Should I take my underwear off then?”

“CHEOL!” you squeal, falling dramatically against the edge of the bed. “I don’t know if you know this but I have a huge crush on you and this is totally not fair. I’m delicate.”

Seungcheol laughs and reaches forward with both arms, pulling you further onto the bed and into his grasp. Your face burns and he looks down at you with the goofiest grin. “Yeah, ‘delicate’ is a good word. So is ‘lightweight’.”

“Don’t pick on my alcohol tolerance,” you pout up at him, “Tequila is my friend. Unlike you.”

Seungcheol mouth turns into a flat line. “Yeah, that’s because I'm your boyfriend.”

It’s silent for a beat and then you burst out into hysterics, laughing so hard your belly aches. “My boyfriend?” you cackle, “Yeah, right.”

“Babe, we’ve been dating for almost a year,” he sighs at your non-stop laughter. “I’m starting to think I should take you to a hospital if your memory is that messed up right now.”

“You and me?” your finger flicks between the two of you as you sit up with his assistance. “Where is the proof?”

“Aside from me having a room key, my bag being in the room, and me being nearly naked in the bed next to you?”

You nod resolutely and he huffs with irritation. Never in a million years did he think he’d ever have to prove the legitimacy of his relationship to his own girlfriend. He throws the covers back and gets out of bed, marching over to the dresser and picking up his phone. You’re back to staring at him with a dopey look on your face when he puts the phone on speaker and a familiar voice answers ‘hello?’”

“Hey, it’s Cheol,” he says smoothly, “I’m sorry for calling so late. Your daughter had a little too much to drink and is now asking for proof that I’m her boyfriend. I need help.”

“Oh geez! Sorry kiddo. She didn’t get her tolerance from me,” She laughs, “Cheol, honey, hand her the phone will you?”

Seungcheol grins and hands you his phone. You take a deep breath which is a little dizzying. “Mom?”

“Sweetheart,” your mom’s voice comes through the speaker, “I know it’s hard to believe, because Seungcheol is just the most handsome, wonderful young man you’ve ever met….but he is your boyfriend and I’m going to need you to pull it together and stop giving my future son-in-law a hard time.”

Your wide eyes meet Seungcheol’s own, crescent shaped from the goofy grin on his face. “Mom,” you avert your eyes and whisper, “You mean you want me to sleep with him?”

Your mom’s long sigh is audible through the phone, “Honey, you are going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow morning. Let the boy in the bed and go to sleep. I love you.” Click.

You sheepishly hand the phone back to Seungcheol who’s giving you a ‘told you so’ sort of look. He puts it back on the dresser and gestures to the bed, “May I?”

You follow his line of sight and nod your head slowly, “Well, this is embarrassing. Are you gonna break up with me now?”

Seungcheol gets back into bed and this time he lifts the blankets for you and you obediently crawl in next to him. “Nah,” he chuckles, fixing his pillows to make himself comfortable before flicking off the lights, “Might put you on a tequila ban though.”

Your laugh is soft but it’s cut short when Cheol pulls your body closer to his and your hands find purchase on his warm chest. His eyes fondly trace over your features in the dark and yours do the same. Choi Seungcheol is your boyfriend. Imagine that. 

“Are you going to accuse me of being indecent again if I kiss you goodnight?”

You shake your head and Cheol sits up, leaning over your body and making you melt into the pillows. Your eyes are wide and might as well have little stars dancing in them and it takes another moment after his lips press against yours for them to flutter closed. When he pulls away your eyes remain closed and he smiles, kissing the apples of your cheeks. 

“Does it feel like a first kiss?”

His fingertips trace over the tip of your nose, over your lips, down your chin. 

“Now you’re just picking on me,” you mumble, lips spreading into a smile, “But I think you should kiss me again. I already forgot what it feels like.”

Seungcheol shakes his head and laughs, “I’d be happy to remind you.”

Thanks for reading! 

SVT M.List | Main M.List

→ Please do NOT copy, repost, or translate, any of my works here on tumblr or on any other platforms! All stories are copyrighted, Bubblebeom, 2020. ©️

[peakyblinders1919]

Remember

This was as close to a ball as you were ever going to get. Fancy beaded gowns, men in tuxedos smoking French cigars, fountains of champagne flowing like water, romantic orchestra music and something electric in the air.

Not sure when you were separated from each other, Michael was glowing under the chandelier, his smile wide but fake as he discussed pleasantries with worthy adversaries. He sipped his whiskey, nodded his head, and only truly smiled when he caught your eye. His eyes, emerald green, radiant as the forests of the earth, locked onto yours, and he was offering a less-than-sorry apology to his company, and sauntering to your rescue across the marble dance floor. Checkered black and white like a chess board, he was the knight, the king, dancing effortlessly around other guests holding priceless champagne flutes, to return to your side. 

When he invited you to Arrow House, not as a friend, not as a date to show off to his mother, but as the only girl he wanted on his arm to show off, his prized jewel, he waited anxiously for your answer. He kept repeating how he knew it was a lot to ask, warned you how it was all going to end up feeling like one big show of announcing your relationship, you had listened and then you had countered with “do you want me to come or are you only trying to further steer me away? Because it isn’t going to work.”

The way he did smile when he was with you, like now after he was comfortably by your side, was full of freedom, relief, a contagiousness that possess the magic to ease the tense in your shoulders, his jaw. That smile of his was rare, kept locked up only for you and special occasions, and you were more than honored to be the one to guard it. Keep it safe.

He snuck his arm around your bedazzled waist, pretending to play with the dangling beads of your dress to the normal eye, but the way his fingertips pressed patterns into your side suggested he had other motived for his actions. 

The company you found yourself around- some young girls who knew nothing of the business world, merely here as things to flaunt by the powerful men who had actually been invited- oohed and ahed at the two of you. 

