#im so unspeakably fond of him

[lupato]

[theodorenmyth]

*flys into your mail*

Heart mail delivery! I would like to request Enzo with a shy m! Reader who literally hate eye contact. For example, every time someone talks to Enzo tries to talk to reader he is always looking away or avoiding eye contact. But maybe a little twist where reader could like make eye contact towards the other Slytherin boys, but when it comes to Enzo he can’t look at his face and it makes Enzo slightly jealous and want answers.

-💌

Too Shy To Say

Pairings ; Lorenzo Berkshire x M!Reader

Summary ; Lorenzo notices you avoid eye contact with him, though you can look at others like Theo and Blaise. Curious and a bit jealous, he confronts you, and you admit you get nervous because you like him. Lorenzo reassures you and encourages you to look at him. When your eyes finally meet, the tension fades, leaving a quiet understanding between you two.

A/N ; IM BAAACKKKKK 🥹🥹🥹❤️❤️❤️ WHO MISSED ME???? anyways.. ENJOY MY LOVES!

Warnings ; None

Word count ; 1.1K

Lorenzo Berkshire was used to attention. It came naturally, like the breeze flowing through the dungeons of Hogwarts. His charm was undeniable, his smile a constant source of flustered stares and half-hidden blushes. But for you? Things were a little different.

You’d never been particularly fond of eye contact. It wasn’t shyness as much as it was discomfort — eyes always held too much, revealed too much. So, naturally, you avoided it. When people spoke to you, your gaze drifted elsewhere: over their shoulders, to the floor, or anywhere but their eyes. It wasn’t a problem, not really, because everyone had come to expect it from you.

Except with Lorenzo, it was…different.

You didn’t just avoid his eyes — you couldn’t even look at him. Not even for a second. Every time his deep brown gaze turned to you, a wave of heat washed over you, leaving you frozen, fumbling, and searching for any safe spot to rest your gaze that wasn’t his face.

And Lorenzo? He noticed. How could he not?

It wasn’t unusual for you to talk to Theodore Nott, making light eye contact when necessary, or even Blaise Zabini, though fleeting. But the moment it came to Lorenzo, your eyes would flicker elsewhere like you were avoiding him for some unspeakable reason. At first, he brushed it off, but now? Now it was starting to gnaw at him, his curiosity turning into something like jealousy.

Today, Lorenzo was determined to get some answers.

You were sitting by the lake, your gaze focused on the water as it rippled in the sunlight. Your hands fidgeted with the edge of your robe, a familiar habit you resorted to when you were feeling uneasy.

Lorenzo approached, his footsteps light but purposeful. “Hey,” he greeted, the warmth in his voice causing your heart to stutter.

“Hey,” you mumbled back, keeping your gaze trained on the lake, watching the tiny waves lap against the shore. His presence was close — too close — but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

He sat down beside you, a comfortable distance apart, but the silence that stretched between you was heavy. It wasn’t like your usual silences, where you both existed in a bubble of mutual understanding. No, this one was…tense.

“So,” Lorenzo started after a long moment, his voice casual but tinged with something deeper, “why won’t you look at me?”

You stiffened, fingers halting their restless movements. Your heart jumped into your throat, pulse quickening as his question lingered in the air. You could feel his eyes on you, burning with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you muttered, still refusing to meet his gaze. You stared harder at the lake, as if willing it to swallow you whole.

Lorenzo let out a soft huff, not buying it for a second. “Come on, don’t play dumb. I’ve noticed it, you know? You can look at Theo, Blaise, even bloody Draco when he’s being a prat. But me?” He leaned in slightly, his voice lower, closer. “You won’t even glance my way.”

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as panic began to creep in. “It’s not… I just don’t like making eye contact,” you said lamely, knowing full well that it wasn’t the whole truth.

Lorenzo let out a low chuckle, though it lacked humor. “Yeah? Then why can you look at everyone else?”

Your heart pounded, and you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. You were trapped, caught in a web of your own creation. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to look at Lorenzo — quite the opposite. He was…well, Lorenzo. Charming, effortlessly handsome, and always exuding that calm, confident aura that drew people in. And you? You felt like a tangled mess whenever he was around, too self-conscious, too aware of everything. Especially of how much you liked him.

“I—It’s complicated,” you mumbled, still refusing to turn your head in his direction. The lake had become your lifeline, a visual anchor in this awkward, nerve-wracking conversation.

Lorenzo shifted, and you felt the space between you decrease ever so slightly. His knee brushed against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through you. “Complicated?” he echoed, his voice softening, but there was an edge of vulnerability in it. “What’s so complicated about looking at me?”

You clenched your fists in your lap, debating whether to finally admit the truth or keep dodging. But the way his voice softened made your defenses falter. “I… I just get nervous,” you finally confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “When it’s you, I mean.”

He didn’t say anything right away, and the silence that followed felt suffocating. You risked a glance — a quick, fleeting one — and saw that his expression had shifted, from curiosity to something more tender, more understanding.

“Nervous?” he asked, his tone no longer teasing. “Why?”

You swallowed again, feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t expected. “I—I don’t know, Lorenzo. You’re just…different. It’s hard to explain.”

There was a long pause, and then Lorenzo sighed, though it wasn’t out of frustration. It was more like he was finally understanding something that had been puzzling him for a while. “You like me, don’t you?”

Your breath hitched, and your entire body tensed at his words. It wasn’t a question — it was a statement. One that you had no idea how to respond to.

“I—” you started, but your voice failed you.

Lorenzo, however, didn’t wait for a verbal confirmation. He shifted even closer, his fingers brushing yours in a gesture so gentle it made your heart ache. “You know, you could’ve just told me,” he murmured, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “I would’ve saved us both a lot of confusion.”

Your eyes were glued to your hands now, the space where your skin touched, your heart thundering in your chest. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know how to say it.”

Lorenzo hummed, his voice soothing in its warmth. “Well, now you don’t have to say anything,” he replied softly. “You just have to look at me.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and you hesitated for a moment longer before finally lifting your gaze. The moment your eyes met his, the world seemed to slow down. His brown eyes, warm and sincere, locked onto yours, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel the urge to look away.

“There,” Lorenzo said, his voice low and almost teasing, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You felt your lips twitch into a small, embarrassed smile, and for the first time, you didn’t need the lake to distract you. Because looking at Lorenzo? It felt right.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice soft but filled with something more—relief, maybe even hope. “It wasn’t so hard after all.”

[areyouwell]

Nostophilia

Noun: An extreme fondness for returning home. For returning to where the heart belongs.

Ch.10

Ch.9, Ch.8, Ch.7, Ch.6, Ch.5.5, Ch.5, Ch.4, Ch.3, Ch.2, Ch.1 <-

Pairing: Mutant!Reader x Logan Howlett

Warnings: none

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: did y'all really think i was gonna leave it like that? im mean, but im not that mean <3

Taglist:@badbishsblog @reidsworld @idioticstar @toogaytofunctiondangit @ghostyv @wolviesgirl @over-bi-the-wayside @justice4billiam @holyhumorliteraturelight @cxptainbuck @sseleniaa @sadslasher13 @yallgotkik @whyamistillontumbler @maddiedinosaur @bethexo07 @pwpwppeepeoor @y08h

“Hey firefly,” Logan murmured as he set his jacket down on the back of the only chair in the room. The only piece of furniture in the room. It was unspeakably cruel, he thought, how much of your life you’d spent in clinical rooms such as this one, only to spend the rest of eternity in the exact same setting. The sphere of shadow pulsed dully with light like usual, an endless back and forth between your mutation and your brothers. Light encased in dark. 

It had been two years since you’d done this. Since you’d saved the lives of everyone you held dear by doing the one thing you’d always been warned against. You’d known the consequences. Of course you had. Charles hadn’t been subtle in reminding you that using your own shadow would result in this. But you’d done it to spare everyone. 

Crossing the empty, white room, Logan set his hand against the solid, thrumming surface, feeling the small pulses of energy within the prison of your own making. He hoped, somehow, you could still hear him. Still sense his presence, even though he knew it was unlikely. Jean had said he was just hurting himself by continuing to see you. But he dared to hope. For the first time in his godforsaken life, he allowed himself hope. 

“Hi sweetheart,” he murmured again, resting his brow beside his hand. He swore he could still feel you in there. Still smell that one shower gel you used to use. Smell the cherry-flavoured chapstick across your lips. “Sorry s’been a while. Charles has us run ragged with the government. Yeah, they’re still up in arms about the whole thing. Stuck-up pricks.” He growled, smoothing his thumb over the glassy surface of the sphere. “Tryna play it off like they had no goddamn clue any of this was happenin’.” He knew it was his mind playing tricks on him, his own hopes manifesting in his brain, but he indulged in the way he thought he felt you react, a ripple of irritation within the endless well of darkness. “Yeah, I know. We’re workin’ on it, kay? Promise.” 

He didn’t mind Charles working everyone overtime to figure everything out. He owed the Professor big time for working this deal. In exchange for everything the team knew collectively, he was allowed to come in and see you, or what was left of you, every now and then. No cameras, no observations, just you and him. Of course, it hadn’t been like that the first few times. Whatever you had done was completely new in terms of containment, and he used to grit his teeth at the way they poked and prodded what you’d become, searching for any kind of reaction. It was too reminiscent of what you’d already gone through, and he fucking wished you could have been held beneath the school. At least then he didn’t have to wait for fucking government permission to see you. 

It was torture, waiting for every request to be approved or denied, pacing in his room after Charles sent the first email, heading out on Scott’s bike just to blow off some goddamn steam and hoping the faint adrenaline rush would be enough to knock him out by the time he returned. 

It never was. 

With an exhausted sigh, Logan dragged the chair closer to you, the steel complaining beneath his weight as he took a seat. “Wish I had more to catch ya up on but uh, not much’s happened since the last time I was here. Kitty’s beggin’ me to bring her along, by the way. So’s Morgana.” Once again he let his hopes manifest, eyes tricking him into seeing the light within flicker slightly in what he interpreted as excitement. “Yeah? Well alright then, I’ll let 'em know.” He smiled slightly, before his expression faltered, a wave of heartbreaking longing spearing his heart. 

“They miss you, ya know. Kitty and Morgana. Fuck, we all miss you, but they both took it hard. Morgo’s kinda filled in your role, and Jade’s role before you, bein’ like a big sister to her. Oh, and you’ll be pleased to hear Marie and Bobby are finally datin’.” His mind saw the shadows ripple once again, the steady pulsing of light becoming irregular for a moment. “You’re tellin’ me. She kept cryin’ on my shoulder because he wouldn’t notice her or some shit like that. Guess he finally did.” He shrugged, resting his hand back on the surface of your prison, feeling the warmth of your phantom laughter. It sparked his own series of slight chuckles, his thumb smoothing over the surface of the darkness.  

“Erin dropped by the other day with Atlas. They’re uh, engaged now, if you can believe that.” He still couldn’t stand to be around her. After everything she did, the role she played in your death, whenever she would stop by, which was extremely few and far between, he’d always find somewhere else to be. In the weeks following your death, she’d stayed beneath the school in recovery. There was only so much Atlas could do against a slash to the throat, but Morgarna refused to speak to her for a full month afterwards. Even now the redhead was curt with her, only exchanging the briefest of pleasantries whenever they ‘were in the area’. Logan could see right through her ruse though. She was trying to drown her guilt in the empty forgiveness from her friend. Atlas may have been able to understand why she did what she did, but it had almost resulted in your death. 

That was something he could never forgive. 

“I won’t be goin’. To the wedding. Sorry if you wanted to hear how it goes but I think Morgo might make an appearance then dip pretty quick so I’ll get the details from her if ya want.” Something deep within the prison rippled slightly, and he couldn’t make up his mind whether or not it was anger or excitement. Though he guessed, with the last interaction between the two of you, it was most likely the former. Not that it was real. He had to remind himself of that. None of it was real. 

A heavy sense of loss weighed in his heart. Thinking about Erin and Atlas’ wedding made him feel physically sick, but not because of his deep hatred for the girl. But because he couldn’t stop thinking that it should have been you and him. One day, far off into the future, it should have been the two of you getting married. Starting a life together. Maybe one day, even a family. You’d never expressed explicit interest in having kids, but it was something he’d entertained before in the afterglows of your nights together. Something he was always too fucking afraid to bring up.

Now he’d never get the chance. 

“Sorry sweetheart,” he gave the surface of the sphere a soft pat as if you could sense his sudden shift in demeanour. “Just… gettin’ to that time again I guess,” he explained quietly. He never really knew what to do on the days of your anniversary. Should he celebrate? Should he mourn? Should he try and spend it with you in this fucking alabaster room or should he drown his sorrows in liquor and try to forget? The last two years he’d spent it doing the latter, whether he’d intended to or not. It burned to think of the life he could have lived with you, the things you could have done together. But it burned more to ignore it completely. 

Pain was a funny thing. No matter what he did, there really was nothing he could do to escape its claws. A rogue tear lined one of his eyes, and despite promising you he wouldn’t cry during these visits, there were times that even he couldn’t stop himself. “Fuck I miss you, Firefly. So fucking much…” There was so much he still had to say. So much he still had to do. And there had been for the last two years. He was stuck in this purgatory state, not really living but being unable to die. Just… existing. Surviving. And he knew you’d kick his ass for it. He vowed to live a life you’d be proud of, but that proved a lot harder than he thought it was going to be when the woman he wanted as his life partner couldn’t be by his side. 

The surface of the orb shimmered, the glow within stuttering slightly to his grieving mind’s eye. You were telling him off. That much he knew. “Yeah, ‘gotta get my shit together at some point’, right?” He chuckled to himself as he remembered the ways you would attempt to imitate his voice, the way your chin would tuck against your neck to reach the lower parts of your voice and yet still get nowhere near close to his registry. The way he would tell you to stop when, in reality, he wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if you did it forever, as long as you were by his side. 

But you weren’t. He couldn’t protect you. And he knew you’d beat his ass to the ground for the guilt he felt, but he couldn’t help it. He was supposed to protect you. Supposed to keep you safe. And you’d died doing the very same thing for him. The irony wasn’t lost on him, and if it didn’t feel like razor blades to the chest, he’d appreciate the way fate worked. 

If only. 

His phone bleeped from his jacket pocket and he grit his teeth together, closing his eyes against the spike of irritation that flared through his system. He knew who it was and what they wanted, but that didn’t mean he was going to answer straight away. That was until there were three more consecutive notifications, and with a rough sigh, he thrust his hand into the pocket and snatched out his phone. 

“Alright darlin’. Duty calls, somethin’ about a string of real strange murders in the area Chuck wants us to investigate. Thinks it’s some mutant goin’ on a spree,” he paused, feeling the energy within your prison shift uncomfortably. “When’ve you ever known me to be reckless?” The ghost of your mutation spiked beneath his palm and he blew out a laugh. “Okay, yep, I’ll be safe.”

Logan had a moment of self-awareness and the sinking realisation that he must be going insane. Who else would talk to the embodiment of their dead ex’s mutation as if it could hold a conversation? As if it were replying to him. He was going mad. 

With a heavy sigh, he stood from the chair, dragging it back to the corner of the room before swinging his jacket across his shoulders, settling the leather around his arms. After having such an intense moment of realisation, he forwent the usual kiss goodbye. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise,” he mumbled, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here. Anywhere else he could be drinking himself into an early grave. Or he supposed, earlier grave. Maybe then he could see you again. 

Logan turned to leave, pausing as if to look back to you but decided against it. That was until he caught the reflection of the sphere in the glass of the door. Whilst yes, he was happy to admit he was crazy, he also knew when he was gaslighting himself, and when he was feeding his own delusions, which stopped the moment he stood from the chair. 

Then if that was true…

Why the fuck was the glow within the prison convulsing like that?

He turned back to the sphere, his head tilting to the side as he took a slow step forward. This wasn’t his imagination. Or if it was, he was a lot more tired than he thought he was. But no, it wasn’t his grief playing tricks on him. The light was fading and growing rapidly, like panicked breaths. And it wasn’t his imagination that felt the sharp, almost burst of kinetic energy when he placed his hand against the surface. There was always a hum of power that accompanied the sphere, but not like this.