You’d blush if you could.

You’d blush if you cared.

Finishing the last sip of liquid gold, delicate gloved fingers placed the empty glass on a waiter’s moving tray, your hand finding safe purchase on Michael’s chest. You noticed the girls’ wandering eyes as said gloved hand dipped just beneath the expensive suit jacket, as close as you’d dare get to the skin on skin contact you desperately craved. But let them look.

He greeted you properly then with a kiss, chaste, soft, swift. 

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt ladies, but I need to steal this beautiful lady for a moment. If you will…” Michael was scarily good at apologies.

He swept you off your feet, leading you out to empty hallway of the house, 5 degrees cooler and providing a break from the opulent madness in the ballroom. Away from prying eyes, save for the maids, you found yourself pushing him against the smart wood paneled walls giving him the type of kiss you had wanted him to give you inside; needy, hot, one to savor, licking the taste of expensive cigarette smoke from his lips, earth whiskey mingling with a hint of confetti and bubbles. He kissed you back all the same, hands becoming greedy as they pushed and palmed at the curve of your hip, pulling you flush against him and still needing a handful more. Somehow, even across the room mid-conversation, he knew you needed this.

Breaking the kiss, you locked your arms behind his back to steady yourself as you looked into his eyes. Pupils blown, lounge darting to lick the traces of you off his lips, he couldn’t hold your stare long, eyes darting back down to inspect the very lips he wanted another taste of.

Like a well-choreographed dance, he leaned forward and you leaned back, only to be met by his puppy dog stare.

“Don’t give me that look. As much as I want to Michael, don’t start what you can’t finish. I just want to have a lie down, my feet are killing me.”

That was met with a chuckle, solidifying what he already knew the second he had seen you bathed in gold, more beautiful then he’d ever seen you, the apples of your cheeks a rosy pink from alcohol, eyelids heavy, gaze starry, wandering around the room in search of something. In search of him.

“Let’s get those heels off then.” He had proven to you already that, though he should, he didn’t much care about what was proper and what was not, the country boy in him shining through at moments like this when he was disguised in a tailored suit kissing you nastily up against a wall and bending down to unbuckle your shoes and carry them by the straps on your journey down the carpeted hall. So plush under your bare feet, hand in hand, you skipped around the halls of the house, Michael checking behind every other door in search of your room for the night. The farther he searched, the more tired you became, Champagne sitting different than gin or whiskey, leaving your chest warm, cheeks hot to the touch, the rest of you weightless, floating on air, except for your eyes, which you struggled to keep open. 

“Here we are.” He announced much today your relief, nearly being dragged into the dark room. There was no time to admire the wealth of the room before you found yourself lying on the plus mattress, the soft feather down bed beneath you all that mattered. 

Your eyes closed for just a second, an overwhelming feeling of relief washing over you, providing you a little more energy to lean up on your arms when feeling the dip of the bed. In the silence, you selfishly took the time to watch Michael beside you. Study him and the cut of his hair, the form of his side profile, the long hook of his nose, the way his back tensed beneath the jacket, the curves of his body a roadmap of your entire world.

“Let me help.” It wasn’t a question so you didn’t bother waiting for an answer, crawling over to undo his tie and drape it on the headboard. His cufflinks were next, the buttons of his shirt, the shirt itself. Under eyelashes kissing his cheeks he watched you silently. Under other circumstances, there might have been something hot and needy about this interaction, but you were too tired and he was too in awe of how determined you were, how beautiful you looked in rhinestone and sequins in the light dancing over. All for him.

He caught your wrists in his as they creeped lower. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to, bringing his green hand to your cheek. His thumb grazed over the Apple do your cheek, still warm from Champagne. He traced everything line of your face, thumb pad brushing over your eyebrows, your cheek, down your nose, your bottom lip. You pouted, more than tired, near exhaustion, and needy for his love. You leaned in, a kiss thy was needy in another way, needy for fluid warmth, his reassurance, his soul.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

“You’re a natural.”

“At what?”

“Fitting into this lifestyle and finding your place in it.”

“My place in it is by your side.”

And they’re you were, Hans resting on his leg and moving a bit more towards his length, taught and aching against his pants. Leaning to kiss him again, convincing yourself the electricity of the kiss caused your eyes to close but the champagne was unaccounted for.

Micheal stopped your hand again, ignoring the tired pout on your lips. His fingers found the strap of your dress, causing your back with an unexpected yelp at the coldness of them. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. Undressing you quickly, you kissed his fingers to warm them, slowly coming to find his motive getting you out of your gown was to get you under the covers. 

You fit into his side like a puzzle piece that had been missing forever and belonged there. He could read your mind, from the moment ok the dance floor where he rescued you until now, pulling your back flush to his front, strong protective arms wound around your waist. He kissed the crown of your head and held your secrets in the dark.

“I know you wanted to… I…” you yawned, moving further into his embrace and the warmth or offered. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. My family is draining. I didn’t want to spend another minute down there away from you.”

“Don’t go soft on me now Michael Gray.” He heard the smile in your voice as strongly as you felt his.

Silence fell around you both like a blanket, oblivious to the party continuing downstairs. You had never been to party like this, and still it wasn’t the expensive drinks or the dance you shared with the man you were falling in love with that you would remember; it was the last hour of the night when it was just you and him against the world, the way you curled around each other, and the way he tried to make it sound like he was upset when he told you “your feet are ice-cold” but he really wasn’t, he couldn’t care less. 

happy thanksgiving to those in the States and anyone who celebrates! more than thankful for all of you

[bellysoupset]

Okay, so following up on the nightmare story - how about Lucas having a panic attack maybe at a concert he goes to with Bella or in a restaurant on a date?