Logan’s eyes widened slightly, fear icing his blood. What the hell was going on? If this was where he’d watch you fade away after two years of being like this, he didn’t think he could handle it. A bullet to the head wasn’t enough to kill him, something he’d already tried, but living after seeing what he dreaded to see simply wasn’t an option. 

A low, almost imperceptible hum accompanied the frantic pulsing, rising and falling with each anxious glow until even somebody without enhanced hearing would have been able to pick up on it. Taking a step back, Logan couldn’t help but feel yet another overwhelming sense of guilt. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. Did he touch the surface too much? Disturb whatever fragile balance you’d found with your brother? He swore lowly, looking around for anything or anyone that might know what the fuck was going on.

Crossing to the small control panel on the wall by the door, Logan jammed his thumb against the speaker, pressing the alarm multiple times before anybody came to the receiver. 

“What?”

“R’you not seein’ this? The fuck is goin’ on?” He snarled, panic rising in his voice as the usually solid surface of the prison started to writhe and hiss like a ball of angry snakes. 

“Hold please.”

“Don’t you fuckin’–” Logan couldn’t believe he’d just been told to hold whilst your mutation had started going fucking crazy. “Motherfucker!” He shouted loud enough to grab the attention of any officials who may be in the control room. Though he couldn’t tear his attention away from the now rapidly deteriorating shadows in the centre of the room. “No… no no nonoNO!” he roared desperately, his voice catching on the ghost of a sob. “I can’t… I can’t do this again, Firefly– please… please don’t make me do this again…” Logan fell to his knees, his head bowing hauntingly similar to the way it did the first time he lost you. “Don’t do this…”

“You didn’t kiss me goodbye.” 

Logan felt as if he’d just been struck by lightning, every hair on his body standing on end as goosebumps prickled his skin. He thought he would have to die before he heard that voice again. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his head. 

And his mind went blissfully blank, his heart freezing in his chest. He had to be dead. There was no other way this could be happening otherwise. No other way he’d be looking at you standing across from him, as beautiful as the day he lost you. 

“Hey, handsome.” Your smile was so fucking soft, he didn’t even attempt to cease the tears lining his eyes, flowing down the sides of his face. He staggered to his feet, unable to take his eyes off you. You were exactly the same other than one noticeable change. 

One of your eyes had shifted golden, your iris now the exact same hue as the ones your brother had. 

He whispered your name so delicately, as if any louder and you’d shatter in front of him, and he’d wake up from this dream. But you just smiled wider, nodding gently. He’d intended to approach you slowly, to work his way over to you, wade through the quagmire of confusion, elation, and heartbreak before he got to you. Until your knees buckled beneath you and you collapsed. He surged forward, his chest expanding as his hands graced your sides, pulling you into him as he cushioned your fall.

You were real. This was real.

You were corporeal, here, in his arms, with him. 

His mouth fell open with silent sobs, crushing you into him with careful force, in case you would shatter. Your scent wrapped around his heart like a blanket of comfort, inspiring the same feeling he would get as if he’d just come home to you after a long day. But it was the other way around. 

You’d come home to him.

“Sorry…” you murmured a little weakly against the scruff of his beard, your nose tucked into the side of his neck. “Been a while since I used legs…”

“Wh… how? I don’t– I thought– why?” He had so many fucking questions dancing in his head, a carousel of confusion twirling about his mind as he pulled you back so he could look at you. Truly look at you. 

“I said. You didn’t kiss me goodbye. Pissed me off.” You explained as flatly as you could whilst being utterly exhausted. Logan blinked rapidly, your explanation meaning absolutely nothing in the face of reality. 

“I don’t… understand. You came back after two years because I didn’t kiss you?”

You chuckled tiredly into his chest, barely strong enough to hold your own head up. So he did it for you, his hand cradling the back of your head, supporting you in any way he could. 

“I’m kidding. Jus' took me a while to thread myself back together, honestly. Look, new arms!” You lifted your arms as high as you could, which really wasn’t much considering your severe lack of strength. But Logan gently took your wrists in his hand, his thumb smoothing over the clear skin. No scars. No marks. Just you. And whilst those scars were a testament to everything you’d been through, everything you’d survived, the new meaning wasn’t lost on him.

This was a fresh start.

“And Rowan…?” He asked slowly, his eyes raking from your smooth wrists back up to your face, taking note of each vanished blemish he’d come to know so well. Your lips pulled into a slightly sad smile.

“He’s still here… just, not around, if that makes sense?” 

Brushing back a stray hair from your brow, Logan really took in your new appearance, unable to stop himself from smoothing your cheekbone beneath your one golden eye. “Yeah… it makes sense,” he kept his voice as steady as he could in the face of more emotion than he’d felt since losing you. He felt like he was trying to hold back a tsunami with a spatula, wanting nothing more than to crush you into his chest and cry until his voice was hoarse. “So… you could hear everything?”

“Every word.”

“And I wasn’t…” going crazy, he finished in his head, unable to voice his thoughts. But you knew. Your soft smile of understanding told him you knew. 

“No, you weren’t. It was all I could do, send little wisps and waves to let you know I was still there. Still listening.” You fell into a contemplative silence for a moment, your eyes closing as you rested tiredly against his chest. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Not giving up on me…”

The dam holding his emotions back cracked, breaking apart completely when he watched tears filter along your lash line. Knowing you didn’t have the strength to hold yourself up, he braced a broad palm against your back and the other against the side of your neck, pulling you up towards him and finally, finally sealing his lips to yours. 

He kissed you with fragile passion, terrified that, with nothing more than a light breeze, you’d be taken from him again. But the way your hands managed to slide up his chest to the scruff at his jaw, the way you leaned into him as much as you could, the way your lips parted for him to find his way home to you. It told him all he needed to know. 

No more experiments.

No more Kreva. 

No more fear of who or what you were. 

This was a new beginning. A fresh start. The start of the rest of your intertwined lives. The other half of his soul had come back to him, knitting together the shattered remains of two years spent grieving. 

Everything he wanted to say to you. Everything that was still left unsaid. He had a second chance. You’d gifted him a second chance. And he wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers. Not again. 

Never again. 

“Never gonna give up on you, Firefly” he whispered against your lips, carding his hand through the roots of your hair. 

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

[theking-mustdie]

Cramped

pairing: background Scott McCall x Isaac Lahey

warnings: claustrophobia, panic attacks, mentions of feeling nauseous, PTSD, child abuse, mentioned scratching at own skin

a/n: i am on a mission to bring back claustrophobic isaac. this is my first work ever im open to constructive criticism!! ooc? maybe? i have no idea.

word count: 2,040

Isaac has coasted through his time in the pack without his claustrophobia, or its symptoms, being discussed at all. To be fair, there was hardly a lull in monsters-of-the-week to ever walk up to someone like Scott or Stiles and randomly throw out: ‘Hey! Did you know that my father locking me in a freezer in our basement did irreversible and unspeakable damage to my mental and physical health?’ So he wouldn’t say he minded the lack of communication. He preferred no one pry into his weaknesses or his business that they had no interest in knowing about.

However, there were some times where his panic was simply unavoidable.

From experience, Isaac consciously made sure to avoid his claustrophobia getting the best of him, usually stood next to exits or windows in any room he’s in. He’s not too fond of the unknown.

So when Scott suggested taking a day-trip somewhere after the insane, durach-filled month they had, Isaac reveled in the idea of a break and eagerly agreed.

“Where do you want to go?” Scott asked Isaac one afternoon, spread out on the couch.

“I haven’t exactly ventured outside of Beacon Hills so I wouldn’t even begin to know where to go,” Isaac replied from the other couch, half-asleep. With no threat looming overhead, Isaac hadn’t been as distracted, meaning that his nightmares had come back full force. He tried to keep himself awake to avoid the flashbacks he’d rather forget, but it was only delaying the inevitable. He’d rather not have indulged anyone else with his issues because it’s his burden to bear, and he’s almost positive that Scott couldn’t care less about his personal problems when he had a whole town to protect.

“We could always borrow Roscoe and drive down to the beach. I could use some time outside,” Scott replied after a beat, thinking.

“How far away is the beach?” Isaac asked, unfamiliar with any nearby beaches.

“Um probably about an hour and a half?” Scott guessed.

“That’s fine with me, but don’t expect me to go splashing around in the water like a dog.” Isaac crossed his arms and glanced over to Scott.

Scott laughed, rolled his eyes, and said “we’ll leave tomorrow morning” definitively.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

That night Isaac was able to catch thirty minutes of sleep until he was plagued with images of bleeding nails, metal chains, and impeding darkness before he startled awake. He decided it was a lost cause and tiptoed downstairs to grab himself a glass of water as he tried not to disturb Scott or Melissa. He returned to the McCall guest bedroom and settled on chipping away at his mountain of late work for school.

The night prior Isaac and Scott agreed on leaving at nine o’clock in the morning, so as the clock struck eight Isaac packed up his school work, hopped in the shower, and threw on some athletic shorts that could pass as swim trunks. As he left his room to head to the kitchen and find breakfast, Scott stepped out into the hallway and gave Isaac a small smile in greeting.

If Isaac’s gaze lingered on Scott’s bare chest, no one was there to witness it.

They both ate breakfast while talking about their plans for the day. Scott wanted float in the ocean and relax while Isaac wanted nothing more than to lay on the sand and read whatever crappy books the McCall’s had tucked away in their guest bedroom bookshelf. He needed a good distraction.

As they gathered the needed towels, sunscreen, and other beach items, Isaac began packing Stiles’ jeep that he had left outside Scott’s house the night before. But not without an intimidating threat of death if anything were to happen to it.

After a heated argument about who should get the aux, Scott was playing his music and they were off.

Isaac loved scenic car rides. He loved looking at the trees, houses, people, and anything that caught his eye. He leaned his head against the window and silently tried to fight sleep but eventually dozed off with the roaring of the engine and the rocking of the car acting as a lullaby.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Isaac slowly regained consciousness, unaware of his surroundings nor how long he had been out for. The first thing he had registered when he woke up was the car right in front of them. He tried to put the confusing, weird feeling that washed over him aside and turned to ask Scott how long he had been asleep.

"About half an hour. We were driving pretty smoothly until we hit the morning rush." he answered. He spared a glance at Isaac and saw the confused look adorning his face. "What's wrong, dude?"

Isaac whipped his head up to look at Scott and offered him a tight smile. "Nothing, just a little tired. I'm fine."

Isaac knew Scott could tell he was lying, but dropped in favor of looking at the road.

As he got a hold of his bearings, Isaac realized that they were sitting in the middle of bumper-to-bumper traffic. He tried to discreetly glance behind the Jeep, to the left, to the right, and ahead without alerting Scott, but a feeling of panic rose in his chest. There was maybe five feet of space between Stiles' car and others at all times.

Isaac began to understand what was wrong with him.

His heart started beating faster and his breathing started to quicken. He attempted to focus on anything else, the radio, the honking in the distance, even Scott, but nothing was working. His anxiety began to rise, and with it, the desperation to get the hell out of the car and off the highway.

Scott let out a frustrated groan, unaware of what was happening in the seat next to him. "We're stuck in here. The people ahead of us won't move," he said, his hand came down on the top of the steering wheel to emphasize his point. Scott turned to look at Isaac and saw that he was slumped over in his seat. Isaac yanked at his seatbelt with one hand, fully shifted, and clawed at the door of the Jeep with the other.

He was officially freaking out.

His exhaustion, bottled up emotions, and PTSD were all fighting a losing battle in his head. Usually simple things like traffic wouldn't set him into a panic attack, but it seemed all forces were working against him. His seatbelt felt like it was suffocating him, the walls of the Jeep were smaller than he remembered, and his werewolf senses were dialed up to ten.

Isaac stopped clawing at the door and frantically looked around the car to find anything that could help put him at ease, but came up short. The cars that surrounded the Jeep started getting closer and closer and Isaac started to use his free hand to claw at his chest, willing his heart and lungs to slow down.

However, before he could do any real damage, he felt his wrist being yanked away from his skin. More terror coursed through him at the confining grip until he realized that it was Scott holding him. His eyes found Scott's and Isaac let out a small, barely audible whimper.

Scott, however, heard it and jumped to do something to help Isaac. They wouldn't get anywhere if they stayed on the highway where Scott had to split his attention between Isaac and the road, so Scott shifted his hand to hold Isaac's as he moved to pull off the closest exit. In about five minutes, they were parked in the nearest diner and the driver's side door was thrown open.

Isaac's state had not improved in those five minutes. He was in dizzying state between reality and that damn freezer. His surroundings were disorienting and he couldn't make out what was real and what his panic-ridden brain was feeding to him. The only thing he could feel was the cold hand that once held Scott's.

He distantly heard the sound of the passenger door being thrown open and his seatbelt unbuckled. Suddenly, someone's hands were on his face as they said his name over and over again.

Isaac's brain cleared enough to register that Scott kneeled in front of him, hands on his cheeks, and repeated his name in hopes of garnering his attention.

Isaac locked eyes with Scott. Before Scott could acknowledge what was happening, Isaac threw himself out of the car and ran to the middle of the deserted parking lot. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the bile creeping up his throat to return from where it came. The next time he opened his eyes he took a deep, albeit stuttered, breath and looked around. The only person he could see was Scott and the closest object to him was at least fifty feet away.

He collapsed on the concrete and spread his arms and legs out as far as they went. Scott slowly made his way to Isaac, sitting on the ground next to him, but allowing him space.

The pair sat in silence for a while, the seconds ticking by as Isaac closed his eyes and focused on taking deep breaths.

Isaac was the first one to break the silence and turned his head towards Scott.

"I used to be in that freezer until I no longer knew what day it was." Isaac closed his eyes and took another steadying breath. "It didn't matter what I did, because to him, I always deserved it. I thought that by becoming a werewolf all these stupid feelings in me would have stopped. It only made it worse." Isaac talked slowly as he came to terms with his situation alongside Scott. "I don't remember how it started, but I remember every single time. I remember the bandages I wore on my fingernails because I pried them all off at some point or another. I remember the hours convincing myself that I deserved every second I spent in that fucking freezer. I remember the sound of my Dad coming down the basement steps, praying that he was going to let me out before he turned around and went right back up the stairs. I remember him letting me out of that box and hugging me tight, convincing me that he loved me and only wanted the best for me. Sometimes it worked. Most of the time it worked. I didn't know how to run away. I didn't know how to leave because he was all I had. I stayed because I was scared he was all I'd ever have. I didn't want to take the chance that he was right. That I'd be nothing without him."

After Isaac's confession they sat in silence. Isaac eventually sat up to match Scott's position.

"I- I don't know what to say." Scott confessed.

"It's alright," Isaac reassured, "I thought you deserved an explanation in exchange for dealing with me," he breathed out.

"God, Isaac, you don't owe me anything. Why didn't you tell me about this earlier, I could have helped you!"

"It didn't matter earlier. What were you going to do, add my shit on top of the shit you already had to deal with?"

"Of course it matters that you're dealing with this! And alone?" Scott emphasized before taking a deep breath, "I'm not really good at giving words of wisdom, or any advice really, but I'm here, always. I know it sounds hollow, but I'm around whenever you need to talk or rant or, who knows, punch. You don't have to keep going through this alone. That's what a pack is for." Scott reached his hand over to the boy's and clasped it around Isaac's.

Isaac lifted his eyes to meet Scott's and squeezed the his hand in lieu of thanking him, not knowing if he had the capacity to talk yet.

"You hungry?" Scott asked after a while. He released Isaac's hand and got up off the cement, reaching his hand out to help the other boy up.

"Is this place even running?" Isaac asked disgusted, looking at the not-so-nice exterior of the run-down diner.

"Only one way to find out!" Scott shouted, already on his way inside.