Obvs this one ran away from me, but what can I say, background plot fics are my jam... I also forgot the prompt halfway through, my brain has been working on 2% power

"Oh so he's like famous famous?" Bella had asked, right when they had started to date, about his father. At the time, Lucas had shrugged, all sheepish.

"I mean, he still tours, so yeah..."

She raised her eyebrows, "what's his name again? Do I know him?"

"You listen to screamo music, Bells, you definitely don't know him," Lucas had eye rolled, "his name is Kit Howard."

She stared at him blankly, "yeah, no fucking idea who he is," Bella shrugged and then the entire conversation had slipped away as she climbed on his lap to make out on the couch.

That had been at the very start of their relationship and, while now Bella had a face to put to the name, nearly two years later and she still had no idea who exactly Kit Howard was.

All she knew was that she hated him.

Tonight they were at some stupid gala, one she really didn't want to come to, but that Lucas had been all puppy eyes about and well... There she was. Stuffed in a dress that made her skin itch and didn't let her eat enough, unless she wanted to get a food baby.

Lucas was nowhere to be found, so she sloshed the warm champagne around her flute, letting her eyes glaze over the crowd. Every once in a while, when Luke picked the restaurant where they'd eat or in the rare moments they had gone to the bank together, she'd be reminded of how incredibly different their lives had been until that point.

Lucas was one of those, she thought with a snort, watching as people fake smiled and networked, all the conversations too bubbly and superficial to mean anything. Her people didn't do bubbly social conversation, but that didn't make them better. She was reminded of drunk screaming and parties paid for with the rent money.

"Hi," Lucas took the flute from her hand and downed it all in one go, "having fun?"

"I was before you stole my drink," she deadpanned, turning to face him. Lucas was squeezed in a smoking tuxedo, butterfly tie and all to match and he had that plastic, painful smile on that made her want to claw at his face. She settled for cupping his cheeks.

"Are you having fun?"

"Not a fucking ounce," the posh accent slipped into his voice as he turned his face to kiss her palm, "just let them announce the award and then we can get the hell out of here."

"I love you," Bella grinned, closing the space between them with a small kiss.

She had no idea what the award was for, so Bella lurked on the back of the ballroom, watching as Lucas went from person to person, painful smile on, shaking hands, taking pictures. A true politician, like he wanted to be. She shook her head as a small voice said this is your future, in her ear.

The "Diversity Award of Arts" or whatever it was named got called soon after and, after many pictures, the receiver of the award - some white dude she had never seen - got off the stage and the music started playing.

Time to leave, she thought with a sigh of relief, looking around the room, searching for Lucas, but he was nowhere to be found.

The music volume went up, an invitation for couples to join the dance floor and Bella finally moved from the wall she had been trying to blend with, feeling a weird sense of dread wash over her. She had no idea why, but something felt off.

The more she looked, the more it seemed Lucas had simply vanished in thin air. More people were joining the dance floor, making it harder for her to stop him and Bella pushed through the couples, making it outside the hotel's ballroom and fishing her phone out of her purse.

Bells: where are u???

She waited for him to answer, for him to even read, but no such luck. After five more minutes of nothing, she pressed the call button and glued the phone to her ear.

Lucas didn't pick up, but it help her find him, as "Pour Some Sugar On Me" started playing faintly from another room. She followed the noise and sure enough he was there...

Lucas was braced against a random wall, the bin of the room between his feet and he had his eyes squeezed shut, chest going up and down with labored breath.

"Luke?" Bella rushed forward, the party entirely forgotten, as she planted a hand on his back. Even through the tux jacket, she could feel he was trembling, "Lucas, what's wrong?!"

He sucked in a breath, gasped out something that she did not understand and then gagged harshly. Bella's heart squeezed, as she tried to figure out how had that sudden illness happened. She looked around the room, trying to piece together the fastest route out-

"Bell, I can't- I can't breathe."

Very few things could send her into a panic, but those words did it.

"Hospital," she decided, because he couldn't breathe, "C'mon, Lu-"

He shook his head, gasped again and clawed at his tie, trying to get it undone, "Bell-"

"I got you, I got you-" she whispered feverishly, undoing the knot before he could choke himself and the first button for good measure. Lucas' face was milky white, not red though and he sucked in another desperate breath.

"Lucas, we have to-"

"It'ssssthis fucking song," he slurred, trying to cover his ears and finally, finally, it dawned on her.

Bella planted both her hands to his ears and urged him away from the wall and through the room, as far away from the ballroom as they could. They made it as far as the hallway before Lucas collapsed against a wall and crumbled down to the ground, breathing heavily.

He was shaking like a leaf as she crouched down next to him, dress be damned and planted a hand on his shoulder, "breathe, Lucas..." she whispered, hoping against hope he could hear her, "with me, alright?"

He nodded, throat bobbing dangerously as Lucas breathed through his mouth, mimicking her. He held it in, then let it out slowly, then again. He leaned his head back, chest jostling with an airy, sick sounding burp.

"Fuck."

"Yeah," she eyed him worriedly, "... Do you want to talk about it?"

Lucas' opened his eyes to look at her, suddenly exhausted, "when we get home?"

"Okay," she leaned in, planted a kiss on his shoulder, "how's your stomach?"

"Settling down," he sighed, leaning onto her and pressing his forehead to hers, "Can we go home?"

"Give it a minute, babe," Bella ran her nails through his hair, combing the chocolate waves back and looking over his shoulder, glad they were all alone. Lucas buried his face on her neck with a sigh.

"So tonight took a turn."

"Uhm," she grinned, kissing the top of his head, "are all fancy parties this exciting?"

"Only if your date is Lucas Atwood himself," he scoffed and she rolled her eyes.

"Lucky me then."

[widowsofchaos]

Could you do the prompt #60?

❝ mine

summary: Wanda isn’t too fond with how close a certain Captain is to you. pairing: Wanda Maximoff x black!reader warnings: fluff, jealous Wanda, a smidge of jealousy, and smut. Filthy use of the Slovakian language. Palm kissing aka my weakness. ao3 // requested from this prompt list a/n: Wanda is my wife, your honor. Hope I did my lover justice. Carol Danvers cameo. requested prompt 60: “Pay attention to me.” 2k words. Sorry for this late request, writer’s block is a menace. No beta, all mistakes are my own. do not repost my works

It was late into the night, and Wanda’s spirits were more alive --- and enraged.

Anxiety and adrenaline bleeds through her witchy fingers, sparks zap dully at the tips, clutching her cup of liquor tightly.

Downs a hefty sip, a hiss, her lips snarling as the firewater trickles and burns down her throat --- Samogon, or how you cheekily teased, “Mother Russia’s own moonshine. Ruthless just like her children --- I mean look at Natalia, she puts vodka in her cereal.” A tiny smirk curls at her lips, your faint laugh lulls her in the memory.

A familiar giggle catches her ears once more --- melodic, soothes her ears, but Wanda scowls, knowing exactly what’s making you laugh. Her knuckles strain white, gawking over her shoulder, peeking eyes glow dangerously crimson red.

The party is amidst bustling with drunk melding bodies, great food, endless playlist of music --- ever so luxurious --- as every party Stark throws; regardless it being a private party among friends.

Across from the bar, near the lounge couches, you seated with your silhouette legs crossed, your head tilted back, tipsy giggles slipping from your lips; seated next to you was a certain Captain.

Oh no --- not Captain America, he was busy cuddling with his lovers, how he slurs lovingly ‘my Bucky, my Sammy.’ Steve and Bucky two fingers deep in Asgardian Ale, with Sam edging deep in whiskey. All three sharing kisses in the far corner, ready to sneak back to their room for late night loving.

Shamelessly undressing you with her eyes was Captain Danvers herself, her arm slung over your shoulders, deep in casual conversation with you. Simple maxi dress, adorning your hips, softly encasing your figure, low cut that amples your breasts --- and Carol was eating it up.

To the outsider’s eye, it would be seen as friendly banter, tipsy chuckles -- but Wanda knew better. Her eyes flicker to her wedding ring --- sparkling red --- the same one that twinkles on your marital finger.

She clicks her tongue --- Wanda indeed knows better. The friendship between Carol and yourself is fairly a new one, naturally gravitating towards Carol, how curious and intrigued you get to meet another inhuman besides Wanda and yourself.

No surprise how natural conversation flows between the Captain and yourself --- everyone you meet gravitates to you like a magnet, treating one as if they were an old friend.

You look delicious --- as always. Beauty that makes anyone double-glance, delicate yet intimidating. That glow, you carry a shine, an essence, a force of nature, but it’s so much more. Beneath the surface, radiates comfort, you can break any stoic façade with that wattage smile. Wanda and yourself match, a perfect yin-yang, one and the same, and Wanda loves it.

Both of you can feel it, see it, taste it.

Clever fingers, clever lips, clever tongue. Clever small hands carving Wanda’s hardened façade, in the quiet, warm and intense moments in time, where Wanda can be vulnerable, finally shed waterfalls over her losses, let her rant and rage without judging eyes --- where she can lay her heart in your hands, and she knew, you handle with care.

Because you know her, understand her. Able to simmer her down, know where her emotions stem from the deepest crevices of her spirit.

The endless drinks were nice, but Wanda rather be with you, somewhere else. She rather prefers to be in your shared quarters, with the babies, eating sugar snaps, and watching tv. A cozy night-in, and finally would tuck Billy and Tommy in their cribs; sneak away to bed, caress and cradle each other till succumbing in deep slumber.

But --- you convinced Wanda, thinking tonight’s party was a good reprieve, to relax with friends, and drink till merry, without the stresses of motherhood. Now, she battles another stress, another grievance.

Green-eyed monster rearing its head --- jealousy.

‘She’s full of shit.’ A sultry Slovakian spite lingers in your mind --- only in your mind, a sharp side-eye, you glance to see Wanda, nursing her drink --- halting your pinched fingers from twirling your flute.

Slightly puckering your lips, restraining a grin splitting from ear to ear, you coyly titled your head at Carol, who was complimenting the tattoo that adorns your shoulder-blade. How slyly Carol’s fingertips trace the tatted lines, feigning curiosity.

‘Her hands all over you, fucking kurva.’

‘Pay attention to me.’

A dull clank of a glass against the counter could be heard. A breathy chuckles escapes from your nose, as you can feel Wanda’s eyes burning holes in the back of your skull, and no doubt, dying to literally burn holes in Carol’s blonde dome. “I think I’m gonna hit the hay, my head feels light.” A polite excuse without offending Carol from your erupt leave.

“Awh, already? It’s not even late, grandma.” Carol teases, as she presses the rim of her beer against her lips --- her fifth one tonight --- tangy flavor of Budweiser weighing on her tongue, fueling her mischief. “Who are you calling grandma, I wasn’t the one born in the sixties.” A few strings of chuckles, you graciously depart from Carol, as she wiggles her slender fingers goodbye.

Waltzing to the bar, your hips swaying, placing the flute on the counter; sitting next to a stewing witch. Elegantly perching your elbows on the marbled bar, your nails flicker delicately as your wrists bent against your chest, coyly swinging gently on the bar stool. Slyly peeking from the corner of your eye, you catch Wanda staring at you.

Tenderly covering her glass with your palm, tugging it out of Wanda’s palm, and gliding it away. “Let’s go to bed.” You slither, eyes glassy --- the champagne bubbling light in your head, skin tingling and aching for Wanda’s touch; your eyes rover over her figure, curves snug in a velvet maxi dress.