[daddyhausen]

could i request early morning love making with angelo parker please? like maybe it's a morning after you two did a very intense cnc/gunplay fuck session so the next morning he's making sure you're okay, kissing your neck and holding you close and that turns into him making love to you while you both are cuddling in bed half asleep

• morning after — angelo parker •

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

{ masterlists } | { aew masterlists } | { angelo parker masterlist }

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

{ summary } — ang has a tendency to be rough. really rough. yet he’ll always take the time to make sure you’re safe and taken care of

*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

{ warnings } — 18 + { minors do not interact }, mentions of cnc, mentions of guns/gunplay, aftercare, gentle sex, praise kink, ddlg, daddy kink, dominant x submissive dynamic, little space, morning sex, somnophilia, gentle sex, vaginal, sex penetrative sex, male + female orgasms, internal cumshots, cockwarming, vaginal creampies

{ word count } — 1k

{ pairing } — fem!reader x angelo parker

{ genre } — smut

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

{ taglist } — @cosmoholic13 @boutmachines @thewrestlingbitch @omg-im-such-a-masochist @baysexuality @legit9thlunaticwarrior @slut4kennyomega @wardlow @alexisquinnlee-bc @sammiejane22 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @omegasluvbot @melissahausen @writtingrose @drummergrl1310 @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @bonehead-playz @cherrytheeredheadmamaclaymore @crowleysqueenofhell @romanreigns-supreme @janetreader @thenerdybaker523 @sunshinevirus @nicoleveno14 @rubyred1980 @elsteenerico @igncrxntripley

{ comment if you want to be added to the taglist }

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

the warmth of the morning sun reaches your skin with a luminous glow, the sensation instantly warms your bones, eyes fluttering open to the sight of him before you, still half-asleep and still very much naked. you admired him for a moment, how his hands remained protectively around your waist, those very same hands that ruined you the night before were now delicately wrapped around you. a hand came up to gingerly stroke his cheek, the scratch of his beard such a welcoming feeling against your skin.

he gave a small sigh in contentment, his own eyes opening to meet your gaze, pupils displaying with adoration at the sight of you, still wrapped up and naked in his arms. he took a moment, gazing down as your once pristine skin, hips and inner thighs painted with small bruises beginning to form in diluted purple splotches. his teeth still imprinted in the top of your shoulder, the skin red slightly still, but not infected or swollen thankfully.

“jesus doll…i really did a number on you last night” his palm gently smoothed down you hip, across the small swell of light bruised, the hues of purple deepening the lower his hand sunk

“you sure you’re alright?” he questioned, a familiar fondness held in his irises, one that always seemed to comfort you after the fact. you offered him a small nod, craning your head further into the crook of his neck, inhaling his musky natural scent. still feeling a wave of sleep was over you, not exactly planning on getting up any time soon.

“i liked what you did with the gun, daddy” you purred, still feeling the swell of arousal burn in your belly, fingers slowly tapping up his chest, reminiscing about the intense sexual encounter the night before.

the unloaded revolver sat atop his nightstand, still as pristine as it had always been, you remembered how he’d have it pressed against your temple, how he would tease and toy your clit with the barrel, threatening to do the most unspeakable things. the memories only seemed to make you shudder with want for him. he cocked an eyebrow playfully at your words, such scenes were a common occurrence in your sex life so he was unsurprised by your reaction.

“oh yeah?” he propped himself up onto an elbow, staring you down. “well we’ll do that again tonight. but right now let me take care of you, dollface”

you hummed softly in response, still feeling that cloud of tiredness hovering over your almost limp frame. his breath ghosted against the tops of your cheeks leaving small kisses in its wake. you let your eyes flutter shut once more, just taking him in. you felt his hands snake around your waist, feeling him turn you on your side so you back was flush against his chest. the tip of his cock teasing your entrance with soft strokes against your dripping folds.

“mmm…daddy…” you whimpered against the pillows, clinging one of the smaller once to your chest

“shh, babydoll…just relax and go back to sleep. daddy’s gonna make you feel good okay?” you nodded i got he pillow, your face buried into the plush material as he slipped himself in with a small grunt, already feeling you push back against his size, almost deprived of his cock, so needy and desperate for his length.

“easy doll, let daddy do all the work.” he gave a small thrust in response to your movements, almost a stern warning for you to keep still and let him enjoy your warmth.

“god you’re so wet for me, baby. who’s my good little girl, huh?” his head buried into the crook your your neck, inhaling your scent deeply, his mouth hung open with feverish moans, some accentuated by low growls as you took him deeper, whimpering at the feeling of his cock stretching out your cunt.

“i-i am, daddy…” you stuttered sleepily over your works, already cock drunk and he’d nearly just begun. he kept him movements intentionally slow, wanting you to feel every inch of his impressive length, wanting you hear you whimper and moan all because of him.

“good girl, you’re doing so well for me…i love how good you make me feel babydoll, your pussy is like heaven to me”

“wanna make daddy feel good…”

“and you are, dollface. you make daddy feel so good”

your hips slowly swirled circles against his cock, feeling his length sink deeper and deeper into your void, practically until his tip met your cervix. he let his hand slip from your waist, reaching up to grope your breasts, cupping and squeezing the soft mound of flesh between his large palms, adoring the way you whimpered and shied away into the pillowed. his hand soon fell between your thighs, gingerly letting his fingertips graze against your overstimulated clit, drawing featherlight shapes into the sensitive pearl.

“d-daddy…” you whined, sleep heavy on your voice. the familiar thrum of your orgasm soon to reach its peak

“what is it, baby? tell daddy what you want”

you hesitated for a moment, mind in a daze from the pleasure you were receiving.

“c-cum…”

“you close, doll? you want daddy to cum inside you again?”

you nodded furiously, bucking you hips back against his thrusts in a desperate attempt to get yourself off. he planted a sweet kiss to your cheek, keeping himself close as your cunt began to quiver around him, pulsing around his length as you spilled over, sweetness gushing down your thighs as choked moans ripped through your throat.

“that’s it, look at the mess you made for me, babydoll. you’re such a good girl”

his thrust became sloppy and his moans increased in their intensity, burying himself to the hilt as he emptied himself deep inside you, hot cum leaking down his thick shaft as he dumped load after load of his seed into your little cunt.

“good girl…take all of daddy’s cum…”

you felt yourself relax into him, all warm and full of his seed, perfect as it should be. his moans had softened his breathing had stabilised, he kept a hand firmly around your waist, effectively feeling his cock bulge against your stomach, sighing softly in contentment as he notice your eyes still very much closed

“we better get up now” he mumbled into your shoulder, pressing a long kiss to the flesh

“but i’m so comfy..!” you whined exaggeratingly, curling up into the blankets, earning a chuckle from him

“c’mon doll, i’ll eat you out in the shower”

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

[seoafin]

how does poly rip!verse geto fuck? i keep thinking about your horny aggression post and of geto coming back to take rip!mc against the counter and stealing her panties in uhhhhhhhh one of your fics (i've reread them all so many times now i cant actually remember which one the scene just lives in my head rent free) so! just wondering! about geto bc i feel like gojo has gotten his fair share already lmao (though i love them both). hope you're doing well!! i'm probably gonna read hell's paradise bc of you soon also!

a a a aa a a a a

idk if this makes sense but while gojo is more playful geto is more of a tease!!! and a liar. he lies so much ("just one, I promise") and he does it all with a smile you fall for every single time. then he'll wait for you to abashedly lift up your skirt or dress to flash him the panties he and gojo picked out for you to wear hours earlier. but it's never just one, and most times, the night's over before it ever really began, with you on your knees, your face pressed to a pillow while geto takes you apart with his fingers and tongue until you're all strung out and thinking only of him. i know a lot of people attribute orgasm denial to geto and i agree to an extent that it's just enough to get you pleading but also i think stsg are both very indulgent with you to a fault. they just can't deny you, especially when you're the one asking, especially since you never really ask for anything. i do think geto tends to use humiliation and when he's jealous he's ruthless with it. and im talking unspeakable acts so absolutely [redacted] that you can't meet anyone's eye in the morning 😭😭😭 he's soooooooo 😭😭😭😭 like i said before i think once gojo finally goads geto into being more open with his desires (towards you) it's no holds barred. he is a nasty freak and so totally unrepentant about it (just like a certain someone else).

ALSO i think geto's more of an exhibitionist than gojo. i think full exhibitionisim is a hard no for the both of them but also geto's not above making you get on your knees in a public bathroom and take care of him. with geto you always get some sort of comfort and kindness and reassurance before he's fucking you to incoherence. i think he's fond of cupping your face, brushing your cheek with his knuckles, or pecking you on the cheek, and it's seemingly sweet!!!! but you've long learned to associate it as a warning lmfao he's also very very fond of bringing you to tears and being the one to wipe them away. if gojo is a blunt force geto is a wheedling whisper. somehow you'll find yourself doing things you've never thought you'd be doing if geto hadn't nicely innocently asked. and his requests are always vague enough that when you find yourself agreeing (he just asked for some help later!), the deal is always sealed with a smile (you've signed your death warrant)

you can always worm your way out of satoru's own requests by not taking him seriously (like when he asked you to wear a maid costume) and he's so shameless about it that it's easy, but geto makes it...so much harder to refuse him. especially when he looks so sad. he's so evil 😭 the two of them fully take advantage of this and routinely use this method to get their way. absolutely horrible!!!!

in the end i think geto is probably somewhat aware of the fact that you bring out all of their (gojo included) worst impulses while gojo just accepts it as a natural byproduct of their love. all in all i think stsg keep each other in check when it comes to their overwhelming need to...smother you 💀

[odessa-castle]

HOW is your writing so good??? Did you make a pact for unspeakable power??? (That joke might be in poor taste). Anyway Im just trying to say I really love Nothing Like The Sun and greatly appreciate you writing and sharing it. Although I cannot wait to read more, please take your time resting/recharging, especially after all this amazing writing!

My questions:

I was wondering how you’d describe Branwyn. Asking cus I love her and want to attempt drawing her. Also just any other facts about her you wish to share!

I’m also wondering if you’re willing to point out another Shakespeare reference in your fic. Im intrigued but not well read enough to spot them lol.

Oh my gosh, thank you for all your kind words! And I'd be over the moon if you decided to draw Branwyn, so let me describe her as best I can!

Branwyn is a gold dwarf -- I haven't pinned down her exact age, but she's in whatever the dwarven equivalent of early/mid-forties would be. Let me break the rest of this into bullets so it's not a total wall of text (and so I can put all this behind a cut):

Branwyn has tannish-golden skin with warm undertones, dark brown eyes with an epicanthal fold, and a broad, flat chin.

Branwyn has thick brownish-black hair -- her hair would have a bit of a wave to it, but she wears it long enough that the curl pattern's been stretched out quite a lot. She usually wears her hair in a single long braid, reaching about midway down her back. She doesn't have bangs, but shorter strands of her hair do tend to escape her braid and frame her face.

She has high cheekbones, a wideish nose with a relatively flat bridge (although it's been broken more than once), and her lower lip's noticeably fuller than her upper one.

She has plenty of scars. I described a few in chapter 11 (the vicious gnarled scar across her nose and cheek; the shining band of skin around her neck, like a burn that never quite healed right), but those aren't the only ones. She's spent most of her adult life as a mercenary, after all.

Build-wise, Branwyn is about as stocky and muscular as you'd expect a dwarven fighter to be, lol. She's broad rather than curvy. She's usually in her Flaming Fist uniform/armor when she's speaking with Wyll -- when she's out of uniform, she's probably just sticking to a simple shirt and trousers.

idk what the queer scene looks like in Faerun, but Bran is a butch, full-stop. It's very sexy of her.

Some other tidbits about Branwyn:

Bran wears her hair long as a fuck-you to Thay. In Thay, shorter hair generally means higher social status, and the most powerful Red Wizards shave their heads bald so you can see all their tattoos. Slaves, in contrast, are forbidden from cutting their hair. After Ulder helped Bran escape, she decided to keep her hair long, because she didn't want to end up associating short hair with freedom and bring that piece of Thay back with her.

Branwyn has been married twice (and divorced twice). Her most recent marriage took place frankly too soon after she joined the Fist -- she and her wife stayed together a while, though, and probably should have split up sooner than they did. Wyll was in his preteens while this was going down; he worried about her, but he didn't really know what to do, and he felt bad about that (even though, like, he was a kid, of course he doesn't know how to deal with these things).

Bran loves Wyll dearly, but she's also very mindful of the hierarchies at play between them. Ulder has always been Branwyn's commanding officer, and she doesn't think it's her place to openly challenge or confront him about how he treats his son, or to act as a parental figure to Wyll in Ulder's stead. It's part of why she's so insistent about calling Wyll "milord" -- she's trying to remind Wyll that he needs to be mindful of the social expectations at play. Ultimately, I think their relationship can best be described as a lord and retainer type of deal -- a prince and his exasperated but fond knight/bodyguard -- until the end of Part One, when Bran finally says "fuck protocol" and helps Wyll escape from Baldur's Gate.

Bran's got a huge soft spot for kids. She swears like a sailor, though, so she has to check herself around them a lot.

As for your second question, a lot of the Shakespeare references are more structural than direct! Like, you know, a messenger rushing in at the wrong moment to deliver news of an impending catastrophe, and creating a tragedy of timing. One of my personal favorites, though, is the little nod to the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet in the scene where Cazador forces Astarion to expose himself to the sun. What light through yonder window breaks indeed -- although it's anything but soft.

(Yes, I know what “but soft!” means in the context of that line, but let me make dumb jokes.)

[wuahae]

haaaiiii im back :3 Ready to get stuffed!

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

HE IS SOOOOSDFMSDFMSDFLDFK

Here, the streets are lined with dense cherry plum trees, wine-stained and fragrant. They frame driftwood-paneled shop windows housing kitschy art galleries, mom-and-pop bakeries, and patioed bistros with striped awnings. 

unfortunately you know my struggle with descriptions intimately well so as per course i Will always give you your flowers when you just casually cook up imagery like this... your brain is so big.. imagination so wide.

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

this makes me sooo like. clutches throat. like the love is so clearly there but there is just so many things in the past and in between and in the future that neither of you know how to navigate the new relationship... jeonghan who just wants his little sister back and yn who just wants her big brother to be the way he Used to but neither of you are the same version of yourselves that you miss... ohhh......

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

ouu....... well its true .!

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

B-B-B-B-BUSINESS PROPOSAL?!?!?!?!!

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

OHHHHHH MY GOD............. i need him bad........ also the subtle changing.. Yeah. also the fact that you bought the guitar for him is so fucking cute like. UGHHHH they're learning to love each other.

“Have you ever been in love before?” 

josh initiating the heart-to-heart...

There is an impossible hollowness inside you. You imagine Joshua, twenty-one and bright-eyed at Cambridge, hiding beneath the arch of the cobblestone bridge, the long one behind the quad, to carve hearts into the limestone. There's a girl wrapped in his jacket, her laughter like bells. She draws him close, runs a delicate hand through his hair, a shorter cut, more sporty than it is now. The night is still just as kind, forgiving, as it is now, and the moon still round like a young pearl.  / “Because it would mean that it didn’t end in vain. That it wasn’t really my fault.” 

FUCK.......... fuck...... joshua......... also just to talk about this scene Here i just. really like this scene. like ik i said the piano scene is my fav but This scene is honestly tied as my fav i think you perfected the quaintness and like. fond somberness. so well. the quiet speech, the long silences filled by narration, short sentences that almost seem like they're overstepping but theyre Not.. not when they're being said into the open quiet air like this. not when theyre being said to each other... FUCK!!! i Am a visual reader you know this and when i tell you i can picture this scene perfectly in my head. i think i said this before in my First review but you really have a way of forming sentences that make my brain chew on the cadence... very satisfying. i love this scene a lot. i love josh and yn a lot.

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

like this is so good... winds itself deep into your neurons...... dawg you are winding THIS into my neurons. also idk. i like how it paints a softer image of joshua that yn would never have imagined before,,, i love when onions peel back more layers!! also the kiss that undos all the other ones. like its the first time because it is.. the first time they mean it. 😭😭😭😭😭😭

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

MAN. MAN!!!! they just make me soooo sad and tender i love sibling duos so bad...

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

PLAY THROAT GOAT BY KIM PETRAS HELL YEAH

Now things are more confusing than late-stage Grey’s Anatomy, but good luck explaining that over the phone.

HELPWMEMSFDLKDFSFD

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

leaning back in my rocking chair with a cup of tea in my hand and a throw blanket over my lap... how nice...

“Maybe,” he chuckles. “But the rest—definitely my fault. I made myself busy because I felt like I had to.”  You’re growing to really hate that word. Jeonghan had to grow up, Joshua had to break up with his first love, you had to learn to pick up all the pieces of both of these things and try to fit them back into your life.  “You didn’t even look back.”  “I was scared, cricket. That if I kept looking back, I wouldn't be able to go forward. And I didn’t want to leave you behind, but I did. I think there was a happy middle somewhere, I just couldn’t find it.” 

reading this section with a perpetual ☹️ look on my face... whyyy do i feel like crying MSDFMSDFLKS they make me so tender... siblings can just be so personal. i didn't want to leave you behind but i did... but he's staying for good now. he missed home (you) too much. FUCK! 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 also its like therapy for yn idk.. to not be cast aside, to not be forgotten, to be Seen again... man....

“I think the only dancing I know how to do is half drunk in the dark. Can’t exactly throw it back on you in front of God and country.”  Joshua grins, a big one, and you, traitorously, feel your cheeks get prickly.  “I wouldn't want God looking at you like that,” he teases.  “And country’s already seen it all.”  “They should consider themselves very lucky, then.” His eyes meet yours, lit by the scattered light of the chandelier. “It's my turn to ask you to let me lead.” 

he is just SO charming... also things falling into place when you kiss him again. BABY YOU'RE IN LOOOVEEEE

 “I’m sorry, but this is how I feel. I won't let you take another girl I love from me. Not again.” 

SHOCKED PIKACHU..... the devastating L word....

Saying it is like getting peeled back, terrible layer by layer, like you wrapped a hand around your heart and ripped it out your chest. And yet you’re glowing, newly-bitten with something that feels like freedom.   “I thought you said I was perfect,” Joshua says, the pink of his lips already unraveling into a smile. This one, you think, finally reaches his eyes.  “Shush, you—” And amongst a chorus of Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! (which would be, quite frankly, humiliating in any other scenario), you finally give in to your adoring public, and kiss. 

HUUUUUUUU THEYRE SOOOOO CUTE.... YN FREEDOM!!!!!!!!!! i love to see my yns happy i really do... the smile finally reaching josh's eyes too oh my god... YOUR HONOR THEYRE IN LOVE 😭😭😭😭😭😭

“When I first saw you, I knew I would marry you,” he starts. That's a joke he’s probably been saving for months now, but instead of rolling your eyes, you can’t help but laugh, like you’re a broken soundboard. “No, really.” 

GOD HES SO LAAAMEEEMDFSJLSDFKM

He produces a small box. It’s different from the first one, the one he used all those months ago when nothing mattered. Inside it, a new ring, something far simpler and more beautiful. Joshua says your name, wonderful and reverent in his mouth. “Darling princess of Cotria, I'm asking you to marry me. Again.”  And you say yes, for the very first time.

a simpler ring this time.. one that suits you so much better than the glitz and glam of the last one.. something even more beautiful because its Him and its You, actually this time. FUCK!!!!! YOU SAY YES FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME............ OH MY GOD.

ok concluding thoughts. i'm trying to sort my thoughts out cause they're all in a jumble rn but What good writing. What splendid fic. i'm sure this has been said a million times over but i will keep saying it a billion times more but your writing is so Real to me! i feel like everything you put on (metaphorical) paper always adds Something to the fic, whether that be a hidden meaning or atmosphere or just being the Funniest person alive but its always such a treat to read your fic and i will always mean that !! onto thoughts about hte actual fic... i do love paralleling mcs you know this but i love how the entire fic is so centered around yn and like. how she learns to be #Herself, not just someone her parents want or someone her parents Don't want... the plotline with jeonghan is SO good like i think it adds so much to her character arc and personalizes her to the reader so much... like i feel like she's just perpetually hurt the majority of the fic and just hides it well and i don't think you could have gotten that across as well if you didn't have jeonghan in the fic! like genuinely his sections were some of my favorites to read just because of the history between them. tfw u haunt the narrative and ur not even dead...

also JOSHHHHH........ i love how you make him insufferable and lame at the same time HAHAHA the scene with him talking about his first love and how it ended.. how he doesn't want everything to be in vain... GUN to my mouth i started dry heaving... idk i think you made him so raw in the best ways and just so Relatable like he felt so real to me . but to be fair All the characters feel so real to me but i think that is just a testament to how wonderful and solid of a writer you are :]

side mention to jihoon. love him bad. the side characters added so much to the humor to the fic tbh like the worldbuilding was immaculate it felt like acros and cotria were real places. or at least as real as they can get as fake vaguely european nations in romcoms can get HAHAHA i love how they have their own distinct characteristics and how yn and joshua are clearly Products of that environment... Yeah!

also i really like the themes of this fic like maybe it hits home for me but like. the notion that growing up and Duty doesn't always have to be bad... duty is what you make of it! jeonghan who doesn't go sneaking out to trashy parties anymore and learns golf even though he hates it golf and doesn't complain about his sweaty hands or sleeping on airplanes but Also the jeonghan that likes meeting people and travelling and Helping people; josh who still lost his first love but still manages to find another in you, who chooses You again even after he doesn't need to anymore, who learns to play guitar over piano after all this time; and you, who doesn't really go out to parties and advertise yourself as the resident party princess anymore but you find yourself still in acros, in love, a ring on your finger that is simpler, cleaner, more suitable, more beautiful than the one that was chosen for you at first, and you find yourself Choosing josh too... duty and responsibility and even though it isn't what you would have wanted at first, finding the joy in the little things too... finding the things you can choose for yourself .

im genuinely soooo honored to have been here since the beginning and to see it through all the rough drafts and edits and silly text messages about you crashing out... a special thank you for you moving to gdocs for me HDSFJLFSDK and again i'm sorry i took so long and i told you this but im very scared this review is #Lackluster and unfunny and is me just. Repeating things you typed back at you HELP like i Swear i had very Real and Insightful things to say the first time i read this but then i think as the months went on my brain deteriorated and here i am... i wish i could articulate all the ways this fic is so good and scratches the itch in my brain but do NAWTTT take my smoothing brain as an indication that this fic was anything but extraordinary im so serious... you continue to blow yourself out of the water every time Thank you for trusting me to brainstorm and beta for you!!!! it is always my pleasure to get the #lilyexclusive I LOVE YOU 🫵 LILY HUSBANDHOSHI! (joshi? we'll see when april rolls around again...)

title: royally screwed [m]

pairing: joshua x f!reader

wc: 30.8k in total; part 1: 15.4k, part 2: 15.4k summary: between remembering last night’s party and pleasing your unrelenting family, you think being a princess is hard enough. then you’re thrust into an arranged marriage to royal darling joshua hong—straight-laced, infuriatingly obedient, and everything you’re not. pretending to be the perfect couple? impossible.   notes: romcom + smut (part 2), modern royalty!au in which yn is the princess of cotria/joshua the prince of acros (both fictional), enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, quarterlife crisis/coming of age, very very slow burn. lots of swearing, lots of alcohol, lots of feelings. [read part 1 here!] (please)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Party?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I called, you know.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“About you and Joshua?” Yunjin asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink hard; you waver. ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

– 

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

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

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

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

“How'd you know?” he chuckles. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you ever been in love before?” 

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

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

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

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

“Sounds lonely.” 

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

Joshua hums, low and deep. 

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

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

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

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

“Can I ask what happened?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.” 

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

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

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

“Do you still love her?” 

“No. I don't think I can.” 

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

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.”

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

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

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“What?” 

“Be nice to me. No one’s watching.” 

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

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

“Says the real you?” Joshua asks.

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

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

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

“I said, don’t you hate the range?” 

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

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

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

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

Bang. Bang. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Asked you what?”

“If I could ask you to come.” 

“Does Josh know?” 

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

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

You watch Jihoon steady his arms. 

Bang. Bang. Bang. 

–

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

Surprising, maybe. Accidental? Never. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Does it really seem like it?” 

Okay. You’ll have to unpack that later. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that an order?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

“We’re in Barcelona!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You fucked him, huh?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. 

“Halfway. Maybe.” 

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

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

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

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

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

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, cricket?” 

“Yeah?” 

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

“Everything ok?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t even look back.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I think about it?” 

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

You’re having trouble believing him, but you have no other choice. Your life would certainly get a lot easier if everything were to just end. No more press releases, scripts, or awkward pictures. And no more worrying about if you could go out on the weekends or just how much of yourself to give up to make things work. 

“There's no rush.” He turns to look at you with the same wild shine in his eyes that you’d grown to miss so much. “Truce?”

That, somehow, you’re much happier to hear. You thought you’d be angrier than this, feel the usual metal-red of your gut, but all that’s left is a sobering feeling of relief, of home. At last, things feel close to normal. 

“Truce.” 

So you ride and ride, but a decision doesn’t come to you as easily as you thought. The sunset breaks; the word duty clings to you, unshakable, unrelenting. 

—

Somehow, you have gone full circle: at the end of a long day, you find yourself back at the piano, much like you did when you were seven, and the only thing you could do right was play Hot Cross Buns. 

Joshua had bought an unreasonable amount of music books, half guitar for him, half piano for you. You’d forgotten just how much you had liked playing until that night, many nights ago, when you and he had first muddled through that duet. 

Yesterday, you and your parents had tea at the waterfront before you had left the country. You were still undecided on the engagement; frustratingly, the needle hadn’t moved much in either direction since Jeonghan had raised his proposal to you. 

Congratulations, your mother had told you, right over her cup of oolong. 

For what? 

You’ve risen to the occasion. You’ve grown up. 

To you, this was not a compliment. You didn’t know what it was. You had twisted the ring on your finger, back and forth, a habit you picked up after all the time you spent wearing it. You wondered if somewhere, you had become exactly like Jeonghan, molded and spun into someone unrecognizable. Maybe that was why Joshua finally seemed to like you.

Have you practiced for your first dance? your father asked, and you no longer had time to worry about the state of your personality—you had other fires to put out. 

Really, that’s why you’re at the piano today. You thought you could play the damn tune and somehow remember all the ballroom dancing lessons you had taken when you were younger. Unsurprisingly, it hasn’t worked yet. 

There’s a knock at the doorframe. “Come in,” you say, already knowing that it’s Joshua. No one else does that; Jihoon barges in and just starts talking, and you can hear Joshua’s parents from a mile away because of all the jewelry they have on. 

“Just wanted to see what you were up to,” Joshua says. He leans against the frame of the piano, already dressed down for the night. 

“Nothing,” you reply. “Just magically hoping that I remember how to ballroom dance.” 

“Well, first things first, you can’t dance sitting down.” He chuckles, and you pull your lips tight. 

“I'm serious, Josh,” you whine. 

“You really don’t remember?” He gives you one of those looks, one that you’re quite used to now, with the judgmental wrinkle of the brow. “Didn’t you take lessons?” 

“Yeah, like…fifty million years ago.” 

“I couldn’t tell,” he says, grinning something foolish. “You don’t look a day over fifty.” Then he offers you his hand, which you take, and he easily pulls you from the bench. 

“Flattered,” you say, unable to push down the corners of your smile. “You gonna teach this senior citizen a few moves?” 

“Perhaps, as my good deed for the day.” He holds your hand, still firmly in his, and slides it up his arm to rest on his bicep. “Left hand here,” he tells you. 

“Are you flirting with me?” 

“Not yet,” Joshua laughs. “The ballroom hold ring a bell?” His other hand finds your free one, and you interlace fingers simply, easily. Then, the warmth of a hand between your shoulder blades, one that draws you to his chest. 

“I think the only dancing I know how to do is half drunk in the dark. Can’t exactly throw it back on you in front of God and country.” 

Joshua grins, a big one, and you, traitorously, feel your cheeks get prickly. 

“I wouldn't want God looking at you like that,” he teases. 

“And country’s already seen it all.” 

“They should consider themselves very lucky, then.” His eyes meet yours, lit by the scattered light of the chandelier. “It's my turn to ask you to let me lead.” 

“Fine,” you pout, noticing that familiar warmth in your stomach. 

Joshua begins to count your steps off (one, two, three—ow, that’s my foot! —sorry!). He’s patient with you, more patient than you think you deserve. His hand seems to slot perfectly into the curve of your back; his gaze settles onto you in a way that makes your chest feel heavy, molten. 

“For someone who goes out so much, you have a terrible sense of rhythm,” Joshua says, teasing. 

“Hey,” you object. “Maybe I just have a bad teacher.” 

“Oh, so it’s my fault now?” 

“Well, I'm not about to blame Britney Spears.” 

Joshua laughs, and the sound is so close to you, you can feel it on your skin. 

“I still think it’s the student’s fault.” 

“Me?!” Perfectly timed, your sock-clad feet collide (yours, striped and fuzzy, his, plain white). “Impossible.” 

“Too distracting,” he murmurs, and you notice how unfairly pretty his eyes are. “You bump into me, criticize me, you look at me like that…”

You feel dizzy. You don’t know what Joshua’s doing to you, but it’s mean. Your face is warm, and normally you’d blame it all on the alcohol but you haven’t had any. Worst of all, the soft part of you, the lizard-brained, impulsive part, can’t stop thinking about his lips and how they would feel on yours.

It’s a thought you don’t let linger, much like all of the other half-thoughts you have, and you kiss him, as if it was a reprieve from the terrible, horrible way he’s making you feel. (It isn’t.) 

“You talk too much,” you tell Joshua, right against his lips. “Not enough teaching.” 

“I'm putting you in remediation.” 

“Devastating.” 

“And giving you homework.” 

“Whatever shall I do?” 

Joshua answers that question for you. He kisses you, once, twice, still not enough, and, somehow, things feel more simple than they ever had before. 

—

Jihoon’s eyes are dark, dagger-sharp in the rearview mirror. 

“We’re coming up,” he says. “A few minutes out.” 

“I know,” you answer. Yunjin was successful, almost too successful, in her task of finding you an appropriately revealing dress for a newly engaged twenty-something at the party of the year. The filmy silk stretches around your thighs; the cowl neck flirts with the neckline of the bikini top you have on underneath. 

You look good, probably better than how you’ve looked in months. And yet, for some reason, you don’t feel good, at least, not how you’d thought you’d feel on the way to the only event you’d been looking forward to this year.

Somi’s gift rattles in your lap. It’s covered in this loud, hot pink wrapping paper unbecoming of something you had spent years tracking down on the antiques circuit. Normally, you’d have a laugh with Jihoon about it, maybe take some selfies in the car, but instead, you find yourself spinning your ring around your finger like you always seem to do these days.

You think of Jeonghan, of Joshua. Of course, what you do or don’t do on your best friend’s birthday is none of their business (although, very inconveniently, Jeonghan did have some event this weekend, and Joshua was traveling). But still, you think of the boldface headlines, the whispering gossip forums, the washed-out image of you in your little dress on the cover of a cheap magazine. This wasn’t exactly a tame party, and things weren’t just about you anymore, not like they used to be. 

Marking your arrival isn’t the GPS nor Jihoon, rather, it’s the firefly buzz of the cameras outside your limo as it’s forced to come to a stop. You squint, trying to see past the tint of your windows, and see Somi, radiant in her birthday tiara, as she pushes through the crowd. Behind her is the villa she rented, illuminated by pink and gold strobe lights. 

You crack open the car door and are met with a stifling deluge of camera flashes. Music pulses through the air, enough to feel beneath your heels. 

“Who's my favorite princess?” Somi exclaims, throwing her arms open. “You made it! you look hot.” 

“Not as hot as the birthday girl,” you reply, and you let her squeeze the air out of you in a wonderful, bone-crushing hug. “What's with all the cameras?” 

“Professional photographers. Just wanted something to remember the night by, because we are blacking out.” She giggles, already tipsy. “Come, come, we’re doing shots inside.” 

“Without me?” 

“We’ll catch you up.” 

Somi drags you by the hand through the sea of people, and you watch the cameras follow as they always do. She leads you up the stairs, underneath the towering balloon display, and into the foyer, already darkened, lit only by a disco ball chandelier and the neon backlights. 

You spot Soonyoung by a champagne tower that seems twice his size, as promised. He's in a leather jacket, no shirt under, and you watch his eyes light up as they meet yours. 

“A shot for her highness,” he shouts over the music. 

“I thought this was champagne.” 