Auburn hair coils in slick waves, draped over her smooth shoulders. Leaning in, you can smell the liquor wafting from her slick lips, Wanda tsks, cheekily leaning towards you; her fingers sought out to your thigh, gripping the flesh.

Lips now hairs away, “Oh --- now I exist?” Wanda sneers, sultry, her accent weaving out in a hiss. “Don’t be like that.” You tsk, smoothly gliding off the stool, your fingers sliding against Wanda’s open palm, interlocking softly. Wanda murmurs, be like what? As she pouts, gazing at your heart-shaped lips.

“Now, is my wife going to bed with me or is she going to hex the Captain?” The pad of your thumb caressing Wanda’s finger, trying to tame the witch. “I prefer hexing her, and then ravishing you on the glass table for her to see --- želá si, aby ochutnala vašu kundu, vašu šťavnatú ako sladkú broskyňu.”

Filthily whispering in her native tongue, her fingers curving, and bending graciously as carmine magic emits. The warmth of her breath beats against your cupid-bow, ever so close to your lips; tantalizing, more intoxicating than any ale in all the realms.

Wanda pulls away, earning a whine from you, she hushes your lips by the tip of her oval nail, “Behave till we get back to our room.” With no other word, Wanda snags your wrist in her grip, dragging you out of the party into the dark hallway.

Scattering feet wander through the compound halls, only clicks of heels echo and pierce through the silence. Dancing shadows linger on the walls, breathy moans, wet lips. Wanda’s palm glides and grips the curve of your neck, pinning you against the wall --- just a mere inches away from your apartment door. “I can’t wait any longer.” Wanda growls low in her throat, her antsy hands.

Slithering fingers slip under the hem of your bunched up dress, feathery fingers chilled at the tips from the glassed liquor caress the skin of your inner thigh. Earning a silky hiss through your teeth, as Wanda’s lips parts open upon yours as if breathing in your essence; as her fingers dove beneath the fabric of your thong. Soaking her left handed fingers between your velvety lips, your fingers cling onto Wanda’s hips, sneakily massaging her soft ass through the smooth fabric, bundling up her cheeks. Groping, and squishing.

“Do you feel it?” Wanda asks, dripping with lust, a dull spark zaps at your clit, jolting you with a whimper, teasingly Wanda left your throbbing clit to toy with your clenching hole, but she doesn’t slip inside you. Yearning for her to touch you more, plunge and curl to the point of delirious pleasure. Delightful swell swirls in your heart, a flicker in Wanda’s eyes --- something you couldn’t quite pin.

All she can see is Carol’s hands touching you, touching what is hers, Carol’s slithering eyes roaming your breasts, and curves. It wasn’t your fault, no --- you were just being a good friend, engaging in conversation --- but she felt abandoned. As if Carol swooped you away, like a thief in the night. Stealing a treasure that didn’t belong to her nor deserve it.

You’re her wife --- you are hers, just as she is yours.

“I need to feel all of you.” A mess of words, gasping breaths, as Wanda happily snuck her two fingers inside your spongy walls, fluttering, and quivering thighs. Thrusting with no hesitation, your hips crash against the palm of her hand, tangling tight as a tether, curling fingers beckoning in a salacious curve. Pulling you close, her fingers digging in your hip-bone, breasts to breasts, melting against the wall, kissing you, your mouth, your cheeks, the slope of your nose --- delicately pecking your shut lids.

The palm that cradled your hip, traveled the terrain of your waist, and glided upon the arch of your spine, traveled between the shoulder blades, her touch eliciting sensitivity on her bare flesh, and cupping the nape of your neck. Fondling your neck, as her lips never wavered from your face, remaining as she continued her shower of kisses, as she fucked your cunt with vigor --- unrelenting, your wetness echoing with unabashed squelching.

A wet spot formed the dead center of Wanda’s panties --- just the sounds of you can make her cum on the spot. Sticky against her peach-fuzz, your legs sliding against hers, as her fingers continue with no interruption. Wanda’s wet panties stick to the skin of your thigh, humping with desperation, the sensation of syrupy cotton and heated bare skin nearly drove Wanda to the brink of endless bliss.

“She can’t have you ---” Wanda groans, her pupils almost rolling to the back of her skull, as the lips of her cunt split and ride even harder against your knee. Nearly gliding down the wall pavement, clinging onto each other in a loving embrace, “---she can never have you.” Wanda whispers in the shell of your ear, her teeth graces sharply the line of your jaw, her tongue licks a wet glide, sucking and nibbling on your pulse-point, marking her territory.

As one palm cups Wanda’s ass, guiding her as she unravels on your thigh, a hand leaves to her shoulder blade, your fingers flicker with her straps, pulling it over Wanda’s shoulders, and with a frenzied impulse, tug the fabric down --- Wanda’s milky breast spills out, still swollen with breast milk.

Pink areolas hardened by the cool air, your moist tongue peaks from your lips, and the tip flickers against the dripping nipple. Leaning your head down on Wanda’s chest, suckling greedily --- nearly her whole tit was engulfed in your mouth, sloppily slurping.

A shriek nearly bubbles at Wanda’s throat, cradling your head in her arm tenderly, kissing your temple, her nose inhaling your scent --- always emanate a tender scent of crushed roses; as your chin drips with milk. “Mine, you’re mine.” Wanda wispily moans, as you drank from her tit, saliva coating the corners of your mouth. Moaning at the taste on your tongue, satisfying your carnal palate --- the vibration sending a shimmer up the crevices of Wanda’s spine.