“Tequila's close enough.” He laughs, eyes upturned, bright like gemstones. 

The first shot goes down easy. it always does. So does the second, unsurprisingly. Around the third is when Somi tells you that the strippers are coming in an hour. (—Strippers?! —Not everyone has a fiancé, you know.) 

And, just like that, you’re back to the beginning. It’s hard to think over the ridiculously good Kesha mix the DJ is playing, but, terribly, you think you’re starting to understand what Jeonghan was talking about. You’re still not sure how you feel about duty, responsibility, sacrifice, those heavy words that feel impossibly heavier in your mouth, but all you know is that, as much fun as you’re having now, it comes at a fair price. 

Somi told you nothing, no compromising pictures, no drama, would reach the press, but, as hard as she may try, you feel like enough people have laid eyes on you already that someone was bound to hear something. If not now, then definitely in a few hours when everyone’s on at least two and a half substances, and all bets are off.

Briefly, you recall your appearance at the derby, the memory like a shard of glass. You had stood guileless next to Joshua, tripping over your words because you hadn’t cared enough to read the damn briefing, and he had covered it up with a dad joke or two. Coming up with those abominations must have been hard enough for someone whose first book was the Oxford Dictionary, but you don’t even think God and all his angels could cover up this. More than that, the thought of everyone having to try anyway makes your gut twist. 

Someone tells you to smile for a selfie. You recognize her, but you don’t remember her name (Amelia or Alicia, one of Somi’s friend of a friends. On second glance, there are definitely more than 200 people here). Let's dance! another voice shouts in your ear. 

Your head hurts. You hate the idea that Jeonghan might be a little right, but you hate even more that you’re starting to agree with him. Maybe you need another shot. 

“Your gift,” you say, fighting over the chorus of Your Love Is My Drug. “Somi!” 

“Oh my god, you did not!” she squeals. She clasps her hands over yours, wrapped around the box, and draws them to her. “Let me take it to the table. I’ll meet you by the pool—oh, oh, there’s a hot dog stand out there too!”

“Actually,” you start. You’re not that drunk, not yet, but now you think you can feel the ground start to sway under you. it wouldn’t be too far a stretch to say that in half an hour, after a little time at the bar, you’d probably be spending the night, no question. “I think I have to run.”

“Aw, really?” Somi tilts her head and squints, as if trying to read your mind. 

“I am so sorry,” you tell her, as sincerely as one can over a pop song from the 2000s. “Swear I'll make it up to you.” 

“Life stuff, right?” 

“Yeah.”  

“It's ok,” she says. “Really really. Go home, figure your shit out, and we can have our own party.” 

She holds your joined hands to her heart. Whatever look you gave her, she believed. That, or she knows you better than you think. 

So you leave. The car ride home is silent. Jihoon doesn’t ask questions, and you can still hear the sound of the music ringing in your ears, on and on and on. 

– 

You think the worst thing you’ve ever woken up to was the Crazy Frog ringtone of one of the guys you had slept with during university. 

The second worst has got to be five voice memos and three consecutive missed Facetime calls from Somi, which is the first thing you see upon opening your eyes. 

“Oh fuck,” you murmur, still coming to. Your bed is empty, but you see Joshua's suitcase in the corner of the room. He must have come home early this morning, while you were still sleeping. 

You crack open your text messages. 

–OH MY GOD.

–I AM SO SO SORRY. 

–someone must have gotten paid off for last night’s pictures…i had no idea i swear 

Then a voice memo. Then another voice memo. then a PopCrave Twitter screenshot: YOU CAN TAKE THE PRINCESS OUT OF THE PARTY–OR CAN YOU? followed by the worst, most incriminating photo of you and Soonyoung, arms linked, throwing back a shot. 

“No, no, no, no.” You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the stone-cold drop of your heart to your feet. “Fuck. Fuck.” 

Shit. You have to find Joshua and make it right. 

Somehow, you thought it wouldn’t matter, that you didn’t care what did or didn’t get out as long as you were able to have a good time—you desperately search for that same feeling, knowing that it’s long, long gone. You don’t even think you truly ever believed that. 

You race down the palace hallways, ones that feel far more familiar than the rigid bastions they were when you first got here, but it’s Joshua who finds you before you find him. Or rather, it’s his voice you hear, trickling out from behind the library door. 

Suddenly, you’re five again, and you’re spying on Jeonghan talking to your parents. You peek through the crack of the doorframe. As Somi would say, nightmare blunt rotation: there stands Joshua, surrounded by both sets of parents, and no one looks happy. 

“We knew it,” another voice says—your mother. “We’re sorry, but we said this would happen.” 

“It’s no matter. There’s nothing left to do but call the engagement off.” 

The room goes quiet. You notice your hands are shaking. Your face feels numb.  

“You’re right. I don't think anyone’s getting what they want out of this, anyway.” 

“We’ll cancel the ball. There’s no way around it. Likely a relief, right, Joshua?” 

The moment seems to squirm, suspended in time. This is what you were waiting for, right? Your parents were right—no one wanted this anyway. You certainly didn’t, and now you get your get out of jail free card. On top of that, you get to hear what you’d been expecting all along—that Joshua never liked you, that this was fun and all, but he’s ready to stop playing pretend. 

“I…I disagree.” You freeze. “She's my fiancée. I made a commitment to her, and I'm not going to walk away.” 

“Joshua, my dear, this arrangement was never going to work. You can be honest.” 

This is the part where Joshua nods, does his perfectly symmetric smile, and agrees. This is what he does, what he’s been doing since forever. The story always ends the same way. That was the point. 

Instead: “I am being honest. Since when was it illegal to go to your best friend’s birthday party? I don't care what the rest of the world has to say. She’s not who they, or you, think she is.” Through the door-gap, you watch the pursed, resolute draw of Joshua’s lips. “You didn’t even invite her here to talk about her own engagement. You never once gave her a chance.” 

A stunned silence falls over the room. 

 “I’m sorry, but this is how I feel. I won't let you take another girl I love from me. Not again.” 

Your hand flies over your mouth, and something twists deep in you, like you’re drowning from the inside out. You can’t, won’t, believe what you just heard. That somehow, beyond all the fighting, the quiet nights, the snide remarks and the fake smiles, that Joshua loved you? Loved? Enough to say all that to the people that ruled his life with an iron fist? None of this made sense, but nothing’s made sense since you got here. 

The room erupts into noise, peals of voices all colliding into each other, and you do what you do best—you leave. 

—

No one talks about that morning. You don’t even think anyone knows you were there—part of you wishes that you actually weren’t, so you didn’t have all this on your mind. (Joshua, later that day: I got you something from Seoul. From his suitcase, a bottle of soju. Just kidding. Then a jade bracelet, so vibrant it looked like the ocean.) No one talked about Somi, and no one talked about the party. 

In fact, everyone had just rolled on as usual, all the way to the end of the week, the day of your engagement ball. Even you did. The word love felt so big, so burdensome, when Joshua had said it to his parents, but you didn't mind it on you.

The lingering touches, late night talks, tea made the way you like—nothing really had changed much since shit hit the fan, but now you knew that was the label. You guess that when you told Joshua you had never been in love before, you were really telling the truth. Either that, or he was just saying whatever the hell he needed to stop your engagement from imploding. 

Still, you found yourself still reaching for him. There was an unfamiliar comfort about his nearness. You woke up this morning cradled to his side, and, for once, it wasn’t a scene you wanted to erase. 

Now, your hairstylist hoses your blowout down with hairspray. You’d spent the better part of this morning sitting in different chairs, hair, makeup, nails. A part of you waits for the other shoe to drop: Joshua’s mother would waltz in and tell you, Surprise! You’re a single woman again, just as you should be. 

It never happens. You’re wrapped in various mists and creams and powders, all the while fielding all the same questions about the ball (—Excited for tonight? Yeah, of course. —How does it feel being the surprise couple of the year? Surprising.)

It’s not until Yunjin comes in, wheeling in your giant, sparkly engagement gown, all Italian lace and satin brocade, that things feel real. 

The dress itself is beautiful, a pale champagne number, gathered at the waist with a smattering of crystals down the train. Earlier, when you’d first tried it on, it looked like a costume fit for the girl playing wife. It was another smothering thing that hung on you, just like everything else in your life. 

Today, you watch your form tall in the mirror. You meet her eyes, her uncertain mouth. It’s you, for sure, but there’s a stillness about you that you can’t quite put a finger on. Maybe Joshua’s demeanor was contagious. 

Yunjin laces your bodice up, careful eyelet by eyelet—“You’re nervous, huh?” 

“Is it really that obvious?” 

She laughs. “Breathe. You’re not getting married. Not yet, at least.”

“Yunjin, isn’t it weird that no one has talked to me about Somi’s birthday? Everyone on the planet saw the leaks.” 

“Maybe they finally learned to stop giving a shit. You looked hot, you had a good time, end of story. It’s not like anyone died.” 

True. She grabs your shoulders and looks at you through the reflection of the mirror. 

“Smile. Enjoy yourself. You look so, so beautiful.” You take a deep, soaking breath. You think about Joshua and all the sharp edges of his voice when he said he loved you. You had argued with him a lot, and you had never heard him like that. “You want this, right?” 

Well, when she puts it like that? Yeah, you do. You think you really do. 

—

The Great Hall is unrecognizable when you stand before it; the pink and white zinnias have been replaced by bouquets of calla lily and eucalyptus, the arched ceilings, once cold and imposing, now are bathed in the buttery, warm glow of candlelight. And the too-big space, usually empty, is now filled with partygoers, radiant in their best dress. 

You stand at the top of the grand staircase. A thrill, anxious and skittering, runs up your bones. You’re reminded of your last big public showing at the derby, of the sea of microphones and the eye of the camera and the crowd, all staring you down. 

You run through the cruel motions. First, a curtesy, so slow you think the audience can see you tremble. Then you take the first step down the stairs, and you watch them turn to you like the tanned halo-faces of sunflowers. 

There, in the center of the crowd stands Joshua, unwavering. He's wearing a deep blue tuxedo, unfairly flattering (though, the lone curl of hair falling into his eyes is strong competition). Meeting his gaze, you watch the corners of his mouth fold up in a way that reminds you to breathe. In, out. You’ve got this. 

Every step, you feel like you’re learning to walk for the first time, like you've lost your sea legs. Amongst the guests, you spot Jeonghan, next to him Jihoon. Then back to Joshua, like your eyes can’t stay away. He shoots you a covert thumbs up—you’d expect nothing less from the corniest man on Earth—but, nonetheless, it makes the long walk to the center of the room feel much shorter, despite the torture devices on your feet (Louboutins, not broken in).

One, two steps, and you’re face to face with your fiancé. Your heart is still racing, thrumming against the cage of your bodice like it's trying to escape. You’re sure the whole congregation could hear it if not for the quartet that’s come to life, now playing the opening notes of Blue Danube. 

Yes, that’s right, you tell yourself. You still have to dance in front of the whole fucking country. 

Before you crash out and make this a national emergency, you feel the warmth of Joshua’s touch. Fingertips before palm, always the same, he finds your hand, like he manages to do every single time. 

“I’ve got you,” he says, low enough for only you to hear. And for the first time, you believe him. 

—

Really, you could have gotten away with saying nothing. It would be much easier, to be honest. 

The ball had gone off without a hitch so far. The music was good, the food even better, and your parents were somehow silenced, instead opting to dance among the crowd like they were young again. Still, you can’t seem to put your mind at ease. With everything that had happened this week, Jeonghan’s offer only seemed to weigh heavier, more urgently upon you. And of course, there was the matter of Joshua choosing to opt into your engagement, against all odds. 

You realize you had gotten quite good at running away from things—your family, your responsibilities, the media, even Joshua—not knowing how to bear the weight of an impossible duty. Actually, you thought it was a royal failing until you had seen Joshua in the library that morning, jaw set, unbending. 

“Hey, Josh?” you ask, with a few bats of the eyelashes to soften the blow. 

He tilts his head in that way he does, and his gaze softens. Damn you, you think. Trying to distract me with those horrible, pretty eyes.  

“Can we talk about Sunday?” 

“What about Sunday?” He still looks confused, and you know the look well enough at this point to know he’s not faking it. 

“Um…Sunday morning. After the party,” you say slowly, as if giving yourself time to back out, just in case. “I heard you talking with our parents.” 

In an instant, his expression changes, and his eyebrows roll into their usual furrow. You feel his hand falter behind your shoulder blades. 

“Oh,” Joshua’s voice drops. “That.” 

“I’m sorry,” you say, realizing all you do is apologize. “It was supposed to be a small thing, no cameras, I barely even stayed—.”

“Hey, it’s ok,” Joshua interrupts. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” 

“I-I know,” you fib. The thing about pretending is that you’ve both become so good at it that you have trouble believing him. “It’s just that I also heard what…what you said.” 

Somehow, the wrinkle between his brows grows deeper. 

“I said a lot of things that morning.” 

You press your lips thin, feeling what you’re about to say ball up on your tongue. Easily, you could change the subject; you didn’t have to know anything, really, you could stay silent and let the world work around you, just as you had been taught. But you watch the soft twist of Joshua’s gaze, how he studies your expression, and you know you can’t go back to how things used to be. 

“You said you…” You take a hard swallow. All the blood in your body only wants to exist in the apples of your cheeks, away from your brain where you need it most. “You loved me.” 

At once, the world spins off-axis. You feel the anxious flutter of Joshua’s heart under your palm, and your own stomach flips in its cage. The L word coming out of your mouth seems ten-thousand times more ridiculous than anything he could say, probably because you can’t remember the last time you actually said it and it came out all wrong. 

He must feel the same way. For once, he can’t meet your eyes. His mouth opens and then closes, as if hoping to delete what you had just said. Maybe you would just keep dancing, beat by beat, and this would all go away.

Silly girl, you think, traitorously. Pick a damn side. Either he likes you or he doesn’t. The problem is that, somehow, both options hurt your feelings. 

“I mean, I totally get it if you just said it to keep up the act,” you cut in. “There are a lot of reasons why this is a good idea.” 

“The act?” 

“Well, yeah,” you reply. “Isn’t that what this is? Haven’t we just been lying to everyone? To ourselves?” 

Joshua’s hand at your waist stiffens before he draws you closer to him. You expect him to roll his eyes, do one of those exaggerated sighs that he does when you’re being difficult. 

Instead he leans in, close enough for you to feel his voice against your skin. 

“Do you think I was lying back there? Or now?” 

Your heart lurches. 

“I—no, but.” You pause. Every single coherent thought you’ve ever had scatters to the wind. “Well.” 

“Because i’m not,” Joshua says, this time, more softly. “Not about this. Or us.” 

“But how? Why?” You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling your chest swell in a way it never has before. “You’re perfect, and I'm…I’m me.” 

“That’s why,” he answers, simply. “You’re smart, funny, honest—sometimes too honest, even. You reminded me there was a better version of me that I had left behind. One that wasn’t perfect, but was happy.” 

He holds you in his gaze the same way he did in the garden, carved by moonlight. An impossible warmth fills your skin; at once, it feels like, in your vision, there is only him, like you're in a cartoon. 

“At the same time, I understand if—” Joshua starts. 

“I feel the same,” you blurt out. “I…I don’t know what this is, and I don’t think I ever really did, but I want to try.” 

You watch the surprise write itself all over his doe eyes, his unfairly rounded cheeks. From by the hors d'oeuvres, nosy Jeonghan peeks over the shoulder of another guest, already familiar with your lack of volume control. You watch him grin something stupid, triumphant. 

“You’re uptight, judgmental, and you make the worst jokes. But I…I think I might be falling for you too.” 

Saying it is like getting peeled back, terrible layer by layer, like you wrapped a hand around your heart and ripped it out your chest. And yet you’re glowing, newly-bitten with something that feels like freedom.  

“I thought you said I was perfect,” Joshua says, the pink of his lips already unraveling into a smile. This one, you think, finally reaches his eyes. 

“Shush, you—” And amongst a chorus of Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! (which would be, quite frankly, humiliating in any other scenario), you finally give in to your adoring public, and kiss. 

—

The walk back to your bedroom is a blur. All you remember are hands—hands on the small of your back, hands riding up the length of your thigh, hands in your hair, pulling at your roots. You remember hands, and the taste of Joshua’s mouth. 

It’s a walk you are not proud of, one that you’re glad happened in the dark, with all the guests gone home. 

“Did I tell you how beautiful you are?” Joshua says, pressed to the hollow of your neck as you fumble with the handle of the door to your room. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you. No one could.” 

Then his lips on yours, before you finally remember how to open a door. 

“Fuck, Josh,” you breathe between kisses, stumbling backwards until your back hits the vanity. “Need you, need you so bad.” 

He bites your lip, lets you sigh into his mouth. 

“Dress, off,” you tell him, and you lean forward on the table. Obediently, Joshua gets to work. His touch feels fiery, electric on your skin. 

In the mirror, you’re able to see the damage: your lipstick, smudged beyond repair, your blown-out pupils under your heavy lashes. There’s a hickey on your collarbone. 

“Now you have me wishing you'd wear one of those party dresses,” Joshua murmurs, still working at the lacing at your waist. “Far easier to take off.” 

“Really. The same ones that got me in big trouble with you lot?"

"For what it's worth," he replies, before kissing the back of your neck, then the ticklish space under your ear to make you laugh. "I always liked you in those. Even before we met." 

"No way." He’s finished with the lacing; your dress falls to your feet in a glorious heap of silk and lace, leaving you in your slip. Another kiss to your jaw, your cheek. "You hated them." 

"I almost bought a copy of Insider, the one with the cover of you in the black dress with the long sleeves." 

"Shut up," you laugh again, somewhere in between kisses. He’s talking about Soonyoung's new year's eve party, a few years back. You were getting out the back of a cab, alcohol-flushed and on a phone call with God knows who. "I still have it, you know. I could wear it for you one of these days." 

"Don't tempt me." Joshua kneels, bending down to undo your heels. You feel him press his lips to the back of your knee, your thigh. “Friday. Dinner?” 

“Done.” 

Then he stands back to full height and leans into you, just so you can feel him. Like clockwork, your skin prickles wonderfully even just thinking about blowing him in the back of the limo, that night he had held you down on his cock. 

Joshua must see how you squeeze your legs together. He pushes your slip up over the curve of your ass; you feel the rough of his hands over your skin, over the flimsy lace you have on for underwear. Then, before you can say a word, he pulls the waistband back, meanly, enough to tug on the hood of your clit, and lets it snap back against your skin. 

“Oh, fuck,” you keen. You had no idea you were so sensitive, but Joshua’s foreplay game was way better than you thought. “Please, Shua.” 

“Oh? So you like when I'm a little mean?” 

You watch your face in the mirror flush pink, your bitten lips fall open in surprise. He pulls tight on your panties again, loving how your eyes squeeze shut. 

“Maybe.” You pause, humiliated. Fuck it, the cat’s already out of the bag. “Yeah.” 

Joshua’s hands are warm, so warm, when they peel the fabric down your trembling thighs. 

“Legs apart, darling,” he tells you, mouth pressed to your shoulder. “So you like to boss me around the castle, but now you want me to tell you what to do? Is that so?” 

Before you can answer, you feel a finger along the seam of your cunt. You can’t see Joshua’s face in the mirror, but you can sure see yours, and you hate how even the smallest of touches has you drooling. Then a touch to your swollen clit, just rough enough to draw a gasp from you. 

 “I-it’s different,” you protest. Two fingers now, both rolling your clit under them. A whimper tumbles out of your chest, and your hips seem to be moving on their own accord. “Didn’t know you had…experience.” 

“Still not sure what made you think otherwise.” A quiet chuckle, then the slow, agonizing push of one of his fingers inside you. “Fuck, you love that, huh? Soaking my hand.”

“Yeah…” The vanity table suddenly feels too crowded to support the weight of your body, especially like this, as Joshua continues to work your clit with his other digit. Feeling your body surge again with heat, you push aside your makeup bag, all your stupid little bottles, so you can prop yourself up on your arms.

Another finger, and your legs are shaking. Quickly, he seems to have figured out how to hit your g-spot every time, every pump of his hand knocking into you just the way you like.  

“I think it was how annoying you were that did you in,” you finally answer, trying your best to put up a fair fight. “Kinda detracts from your sex appeal.” 

“Annoying?” Joshua asks, right up against the shell of your ear. like this, you can see him in the mirror, and it almost sends you over. the dark hair in his face, the insatiable look in his eyes. Then a third finger, and your eyes roll back. “Am I annoying you? Doesn’t really seem like it.” 

Your body answers for you. You feel yourself tighten around his fingers, fuck, you’re so close, you feel your head start to spin. You watch your reflection shake her head, glassy-eyed and dumb. 

He laughs cruelly. His free hand reaches up to find your tits, and, over the slip, he grabs one, rough like he’s a meaner man, like he’s slutting you out. 

At once, you feel the lightning heat of your release. You cry out, airy and high-pitched, and feel your body rock against Joshua’s as he pins you between himself and the vanity. 

“There you go,” he murmurs. His hand slows, letting you ride out your high, before he pulls out. “Wanted to do this ever since I kissed you that night.” 

“Which night?” you ask, catching your breath. A kiss to your shoulder blade, the nape of your neck. 

“The night you taught me to kiss. Or rather, tried to.” 

Ah, yes. The night you told him what Shark Tale was, and the night you made out for so long, you felt it on your lips in the morning. Dumb fucking Joshua, stupid and in love. The affection that surges through your body makes you mad. 

“You needed lessons.” 

“Not really, don’t you think?” 

“Bed. You’re talking too much,” you insist, turning around to see him. “Also, you’re wearing too much.” 

“Back to arguing with me, I see. Can’t stay away.” Joshua’s shit-eating grin prompts you to yank his tie impatiently, shutting him up. It comes off easily, just as his belt and the waistband of his slacks. (You weren’t about to let them best you a second time).

“Maybe ‘cause you find a way to be difficult about everything.” You wrinkle your nose, and Joshua’s grin only grows wider. “Don’t make me give you another order,” you warn, fully aware that since you guys got here, it’d been him doing the orders. 

You pull your slip over your head, now only in your bra, and lay back in the bed. You think of all the sleepless nights, then the ones spent talking, the ones in his arms. To think they would all culminate to this, to you now watching Joshua undo button by button with a desire unlike any other you’ve felt—it would almost be unbelievable if you weren’t doing it right now.

Like a striptease, you watch his chest peek out between the linen of his shirt. He's wearing a necklace today, one that settles meanly between his pecs. As he moves lower, you can’t help but notice the outline of his cock in his briefs, the spot of precum on the fabric. 

Traitorously, you feel your mouth water. The shirt comes off, and your lungs fill with another shaky breath. 

You know you’re both letting your freak flag fly (one of you more surprising than the other) but it’s in this moment, caught in the lamplight, that you realize how much things have really changed. Still, you’re not able to tell Joshua that this is the first time you’re sleeping with someone you might be in the L word with, but you think he sees it too, or at least, reads the look on your face. 

You feel the dip of the bed underneath as he joins you.

“Are you ok? That wasn’t too much, right?” 

“No, it was…it was good. really good,” you admit, feeling your face heat up again. “I just…I dunno. I like you a lot, that’s all.” 

“Hm?” 

“I—” you stutter, and your mouth freezes up again. “I said I like you a lot.” 

“Sorry, I just wanted to hear you say it twice.” He sees the dismay on your face and smiles. “Hm…I like you an adequate amount. On a good day.” 

Against your will, you crack the fattest smile you think your body is capable of. “You are the worst. The absolute worst, and I still want you to fuck me.” 

Upon hearing this, Joshua does not waste time. That he does—it isn’t long before he has your knees hiked to your chest, cock between your pussy lips. 

“Say you want it,” he whispers. You feel the cold kiss of his chain on your chest, the slick rock of his length between your legs. He's so hard, so big, your cunt already aches at the thought of it. 

“Want it.” Your voice comes out small, breathy. You would fight back, but you’re realizing you quite like this side of him. “Please.” 

When the head of his cock presses into you, there is no hiding. Already, you moan, sweet and loud, feeling the familiar pressure in your gut. 

“K-keep going,” you babble. Fuck, he barely fit in your mouth and now he’s stuffing your cunt. You wrench your eyes shut, listening to him talk you through it (—Look at you taking me so well. Feels good, huh? You’re so beautiful. Honestly, it’s a miracle Joshua’s ex never had a royal baby with how much they must have fucked.) 

Your second orgasm comes quickly, not long after Joshua bottoms out. He groans right in the space where your neck meets your shoulder, and it’s the best noise you think you’ve heard in your life. 

The third comes slowly, more intensely. With your knees to your chest, you think you can feel Joshua all the way in your stomach. Every stroke fucks the sound out of you, his cockhead right up against your g-spot as he fills you again and again. Sometime between orgasm two and three, he’s pulled your tits out from your bra, left marks across your chest. 

“Want you to touch yourself,” he tells you, voice low.

Mindlessly, you listen. One hand finds your nipple, the other your clit, and you let yourself get lost in the feeling. 

“F-feels good, Shua.” He enters you again, all the way, and the pleasure is white-hot. “O-oh, fuck,” you warble. 

“You’re so good at listening to me, you should do it all the time,” he murmurs. “There you go. Take it, take it, just like that. This must be what I have to do to get you to be nice, hm?” 

All you can do is stare up at him, positively fucked dumb, and take it, just as he told you to. One, two strokes, and you feel yourself get impossibly tight; “Fill me, need it, need it,” you whine, delirious. Everything from the look in his eyes, the flushed sweat over his brow, his collarbones to the way his expression responds with every word you say, makes you wonder why you wasted time fucking anyone else.

When he comes, he bites your shoulder, hard, and it’s what you need to follow soon after. You feel so fucking full, so satisfied, you think you could die happy here. 

Joshua flops down on the bed next to you, boneless. You think he’s about to say something akin to that you should have put a towel down, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls your body to him, lets you feel the warmth of his skin play against yours. 

He’s murmuring wonderful things to you, which you would gladly reciprocate if words weren’t coming to you one letter a minute. It’s not your fault though—you need to recover physically, emotionally, spiritually after getting the soul fucked out of you.

Then, “Me or you shower first?”

You groan as a response. 

“I’m serious.” 

“Together?” you offer weakly. 

“Fair chance we won’t just be showering then.” 

“Oh nooo.” 

That’s all Joshua needs to whisk you to the bathroom, where, indeed, he seems to be right yet again. 

—

The spring morning washes over Acros like a second skin. The birdsong rouses you; through the curtains comes sunlight from the garden, spackled on the wall as if spots on a doe. 

It’s been almost a year since your parents had told you that you were marrying Joshua Hong, prince of Acros. Six months since he had told you he had loved you. Two months since you and Jeonghan had pulled off your first joint production at the youth theater (a roaring success). One month since you were fully, fully moved in, Astrid and Jihoon included. 

After your engagement ball, you and Joshua had agreed to take it slow, as slow as two people who had very publicly announced their wedding could. But still, somehow your parents, both sets, could tolerate the two of you wanting to do things the right way. Perhaps they were still shocked things worked out as well as they did. 

“Morning,” you call out. The bed beside you is cold. “Josh?” 

You’re surprised he’s up. Last night, he went out with you, Somi, and Soonyoung. Somehow, he had drunk enough to get up and solo karaoke a Whitney Houston song, although you’re suspecting the alcohol was just a cover for his true intentions. 

Then you look out the window. You spot Joshua, seated on the bench overlooking the garden. This time of year, the roses are in full bloom, their bright heads reaching for the sky in brilliant red and gold. 

When you go to join him outside, he’s no longer at the bench. You actually don’t know where the fuck he went, but it’s no matter. Here, you’re able to appreciate the beauty of the season, the rolling green of the country you’re now calling home. 

It was also here where you had your first real conversation with Joshua without fighting, funnily enough. Now, you’d say the both of you were more agreeable, but that’d be a lie—somehow, you think you actually enjoy bickering with him, but that’s a conversation for another day. 

Behind you, someone (Joshua) clears his throat. 

“Now, what are you—” you say, spinning around. It was too damn early for games, but Joshua had no shortage of bad ideas. 

It’s then that you see Joshua behind you, on one knee. His smile tells you everything you have to know, and every thought in your mind freezes in an instant. 

“When I first saw you, I knew I would marry you,” he starts. That's a joke he’s probably been saving for months now, but instead of rolling your eyes, you can’t help but laugh, like you’re a broken soundboard. “No, really.” 

You stand there, immovable. Of course you had to be in your pajamas (his shirt and boxers, really), no makeup, hair untouched. And yet, you can’t imagine anything more perfect. 

“You drive me crazy,” Joshua continues. “In every way possible. I can't imagine life without your laugh, or your thinking face, or how you always need to have an answer for everything.” 

He produces a small box. It’s different from the first one, the one he used all those months ago when nothing mattered. Inside it, a new ring, something far simpler and more beautiful.

Joshua says your name, wonderful and reverent in his mouth. “Darling princess of Cotria, I'm asking you to marry me. Again.” 

And you say yes, for the very first time.

[END]

[the-orangeauthor]

4, 7 and 25 for the get to know your author ask game! ✨

Thank you, you always come through 🥺❤

4. Favourite character you've written

My favourite character so far will probably have to be Eron, a very sarcastic but ih so dramatic telekinetic dragon from Daughter of the Dragon. His personality reminds me so much of myself that it makes it very easy and fun to write him!

7. When asked, are you embarrassed or enthusiastic to tell people you write?

Oh, my dear, I am riddled with anxieties, I'm embarrassed whenever someone asks me anything 😅 but it most likely depends on how and what I know of this person. If I'm fond of them then I feel a bit more free to speak without judgement, if I dont like them however I tend to guard my work/keep to the bare minimum because I dislike even the slightest sign of bejng ridiculed.

25. Copy paste a few short sentences/paragraph that you're particularly proud of

I've mostly just been plotting recently for a new wip and the entire concept of plotting is insane to me, so I'm gonna take an extract from Daughter of the Dragon:

'When that moment comes, where you have to make that unspeakable choice, do it.'

"Taurus," I said suddenly, my mind shutting down and focusing on one thing "go higher."

"What, why?"

"Just do it!"

"Sapphire!" James leapt from the dragon he was riding to ours "do you have a plan?" Dominic turned from firing his arrows, hope filling his face.

"I do." I said simply.

"Care to share?" Taurus said as he took us higher, still dodging rogues as he went.

"Im gonna jump."

"Are you insane?!" Taurus yelled, his ice growing jagged and raw with anger.

"You cant be serious," Dominic said but I was already climbing to Taurus' wing edge and looking down.

"Sapphire, you're gonna get yourself killed!" James yelled after me. I looked back at him and gave a small smile.

"Its kinda my legacy to sacrifice myself for the people, isn't it?" He was at loss for words, reaching for me in vain. I pushed him back and his stump slipped amd he stumbled back into Dominic.

"I wont let you!" Taurus yelled, banking away from Buphas.

"I have to do this, I love you!" I said and ran forward, jumping straight off of his back.

Then, I just let myself fall.