Sweat beads at your brow, as sweat drenches Wanda’s baby hairs clinging onto her temple, mouthing ‘love me, love me’, her fingers pulling the threads of silk from the jewel between your legs, now drenched. Two gardens watering, the petals of tulips bloom. Your thigh now slippery, grinding her clit hard, slow thrusts --- riding out, edging herself; refusing to cum without you.

As if you were a fragile china doll, shakily Wanda’s spidery fingers brush against heated skin, sweeping the arch of your neck, dancing down on smooth brown shoulders, downward to the line of your fore-arm.

Leisurely slowing down her fingers that rested inside your moist caravan, sinuous fingers kiss the skin and daintily hold your wrist, pulling away from her bum. Lifting, and lightly twisting upward to bare your exposed wrist; you halt, hesitantly your eyes peer up at Wanda. Cheeks dewey, and dusted pink.

Lips part from Wanda’s sodden breast, a string of saliva connects from your bottom lip; as if time ceased still, bringing your wrist to her lips, her eyes never leaving yours. A breath hitches in your throat, open mouthed kisses trail up, lovingly your fingers cup her soft cheek, her lips plush at the cusp of your palm. Wanda’s eyes are two moons, hauntingly beautiful, makes your spirit want to create a temple in blind faith in the name of love, yearning to worship; the waves of love coils off of each other.

Hot breath is a hymn, cascades against your hand, slow and soft kisses --- a tingle at your fingers. A simple gesture yet holds no bounds of adoration, deeply into each other eyes. Wanda’s fingers lock with yours, her wet lips part against the pad of your thumb, her teeth nip, her tongue lick ever so faintly; sucking the finger between her lips.

Erotically Wanda’s hips began its tirade once more, her soaked fingers flourish inside you with no mercy --- she knows, oh she knows. You’re close, oh so close, close, close to the edge --- you know Wanda’s close too, by the way her breath pitches ever so higher; just dying to fall over in Wanda’s arms, fevered. Bury inside each other, this unspoken waltz, not needing to verbalize --- it’s there, not always having to be feverish hot fucking, but it can be passionate, desperate, and warm.

To dive deep inside each other, crawl under the skin, and rest there as a love nest.

Foreheads touch, nose to nose, eyes fall into the depths of each other, a mess of entangled limbs --- a splash of kaleidoscope bursts before your eyes, mouths smashing to dull the shrills; cumming hard on Wanda’s fingers dragging it out, as her fingers dragged out, agonizingly so.

A sheen of wetness crashes and coats your thigh as a balm --- witnessing the motion embody each of your faces with each ripple of your orgasms. Memorizing every expression, any twitch, lips shaped in Os, never tearing your eyes away from each other, because you both wanted to --- such beauty.

The smell of Wanda is intoxicating, makes you dizzy, love-drunk, and adored. Resting your bodies on each other, raspy giggles flow, face leaning on face, caressing cheek to cheek, as Wanda nestles her hands on your face. A daze of happiness, the stresses of a green-foaming monster now a faded memory, cuddling each other in a tight hug, just airy laughs muffled in your chests. Just leaning against the wall, full length of your bodies pressed, braced as if being one.

A faint cry of the twins breaks the haze, ever so sync the boys wail for their mothers --- just like clockwork, it must be 2 am; time to feed the hungry bellies of your babies, just like their mama feasted on their mother. Slipping back into reality, fixing each other’s disheveled clothes back to somewhat back to being decent. Frizzy hairs springs in all directions, sheens of sweat now coat your skins, but a sense of relief drapes upon you two.

As Wanda leans her hand on the wall, resting your head on her stretched arm, head tilted as you soothe Wanda’s cheek, watching her, the greenery of her irises shine bright at your glassy brown orbs, as if a fire that can’t be smothered.

Making the butterflies erupt in her chest, making Wanda feel seen in so many ways that she never had before. En pointe, standing tall to kiss Wanda’s lips, light and sweet, resting your head in the crock of her shoulder. Lashes flutter as Wanda holds you to her bodice, with your heart swelling, you whisper to her.

“I will never leave you. Wherever you go, I’ll follow.”

[lostinthewiind]

Forget Me Not: Part 1

Ushijima Wakatoshi, Sawamura Daichi, Bokuto Kōtarō, Oikawa Tōru, Kuroo Tetsurō - Haikyuu

Synopsis: five years after graduating high school, you're invited to Kiyoko and Tanaka's wedding and find yourself back in Japan. Surrounded by your old classmates and volleyball buddies once again, not only are old friendships rekindled, but old feelings start to resurface as well. Did five years change you and your friends too much, or did it change you all just enough?

Rating: PG13

Warnings: none

Next → Part 2

Being back in Japan filled you with a familiar, comforting feeling that spread throughout your entire body. The country where you had lived most of your life and been educated from kindergarten to high school in brought back childhood memories that you had not thought about in nearly five years.

And now, here you were, attending the wedding of one of your best friends, whom you hadn't seen in way too long, and surrounded by people who shaped your elementary and teenage years.

It wasn't until the reception that you got to actually catch up with your childhood friends, but the ceremony had certainly gotten you thinking. With the beautiful decorations strewn all over the venue and Kiyoko's breathtaking dress—and the way Tanaka teared up after seeing his future wife coming down the aisle—you had begun to wonder, as one who is still single would, if that would ever be you; all dressed to the nines and ready to devote the rest of your life to one person.

The fact that you were deep in thought must have been visible on your face because it wasn't long after that Kiyoko made her way over, gently placing her hand on your shoulder and asking if you were all right.

Startled out of your internal dilemma, you assured her that you were fine and just caught up with your own thoughts. "Sorry," you apologized with a lighthearted chuckle. "I didn't mean to make you worry about me at your wedding."

Taking a seat beside you at the rather empty guest table—more than happy to get off of her feet after Tanaka had been swinging her around the dance floor for hours—Kiyoko sighed contently and brushed off your concern. "Oh, please, make up something if you must." Kiyoko glanced over her shoulder at her new husband, who was currently preoccupied with something Noya was saying to him. "I need a break. If this is any indication of what the rest of my life is going to be like, I'm going to be eternally exhausted."

You laughed, having completely forgotten about what you had been thinking about. "You chose to marry the boy who spent all three years of high school chasing after you and you're surprised that he's over the moon 24/7?" You cocked a brow at her jokingly. "Don't say you weren't warned."

Kiyoko giggled at that and before long you and your best friend were laughing together just like when you were teenagers. It was like nothing had changed; like the two of you had been transported back in time five years.

"In all seriousness though, are you happy?" you asked her as you grabbed for your champagne flute and took a sip. "Because that's all that matters."

A light dusting of pink rose to Kiyoko's cheeks. "I'm ecstatic." She beamed as she looked back at Tanaka again. "I mean . . . that's my husband!"

"Good. I'm happy that you're happy."

Kiyoko nodded in agreement before turning back to you. "So, when is it going to be your turn?"

You thought about asking her what she could possibly be talking about but there was no fooling Kiyoko; she already knew that you knew. Not a week had gone by since you had moved away where she hadn't asked you if you had found yourself a man yet.

You just rolled your eyes. "I would have to be dating someone first in order to start thinking about getting married."

"Okay, so we start at the beginning." Kiyoko started surveying the gorgeous outdoor reception venue as if you didn't already know pretty much everyone who was there.

You scoffed. "I'm sorry, we?"

"You act like I haven't always been invested in your love life." She waved you off, never taking her eyes off of the bustling crowd. "Anyway, back to what I was saying . . . you need someone with a stable career, handsome, and, most importantly, someone that I approve of."

"Yes . . . most importantly." You took another sip of your drink and let your eyes scan the crowd as well, mostly because there wasn't much else for you to do. Eventually, your gaze settled on a table in the back corner where five men sat, engaged in a conversation with one another. It took you a few minutes to make out the face in the dim lighting, but when you did, you were immediately hit with a wave of nostalgia.

There, in a convenient group, as if they had all collectively been waiting for you to spot them, were five of your dearest friends from high school: the captains from the various boys' volleyball teams. Since you had been the captain for the girls' team at one of the rival schools, the six of you had started as acquaintances who bonded over being captains and soon grew into an inseparable friend group. The only person you had been closer to in high school was Kiyoko.

Sawamura Daichi, Ushijima Wakatoshi, Bokuto Kōtarō, Oikawa Tōru, and Kuroo Tetsurō.

They all looked just like how you remembered and yet you couldn't help but notice from afar the ways that they had matured over the past five years. You had been given a brief chance during the ceremony to say hello to them, and during that brief moment, you weren't ashamed to say you would admit they had all grown into handsome young men (not that any of them had been hard on the eyes in high school by any means.)

"Oh, so we're going for the classic 'high school reunion' trope." Kiyoko's face was suddenly right next to yours, startling you once again. "Which one are you looking at?"

Ripping your eyes away from the group of men who had thankfully not noticed your staring, you shook your head. "It's not like that," you sighed.

"Oh, yeah . . . okay." Kiyoko's tone was dripping with sarcasm. "That's fine, you don't have to choose right now. You could probably have whichever one of them you wanted anyway considering they all had a crush on you in high school."

It had been a big mistake to try and take your final gulp of champagne right then. As soon as you had heard what Kiyoko had said, you jolted in surprise and the alcohol went down the wrong way, causing you to begin coughing and sputtering rather loudly and aggressively.

Of course, that was when the five former captains turned to look at you after hearing the commotion. To be fair, a lot of eyes were on you then as you frantically reached for a napkin to dry the champagne that had spurted out of your mouth and Kiyoko patted your back comfortingly.

"Jesus," you managed to choke out. "Warn someone before you say something like that."

Kiyoko grabbed another napkin and began dabbing at the little wet spot on your dress. "You act like you didn't already know."

"I didn't already know."

Kiyoko looked up at you in shock, her hand ceasing all movement. Thankfully, she had pretty much dried your dress completely by then anyway. "What do you mean you didn't know?" she inquired quizzically, almost like she suspected you of lying.

"What do you mean they all had a crush on me?!" You remembered to lower your voice at the last second to avoid screaming such a personal conversation.

"How could you not have known?!" Kiyoko retorted with another question. "It was so obvious!"

"We were all just friends!"

"Just friends?!" A deep voice from behind you interrupted before you or Kiyoko could say another word. "You aren't talking about us, are you?"

You could pick that voice out of a lineup and consequently, your face turned bright red and you swallowed hard. Had he heard what you and Kiyoko had been talking about? How long had he been standing there?

Turning in your chair, you looked up at Kuroo, who was standing behind your chair, and the four other guys standing behind him; all of whom had apparently made their way over after witnessing your struggle with the champagne.

Before you had the chance to work out a suitable answer and attempt to explain away what you and Kiyoko had been discussing, Kiyoko stood from her chair and offered it to Kuroo, motioning for the group to sit down with you at the same time.

"Well, I'll leave you guys so you can all catch up." She smiled wide, throwing you a quick wink when no one else was looking. "I'm sure Tanaka will start searching for me soon anyway. I can only leave his side for so long before he starts causing chaos."

"Looks like the chaos has already started." Oikawa pointed to the head table where Tanaka was pouring liquor straight down Hinata's throat while Noya and Tendou counted the seconds out loud at the top of their lungs.

"Oh, good God." Kiyoko excused herself without another word, rushing across the room to put an end to her husband's antics. The six of you were left chuckling and watching as she snatched the bottle out of his hand and made quick work of reprimanding the men.