[blookmallow]

AND WE FINALLY FINISH THIS NIGHTMARE

check out that cool shot i managed to catch directly when the lightning struck. ill get to that moment a lil later but im still psyched about that. ok anyway

this would be sweet in theory but jessica’s model moves Really weird along with you and it’s mostly just very unsettling 

oh i already don’t like you

hhhhhhhh fuck fuck fuck this is bad 

what the fuck have you been doing to her

THIS IS SO FUCKING NASTY GET OUT OF MY FACE 

also wouldn’t be surprised if the placement of the. “responsibility” sign directly outside the door when blake. walks away from that situation. was intentional

god. this whole mess would be horrific for anyone to go through but blake’s got some really specific trauma here that canNOT be helping. fuck

uH

TH...ANK S?? I THINK ????

im not sure WHAT just happened but i think the cultists caught the heretics and started killing everybody which is FINE BY ME I’LL BE OVER HERE GETTING THE FUCK OUT OF THIS MINE 

I GOT LYNN THOUGH AND SHE LOOKS LIKE SHIT BUT SHE’S ALIVE AND ALSO NOT MISSING HER LEGS EVEN THOUGH IT REALLY LOOKED LIKE SHE WAS 

im still not sure what the fuck happened here i guess. psychosomatic pregnancy combined with hallucination caused by trauma and Murkoff Fuckery but THEY SURE DON’T BOTHER TO TELL YOU THAT :’) it took me hours of scouring wiki pages and also reading the extra comics i had no idea existed bc the game doesn’t mention them to find out what the FUCK happened

lynn seems to believe it’s blake’s child, which i guess is a moot point if the baby never existed in the first place, but probably confirms it was a trauma/hallucination/whateverthefuck situation and she wasn’t cheating on him even if it still logically couldn’t be his because of the timeframe 

honey that’s not jessica,

i really, really don’t think blake is okay

yOU DON’T SAY :’ ) 

FUCKINGSHITFUCKGODHELLFUCKING FUCK YOU NOT AGAIN

fuCKINg HELL

,,,,well

if that wasnt divine intervention i dunno what is 

really fond of the outlast tradition of “horrible, awful thing relentlessly pursues you until you FINALLY witness their gruesome death and have a brief fleeting moment of peace” though

i. guess it’s just knoth left now, huh. 

lynn: [in hysterics, probably dying, apparently about to give birth] 

me: wait hold ON a second check out this GRAVEYARD

god she’s on the fucking torture rack 

this is, quite possibly, the worst fucking scenario to give birth in 

GOD that was. not a pleasant scene and i was going to comment on the sheer ridiculousness of a woman giving birth in like One push and the entire baby’s just Out but if this didn’t really happen/was hallucinatory that would. explain that 

and i am, regardless, immensely grateful they decided to let this just be over in like 5 seconds and didn’t make me go through a long laborious graphic birthing scene bc outlast absolutely would do that and i dunno if i coulda handled it much longer than it was :’  ) 

still dont know what this was about either, if the pregnancy and the baby were hallucinations, lynn was under that same hallucination too she believed she was pregnant and about to give birth, so why wouldn’t she see the baby. if its real and she’s the one hallucinating that it isn’t there that means literally EVERYTHING ELSE now makes no sense whatsoever. did she get released from the hallucination right at this moment for some reason. and if she did why didn’t blake. knoth sees the baby too so he’s clearly still sharing the same hallucination (or, again, if lynn is the one hallucinating and the baby is real HOW THE FUCK DID ANY OF THIS HAPPEN) 

i really like blake and all but some part of me just really wishes we could’ve had lynn’s side of this story 

she went through hell too, she went through unspeakable things too, and we don’t get to see her fighting, we don’t get to see her story, she doesn’t make it out and she just gets reduced to the Woman Who You, A Man, Must Protect until she tragically dies at the last minute 

and blake is so far gone at this point he can’t even differentiate between his wife and jessica anymore. lynn just gets completely shoved out of her own story and im not blaming blake for that, it’s not irredeemable to have loved someone else once, and of course he’s not going to be over that considering he practically witnessed her fucking murder and all the shit he’s going through directly parallels that trauma AND he’s got. whatever murkoff fuckery is going on in his brain too 

but i do blame the writers for doing this to her 

and they had that line early on (in this same room even) like “why do they always hurt women to get to men” which. i guess parallels this scene too but i had been interpreting it like “why the fuck are women always reduced to just the victims, why do men feel like they have to prove their point by hurting women” and blake’s clearly not the hyper-masculine Hero type, he’s strong enough to tear his hands off a cross, sure, but at heart he’s just a scared camera guy who has no idea what the fuck is going on or what to do and this experience clearly breaks him 

but then. lynn’s just the victim too. and doesn’t get to have her own story. she dies on a torture rack minutes before she could have escaped this hell (assuming blake didn’t just die too. it’s not clear. i think the comic said he was still breathing) after all that she dies and her husband doesn’t even remember her name

i dont know. i cant get a coherent thought together on this but i just. dont like it 

anyway i. guess im responsible for a BABY now, as well, 

im really glad this was the end of the game bc i do NOT think i could have coped with. going through more of this While Also Carrying An Infant :’) 

WHAT PARADISE, WHAT ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT 

congratulations. hope you’re proud of yourself. please get away from me

ARE YOU PERHAPS, MAYBE, FIGURING SOMETHING OUT HERE. REALIZING SOME MISTAKES THAT MAY HAVE BEEN MADE. POSSIBLY. YOU SHIT 

OR HOW ABOUT I DONT DO THAT 

oh

well.

saves me the trouble of dealing with you, i guess. not that he probably would have been very good at pursuing me anyway, but 

,,,well. bye then,

that sure did happen, didn’t it 

,,,what do i even Do now 

the sun is rising, though

cliché as it is i still love “the sun rises at the end of the Horror” anyway :’)

boy am i glad my baby won’t remember this

and probably isn’t real in the first place, but you know,

looks like everyone who was left did a mass suicide and i cant say i feel all that sorry about it 

does that sun look a little too close or 

oh fuck

WELL THE SUN EXPLODED, SO THAT’S. GOOD 

wait what am i doing back here

AND THAT’S THE END, FOLKS, THAT’S IT 

I DIDN’T NEED ANY ANSWERS OR CLOSURE OR ANYTHING, THAT’S FINE :’) THANKS RED BARRELS 

[thatwritingsideblog]

Space Cherik AU - Starlight - Chapter Two

Hello! So just a quick authors note…I accidentally deleted my old account :P so this is ThatWritingSideBlog version 2.0. BUT good news! I have backups and I’ll be reposting everything, plus a bit more :). Hope you’re having a good week!

Erik led Charles from the room, leaving Raven’s body to be cleaned up by blank-faced servants with even blander thoughts. There was no surprise in their minds. Apparently, the Royals killed regularly, making this not even the first body of the day.

In any other case, Charles would have taken the time to admire the dark blue hangings over the windows, the beautiful stone inlays of the walls, or even perhaps the colorful flowers that were placed every five feet and smelled like the Westchester gardens before War had done his work and Apocalypse had come to rule. All of it slipped by him without a second thought. Charles could feel the grief building in his chest, dark, terrible, and threatening to overwhelm him with every step away from Raven’s body. He fought it off as best he could, focusing on Erik. Erik, the Royal who had killed Charles’ sister like it was nothing and was now taking Charles to who knew what fate.

Erik stopped outside twin metal doors, inlaid with twining, shimmering metals that glowed in the light of the lamps above them. He waved his hand and they parted, revealing a lavish chamber. Perhaps, compared to the other Royal’s rooms, it was not so lavish, but to Charles, who had celebrated the find of running water in one of the houses he and Raven had hidden in, everything in it was an unspeakable luxury.

“Do you drink wine?” Erik walked inside, picking up a metal decanter. Most things in the room were metal, Charles noted. They were different types and shapes and colors, but all doubtless could be formed into a weapon in an instant under Erik’s power. Charles settled on a soft velvet divan, barely registering the cup that floated into his hand.

“What are you going to do to me?”

Erik poured wine into his cup, “I don’t know yet. The possibilities really are endless…” His purr sent Charles’ hair on end, “You come with an assassin, but are not one. You are not a Royal, but even I can feel your power. You are breakable, like her, but I don’t find myself wanting to break you just yet.” He summoned a chair to his side, sprawling lazily into it. “The Others, the surface dwellers,” He said it with such disdain it made Charles’ skin crawl, “are nothing. Your life is nothing. But,” He paused, running his thumb over the edge of his cup, “Your power is not nothing, it would gain me great favor with Apocalypse.” He tilted his head to better watch the shiver that ran down Charles’ spine, “But I already have great favor with Apocalypse.”

Charles looked down at the wine in his hand, “Or you could send me home.”

“I could,” Erik agreed, “but that, I think, I won’t do.”

“Please,” Charles looked up, “Please, Erik—”

Erik shivered. It was only the slight flicker of an eye, but Charles saw it. “Did you take it from my mind? That name.”

“I can’t see into your mind. It just slipped out,” Charles considered taking a sip of the wine. It might be the last thing he’d ever have to drink and made a better last supper than the stale crackers he’d wolfed down for breakfast.

“I see,” Erik played with the silver ring on his finger, pressing it against his lips, “Why did you come here, if not to kill Apocalypse like your…friend?”

Charles gave in and drank a mouthful of wine. It was delicious, of course, the Royals tolerated nothing that wasn’t perfect. It was both sweet and bitter all at the same time, and he savored it on his tongue before answering. “I wanted to see what the Royals were really like.”

Erik’s lips curved in a sadistic smile, leaving Charles with the feeling he did not hold much fondness for the other Royals, “And are you appeased?”

“More than enough,” Charles downed the rest of the glass, “So, are you going to kill me, or keep asking me inane questions all day?” Perhaps it was the wine that gave him the courage to ask it, but more likely it was the grief Charles could feel battering against his mind, threatening to drag him into its murky depths and befuddling his mind so he could not tell courage from recklessness.

Erik’s smile lessened slightly, the cup flying from Charles’ hands to float in the air. “There is a bath in the next room. Do you know how to use it?” He answered Charles’ glare with a laugh, “Good. I’ll have the servants fetch you some clothes. I’m afraid your foray into our world isn’t quite over yet.” Erik flicked his fingers, the double doors at the other end of the room opening, “If you survive it, perhaps I’ll return you to your planet.”

Charles may not have been able to read Erik’s mind, but as Erik’s smile widened they both knew it was a lie.

[ufonaut]

Hey!!! I’m curious about your Artie headcanons. I see people around the web getting strange ideas and making up dumbest theories on him duh. And remembering how nice and well written your fic abt him and Sophie was, I think you def have good ones c:

OH THANK YOU!!!! im always beyond happy to get to talk about our collective son ARTURO

contrary to popular belief & despite how heartless it sounds, i don’t think penny is too... fond of him? i mean artie’s 44 and penny is in her early sixties, that would’ve made her a very young mother and if she’s as obsessed with thomas wayne as the description we’ve gotten makes her seem, well, let’s just say arties a very effective reminder of what she’s lost

coincidentally, artie moves moves away from home literally as soon as he can. most people move to gotham to make it big but mr aspiring comedian over here just wants to disappear in a small town (where he works at a haunted blockbuster. yes the haunted part is relevant)

coming back to gotham, especially to take care of penny, does end up feeling like something of a personal failure at some points

both arthur & penny really honestly believe in just about any conspiracy theory. thats the vibe

also contrary to every single post ive seen, i dont think artie’s ever done anything remotely illegal in his life. what we’ve seen so far, from set pics etc, honestly looks like there are genuine protests going on and i do think artie’s part of that for all the right reasons

and i mean, revolting against the rich is a very noble thing to do as far as im concerned, with or without arthur’s personal vendetta against thomas (which, if it exists, is also highly valid). hes also very clearly framed as the protagonist of this story

VERY IMPORTANT: artie cries at the slightest inconvenience. we’ve seen him crying about three times by now and its been my greatest dream every single time. crying in public!!!!!!!!!!!! hes doing it!!!!

also a fact: he’s unspeakably clumsy AND awkward

in spite of literally everything going against him, he ends up very tentatively befriending sophie and they get along real well even if she’s making fun of him 24/7

most nights he can, in fact, be found snoozing on sophie’s couch ‘cause it’s a lot more comfortable (emotionally) than being stuck in his childhood bedroom. also nights here means after 4 pm

artie’s great with kids, better than with most adults actually because no one else seems to think he’s funny

this isnt a headcanon because we’ve got video evidence but going back to the clumsy thing: i cannot believe he literally doesn’t know how to cross the street. artie gets hit or nearly hit by cars every day of his life & thats just normal for him

thank u, i hope u liked these

[superel-m-blog]

"Clark, how're the stars? The sun, and the moon, up close?" It was a night where they shared a night of fighting crime side by side, proving fruitful in their efforts of capturing burglars. They sat together on a roof, the symbiote peeled back from Eddie's features as he found himself staring at the moon. Clark's presence was always warm, the soft fluttering of his cap in the gentle breeze was always assuring... "I've been to space a few times, but... I never really paid attention to them."

STARS :  SUNS .  all hung on invisible strings  throughout a galaxy beyond that surrounded them.  wide wonders were  of the oblivion that nestled the earth within its void .   it was peculiar to live on this earth and then look in the sky and see a frontier that could never be tamed by man.  however, like art in museum or the wild running horses of evaded :  some things we’re best left viewed, untouched, and wild  .   there was history when looking at paintings . there was more then what the artist wanted you to see. there was the time i went through. the years it remained untouched. how eternal they were in the place they hanged.  that’s one way clark saw stars . they were there. always there and ripe for the viewing. the constellation told stories unspeakable . all for free within the world above.  it pained clark really … it pained him on how fast society moved. everyone looked forward. like looked down. left and right. however, they never looked up at the beauty above that was nightly  . but then there was the star on earth, eddie,  who would sit with him and simply admire what the world had to offer once the sun set.   a night well spent fighting crime then having a impromptu post-crime-fighting-date upon the privacy of a high perched roof top.  it couldn’t be more romantic, right ?  blue gaze fell to eddie momentarily before looking back at the night sky with increased fondness then prior .  there was a silence that befell them both once again. one where the duo could hear everything. how clarks hand gently slid across teh slid roofing to attain his beloved large hand.  how the cape made soft whips like how flags in the air would.  how the wind gently kissed and whistled their ears. maybe even the honk of a car below. but that didn’t matter.

❛   well out in space … hm.   what can i say.  when i’m out there everything is still so far away.  its like when i’m out there every star is exactly where it is.   but the moon? up close? its beautiful eddie. every crack and crater in detail. i been there before.  its kind of lonely being on the moon. you can look one way and all you see is nothing. you hear nothing. but… . it can also be beautiful too. when you turn around and see the whole earth in front of you  ? the marble like clouds   ? every single country ?  the colors of green, beige, and white ? its spectacular . you see simply the land , but really there is so many things happening. i’m talking about earth … he chuckled for a moment.  anyway … its incredible in its own way, love.  when im flying in the sky  i feel so free. but once i make it to space … theres this sense of mysterious and eerie calmness. not a single peep. not a single thing. the sun feels amazing though. in space its always day time .  speaking of time, being in space you feel like there is no time .  the sun is in the same place, there is always light on your skin. all that moves is the moon … thats when i realized when i flew out the world i just flew into a new one.  hm… was that  a good answer  ?  did that make sense ? 

LOVE :  NEAR . clark shifted his gaze from the sky to meet eddie . his smile became fond simply looking at his sweetheart . he couldn’t fight off being a little bit sappy.

❛    but,  nothing beats looking at you.  hun   .   ❜

@osteum

[cvrsedink]

A Bellatrix Lestrange One-Shot

*It’s been a very long time since I’ve occupied her head space, so she is a bit rusty. I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Dreams turned into nightmares every time she shut her eyes. The sounds of low moans and cries for help filled her ears as if she were still there, chained to the salty stones in her cell, starving, weak, and alone. Only when the waves crashed against the sides of the towering prison were their voices drowned out, smothered by the angry water that surrounded Azkaban. Nature seemed to feed off the wizard-made island; the ocean groaned and clouds permanently darkened the sky, threatening to strike them all down at any given time. But even this scene was not privy to her. The small sliver of a window stood opposite of her confinement, just out of reach and tauntingly promising a freedom she could not have. Day and night she stared through this gap, unable to tear herself away from the past, as the screams of prisoners confused themselves with those entirely in her head.

The faces of her sisters swam before her eyes, frozen in shrieks of terror as they were struck down. Andromeda was always first, her hand outstretched as she attempted to fight for her freedom, but a jet of green light struck her chest like an arrow. Always true to its mark each time she saw the scene. Defiant, as she had always been, but the stubbornness was not unknown to the Black girls. Despite her utter treachery, Bellatrix had always found a way to keep her out of the Dark Lord’s direct line of sight.

Narcissa died last. She laid sprawled out on hard stone flooring, weeping and begging for the life of her child. Slowly, with her arms wrapped around a squirming blonde-haired babe, she would seem to melt into a pool of dark liquid. Her light, nearly white, hair fanned out around her was stained red with blood. A shadowed figure stood over her sinking form, letting out a high cruel laugh before ending her life.