Shaking his head, Daichi sat down across from you while the other men took their seats as well. Having been the team captain of Karasuno and on a volleyball team with Tanaka for two years, he knew all too well what it was like to have to keep him in check constantly. "I will never understand how he suckered her into marrying him," he commented.

"Because love." You shrugged. "It makes you do stupid things."

Just then, a waiter came by and placed a fresh glass of champagne in front of each of you. "Ain't that the truth." Kuroo rose his glass and encouraged everyone else to do the same. "To love and other stupid things."

"To love and other stupid things," the remaining five of you repeated before clinking your glasses together and taking a sip of the bubbly alcohol.

Bokuto, who already seemed a little too tipsy for his own good, downed all of his in one go before scooting his chair closer to yours and throwing an arm over your shoulders. "So, tell us, what have you been up to?!" he chirped happily. "We all missed you when you left, you know."

After assuring Bokuto about four or five times that you had missed him as well, you gave the group of eager listeners the short version of what you had been up to since graduation. You explained your boring job and the fact that you played volleyball as often as you could. They asked about other aspects of your life as well, and when the topic of significant others came up, you shyly admitted that you were, indeed, still single.

"Hey, it's not like any of us can judge you for that," Ushijima told you. "None of us have anyone in our lives either."

Oikawa scoffed. "You make it sound like I'm hopeless."

"You are hopeless," Kuroo laughed. "You spent how many years in Brazil and still couldn't find a girl to date you? You moved to Argentina and still nothing. Doesn't that say anything?"

"Leave it to Oikawa to make it all about him," you commented, mindlessly taunting the setter like you used to do all the time when you were younger.

Your jab earned a few amused chuckles from the others and even Oikawa cracked a smile; and just like that, it was like you were back in high school with five of your closest friends, shooting the shit like you always did.

Before you knew it, the six of you were talking, laughing, and drinking the night away. Even Ushijima, who was usually the quiet one of the group, was participating more than you ever remember him doing so. The awkwardness from the first few minutes of interaction and the burning embarrassment of what Kiyoko had told you had melted away so seamlessly that you didn't even notice; suddenly you just found yourself comfortable and feeling rather at home.

Daichi told you about how his job as a cop was going and even shared a few exciting stories—stories that the others had clearly heard many times before if their bored expressions were any indication.

Kuroo talked about his job at the Japan Volleyball Association Sports Promotion Division, which he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying. You were kind of envious of him for managing to stay in the world of volleyball without actually having to keep playing.

Then, of course, Bokuto, Ushijima, and Oikawa discussed what it was like playing for the MSBY Jackals, the Schweiden Alders, and Club Atlético San Juan in Argentina, respectively. Oikawa, much like Daichi had been, was very excited to have someone new to tell his stories to—although his stories were about Argentina and not being a cop.

It made you feel a little sad when you realized just how distant you had grown from your friends and how much of their lives you had missed, but you had to admit that getting to play catch up was extremely entertaining.

After what felt like only twenty minutes or so, but was probably closer to two hours, the reception started winding down and guests started heading home for the night.

Pulled from the happy little bubble the six of you were existing in by the sudden realization that the party had a lot fewer people than you remember, you checked the time and noted that it was rather late.

Daichi, who had been oblivious to the rapidly passing time as well, muttered something about having to work the next day as he reached for his suit jacket that he had draped over the back of his chair at some point and started putting it back on, indicating that he was getting ready to leave.

Bokuto began to pout jokingly and tightened his hold on you, his arm never having left your shoulders the entire time. "You're not going home right away, are you?" he asked you, his wide eyes ready to guilt-trip you into staying longer should he need to. "You're staying in Japan for a while, right?"

"I'll be here for about two weeks or so," you told him, patting his cheek lightly and chuckling when his expression changed on a dime and he smiled wide. "Don't worry, I'm not abandoning you again so soon."

"Then we will have to get together for dinner or drinks or something," Kuroo suggested as he too stood from his seat. "Have you changed your number since high school?"

You shook her head. "Nope, it should be the same one you all have."

"Excellent!" Oikawa cheered. "I've got to head back to Argentina in a week or so as well so we definitely have to get together soon. I have first dibs!"

"Y/N is a person, not the last piece of food," Ushijima huffed. "You can't call dibs."

Oikawa just scoffed. "Sure I can, Toshi. I just did."

"I told you not to call me that."

The two professional volleyball players glared at one another and you wondered how it was possible that they stayed friends for so long, let alone became friends in the first place, considering they were always at each other's throats.

"Okay, you two, don't make me escort one or both of you home in a cop car tonight," Daichi warned. "I'm not in the mood to babysit."

"If I promise to behave, will you promise to use your handcuffs?" Oikawa winked, earning a few hushed chuckles and an obviously disappointed look from Daichi.

"Well, that's my cue to call it a night," Daichi announced as he made his way over to you and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. "It was lovely seeing you again. I'll call you and we can do dinner sometime, yeah?"

You smiled and nodded. "I'd love to."

With that, Daichi took his leave and the others were soon to follow. Bokuto, who was the last to leave your side, had somehow swindled you into promising to play a volleyball game with him at some point before he bid you goodnight as well and left you to collect your thoughts before catching a cab and heading back to your hotel room.

On your way out, you thanked Kiyoko for inviting you and congratulated her and Tanaka on their marriage. They too insisted on getting together with you once more before you left and you happily agreed, already dreading having to leave your friends again.

As you climbed into your cab that evening, drunker than you had been in a long while and filled to the brim with joyous memories and content feelings after being reunited with so many old friends, you couldn't help but linger on one thought in particular . . .

The fact that all of your former captain friends had grown into handsome men with stable jobs, they were all single, and the startling new discovery that they apparently all had crushes on you in high school.

Did they still feel the same way? Or, more importantly, did you feel the same way?