No matter how many times Bellatrix attempted to change their fates, they always left her. And her mind would collapse into darkness, the deaths of her sisters becoming her reality and the only thing she knew to be true. It was her punishment, for the crimes she had committed. Because she had done many things for her Master, unspeakable things, and whatever happiness she had clung to was sucked from her soul. Hollow, broken, but still alive, she’d been half mad by the time her Dark Lord rescued her.

Weeks had passed since then, but the taste of salt lingered on her tongue. The others, the ones who had escaped her fate, didn’t understand the agony she had endured. How could they? Cowardice ruled their lives as they all fled into hiding the moment their Master had fallen. No one searched for him, no one except her and two others. And their attempts had been all for naught. No information was retrieved from the torture of Frank and Alice Longbottom, nothing but assurance that Bellatrix was His most loyal servant. In the end they had all been sent away, to rot in cells until their bodies withered into corpses.

Her mind had been lost. Her power became unpredictable, yet as strong as ever. She blamed those that had put her in chains for the misery she had suffered and it was revenge that fueled her. Nothing would satisfy her more than to see her enemies parish in the flames she created and ever since her freedom she had strived to be at His side, aiding him, as she had done before. But the broken fragments of a once strong woman shuddered at his fury, trembled under his glare, and strove earnestly to please him once more. Let me find the boy. She had said, heart fluttering with a long forgotten sensation. But he had shot her down. Admirable as her devotion was, the boy was his. Everything was his. But today, things were changing.

An owl had arrived, a strange method of communication from the Dark Lord, but it was a private summoning. The Mark was used solely to command the presence of all, but tonight he only wanted her. Jittery with anticipation, she waited for the time she was allowed to come. It had been too long since their last private meeting. Nearly fourteen years had passed since she had last stood in his presence alone. Back then she had been so bold, a soldier who was both loyal and ambitious. Tonight, she would prove to be just the same.

When the clock struck eleven, she apparated out of the Malfoy manor unnoticed and arrived outside the safe house. It appeared, from the outside, to be a run down shack with nothing more to it than a tattered, dirty curtain that fluttered in a broken window. Weeds cluttered the front yard, tangling together with sharp thorns, and tainting the air with a putrid smell. Stepping forward, she tapped her wand on the right side of a wrought iron gate before creaking it open and slipping past silently.

The inside of the shack was much larger and cleaner than the outside, but nearly as dark. There was no light, save for a low golden glow coming from the end of a long hallway. It cut through the blackness like a knife and guided her way to where she knew the Dark Lord would be waiting for her. The scent of mildew carpet overpowering her senses, she placed a hand against the cracked door, and pushed it open, announcing her arrival.

“Bellatrix.” His voice was low, barely audible over the crackling and snapping of burning wood. He had his black turned to her, his pale hands clasped behind him like a man deep in thought. “I have some news for you---"

“My Lord!” Bellatrix gasped, breathless with the honor of standing before him. Her body shrank in the company of his, head bowed in respect, a tangle of wild black hair curtained her gaze for only a moment. She longed to look at him, to be seen by him. Slowly, but insistently, she moved closer. “What is it my Lord?”

Gazing into the fire, the strange features of Lord Voldemort were illuminated in an unearthly glow. His sharp cheek bones casted shadows over his face and his red eyes were sunk deep into his skull, like two beacons shining out of the depths of a cavern. It was unnerving, yet mesmerizing and the woman found herself transfixed, waiting for him to tell her why he had summoned her. Why her? What grand plan did he have for the one who had been sent away for him? But the task at hand was not a gift to his soldier, but a test. It had not been lost on him that the woman who had been returned to him was not the same. And there could be no risking that Azkaban had softened her, instead of strengthening her.

“It seems---young Harry has a fond attachment for your cousin, Sirius Black.” His raspy voice filled the room with little effort, his eyes trained on the flames that licked flesh from wood. His servant hissed at the name of her kin and took a small step back. “Now, now, Bellatrix.” Voldemort turned, his gaze resting on her gaunt face. Her hollow eyes were momentarily alight with temptation and he lifted a hand to cup her chin. “I have given our slippery friend, Lucius, a mission--- and I wish you to accompany him.”

Her slender fingers twitched, her body coiling away from his cold touch. “You should not trust him, my Lord. He is not trustworthy. Malfoy is weak!” Bellatrix spat. “He is not strong enough to carry out your missions. You should have let me do this.” She was the most loyal, she had done everything to find him, and her efforts were repaid with exclusion. How dare Lucius or Severus think they were the most favored, the most devout of them all. How dare they think themselves worthy! After all those years, they had spent in their cozy lives, forgetting who they were and letting the world forget who they had served.

Ignoring her outburst, the Dark Lord continued. “I’m going to lure the boy to the Department of Mysteries, so that we may retrieve the prophecy at long last. He will think Sirius is there, captured by me, tortured by me. This will bring him. But it will also bring Sirius, no doubt.” He paused, taking in the expression on his loyal servant’s face, drinking in the flickering of emotions hidden behind her lidded eyes. “You must rid the boy of him.”

It took only a moment for Bellatrix to understand what she was being instructed to do. It would not be her job to get the prophecy or even capture the boy, instead it would be to kill Sirius Black. “Of course, My Lord.” Her voice did not tremble or fault in any way to betray the sliver of hesitance she felt. The Black family name would die with Sirius and they would fade away, like other great houses had done. No more would they command the respect of others or insight fear, but instead dwindle away like a withering flower. Once dead, there would be no use to recollect on it and no chance of revival.

“That is all.”

The Dark Lord turned away from her and Bellatrix retreated into the shadows, the face of young Sirius dancing in her mind. Such a bright, vivacious boy he had been. What a shame…what a shame, she thought miserably. But she could not fail. It was clear to her, now, that this was not a mission she could turn away from. There would be no more shielding her family from the wrath of the Dark Lord.

[nerice]

(in)comprehensive guide 2 kaikai kitan gojocore emotions bc i am,, crying

speaker uses 僕 (boku) gojo is the only main character who talks that way :) (bc. yknow who scolded him for using ‘ore’,, crying commences) 

first verse is fairly chill n mostly abt faceless crowds, emptiness, unfair life & chasing memories but nothing specific until >>>

僕に居場所いないから (i don’t have a place where i belong) / 夢の狭間で泣いてないで (don’t cry in the blank spaces between your dreams)

どんな顔すれば良いか 分かってる だけどまだ応えてくれよ (i know what face to make but i’m waiting for you to respond) which gets changed in the 2nd verse to わかんないよ (i don’t know which face to make)

the entire song is so obviously sung at someone & ofc im choosing to believe it is getou. the fkicn pervasive loneliness n saying all of this into emptiness begging for a reply......... emo. it’s killing me

誰よりも聡く在る 街に生まれしこの正体を 今はただ呪い呪われた僕の未来を創造して (stronger than anyone / my true self was born in this city / now all i can do is imagine the future that was taken from me by curses) oh how tragic to find happiness young n watch it all crumble to dust despite your unspeakable power :,)

走って転んで 消えない痛み抱いては 世界が待ってる この一瞬を (run and crash / i wrap my arms around this never-ending pain / the world is waiting for this moment) unravel playing in a kfc post break-up,, memes aside the. feeling of the entire world watching, coming 2 a standstill as you nurse your terrible little hurt ;;___;;

傀儡な誓いの 無き 百鬼夜行 (lit. puppet/puppeteer without an oath / night parade of a hundred demons) in which the last bit literally is the same expression that gets used fr getou’s terror attack a year prior so this is 100% abt him but 百鬼夜行 in a less literal sense also just means suspicious characters roaming and plotting evil so :^) works double duty just like the fact that 傀儡 can mean both puppet or puppeteer. take ur pick on what getou is / which getou he’s talking abt.. (cries in THEY) directly followed by 呪術無き奈落の果てまでも (powerless [lit. w/o jujutsu] all the way into the depths of hell) & after this is the change to ‘i dont know what face to make’ :))

ただ追いかけて 誰よりも強く在りたいと願う (just chase after it / this wish to be stronger than anyone) [...] 今はただ ほの 暗い夜の底に 深く深く落ち 込 んで (right now, just sinking deeper and deeper towards the obscure bottom of this night)

不格好に見えたかい (do i look awkward/unsightly) これが今の僕なんだ 何者にも成れないだけの屍だ (this is the current me, a corpse that cannot become anything) 笑 えよ (just laugh)........... ah yes this was the line that broke me :’) it’s the slow part just before the last chorus hits. i. hurt. 💔

odds n ends

a bunch of buddhist concepts which jjk is so fond of r in the song: 大乗 (mahayana) oldest sect of buddhism + 怨親平等 (onshinbyoudou) concept of “treat friend and foe the same” + 奈落 (naraku) buddhist hell + 極楽往生 (gokurakuonjou) rebirth in (buddh.) paradise / peaceful death + 五常 (gojou) five cardinal confucian virtues, homonym to gojo’s name but the 2nd kanji differs (not that gojo isn’t named after his bf’s clothes anyway which is way more extra homoromo, lol)

there is a clever visual pun w the train aes in the opening bc of 相対して廻る環状戦 (we face each other in circular battle that goes round and round) but the last syllable “sen” could be written with 戦 “battle” or 線 “line” which wld make it 環状線 instead, also known as the train loop line in cities !!

[goetianovel]

Chapter 2: Something In The Water

It had been several hours since Peter's dream, of the woman he knew as Bune, and yet the trepidation coursing through his veins had not passed. What normally could have been easily dismissed as a dream felt to close, too real, for the feline to simply dismiss it out of hand. He had practically seen the contours of the sidewalk, practically felt the woman's breath against him as his dream-view had gone in close... and for the love of all that was holy, he wasn't sure if the feelings that welled up inside of him were terror... or an odd, hard to describe arousal at the memories of that feeling, which just spooked the poor man even more.

His roommate had disappeared with the morning, off to some job that Peter had never particularly bothered to ask about. Something to do with computers and, to quote the man, “enough code to make Bill Gates' head spin”. And so he was alone in the apartment, seated at his laptop and looking up just where the name “Bune” had come from.

From what he could tell, Bune was a demon described in the Ars Goetia, sealed away by the king Solomon, a dragon with three heads, all different species. Which, of course, raised the question of why he was so damnably certain the young woman from his dream was, in fact, the Bune. After all, she had resembled for all the world your average young woman with a fondness for earrings and form-covering waterproof outfits. Not exactly something that goes tempting mortals or doing battle with the forces of good.

It also raised the question of how he was so certain of this woman's name. Before the dream, he had never seen her before in his life, not even after going through ancient school yearbooks and checking the various friends-he-never-spoke-to on his assorted social media accounts. And here he was, not only being certain of her name, but also feeling an odd, unspoken closeness to this young woman.

He was about to give up, grab a cold drink and pray that he really had just dreamed the whole thing... until, suddenly, he received a message on his IM app of choice. It was from a contact he didn't know... which rendered him rather disconcerted that not only was this account contacting him, they had somehow wound up on his Friends list. The only hint he had to their identity was their Avatar, a depiction of a closed eye, and their username “ACEDIA” in all caps.

ACEDIA was a remarkably fast typer, and before Peter could even consider responding, they had practically sent him an entire paragraph of text, spaced out over five or so messages.

[7:50 AM] ACEDIA: “PETER BECKMAN. YOU ARE BEING WATCHED. YOU DO NOT KNOW ME, BUT I KNOW YOU. BUT I DO NOT MEAN YOU HARM, CHILD OF THE MORNING STAR. I INTEND TO ASSIST YOU. YOU SHALL BE APPROACHED BY AN INDIVIDUAL. THE ONE YOU KNOW AS BUNE. LISTEN TO HER, AND DO AS SHE ASKS. OTHERWISE, YOU SHALL SURELY COME TO RUIN. THE ENVIOUS ONE COMES FOR YOU AS WE SPEAK.”

Peter hesitated. This person knew Bune as well... this may be his only chance to get more information...

[7:51 AM] Peter B: “Why are you telling me this? Who is Bune?”

[7:51 AM] ACEDIA: “BUNE IS AN ALLY. THEY MEAN GOOD THINGS FOR YOU.”

[7:51 AM] ACEDIA: “AND I AM ACEDIA. I WATCH. I WAIT.”

[7:52 AM] Peter B: “How do I know I can trust you?”

[7:52 AM] ACEDIA: “YOU DON'T.”

[7:52 AM] ACEDIA: “FOR NOW, YOU MUST SIMPLY LEAVE IT TO FAITH.”

Peter stared at his laptop, wondering if, perhaps, he had simply suddenly lost his mind. First, a dream of a woman he didn't know, and yet felt as if he'd known for years, and now mysterious online people claiming to know the same person he knew AND claiming his life was apparently in danger. And also refused to share any information on if they were trustworthy or not.

[7:53 AM]Peter B: “Is this a prank? Am... am I being punked? Is Bune just going to turn out to be Johnny Knoxville in a remarkably professional costume?”

[7:53 AM] ACEDIA: “VERY FUNNY. YOUR ATTEMPT AT COMEDY IS NOTED FOR LATER MOCKERY.”

[7:53 AM] ACEDIA: “AWAIT BUNE. STAY AWAY FROM SOURCES OF WATER. DRINK IT BOTTLED IF YOU MUST.”

[7:53 AM] ACEDIA: “AND FINALLY, RESEARCH “KING BA'AL” AND “DEMON PRINCE LEVIATHAN”. THAT IS ALL THE AID I SHALL RENDER FOR NOW.”

[7:53 AM] ACEDIA: “GOOD LUCK.”

With that, ACEDIA seemingly went offline... or at least, they refused to respond to any of Peter's progressively frustrated messages. When it turned out obscenities and rude names weren't catching his mysterious benefactor's attention, he closed his laptop in frustration... then re-opened it and began the research he had been assigned. Perhaps it would help...

As it turned out, this little homework assignment had proved... equally as useful as the research into Bune. Ba'al was supposedly a King of Hell who could transform into a Cat, a Toad, or a Human, or some strange amalgamate of all three. Meanwhile, Leviathan was considered a Prince of Hell, the seabound Demon responsible for the Sin of Envy and, according to some sources, around even before the creation of the Universe, swimming through the darkness of an unborn world as if in the ocean's depths.

Which, surprise surprise, didn't exactly help Peter much or assuage his mounting paranoia and stress. Which led the feline to the kind of therapy he preferred in lieu of... well, actually therapy. Stripping down right there in the living room, he headed for the shower. Really, “Stay away from sources of water”, what nonsense. Next Acedia was going to tell him oxygen was actually poison or something.

Underneath the flow of hot water, he could feel his problems fading, ever so slightly. Not to say they were gone, he just felt less stressed about it, as he scrubbed himself down and luxuriated in the feeling of isolation. In fact, he felt so calm that he didn't notice the way the drain cover lowered itself, or the sudden pooling of water around his ankles. In fact, by the time he noticed something was strange, it was too late, a hand grasping him by the foot and dragging him into deep water that certainly hadn't been there before.

Peter let out a shocked gasp as he was suddenly surrounded by deep, ice cold water, all but the slightest light from above gone. Water flooded his mouth, and rather than the warm, metallic tap water he expected, his mouth and lungs filled with harsh, painfully cold salt water. He kicked fruitlessly at the figure grasping at him, dragging him deeper and deeper. He had no idea what had him, but he could see the light fading, knowing that he grew further and further away from anything resembling survival with each passing second.

The cat wondered dimly if, perhaps, this was simply some unspeakably horrid nightmare, his consciousness beginning to waver with oxygen deprivation. Surely, it was. A man wasn't suddenly pulled into the depths of the ocean in his shower. He'd wake up in a moment, gasping for air, but alive and well.

As the pain in his lungs intensified, and the cold of the water begun to bring a dull, numbing ache to his body, Peter began to feel panic overtake him as he realized that your average nightmare would have woken him up around the time he started feeling actual pain.

Suddenly, there was a hand around his wrist, a grip like iron shaking him briefly from his dizziness, yanking him upwards, pulling against the grasp of the unseen creature gripping his ankle. Peter felt his vision fading, what limited oxygen he had fading from his lungs. He felt himself moving upward just as the last vestiges of consciousness passed...

Peter awoke to the surprisingly pleasant sensation of a pair of lips wrapped around his, blowing air into his lungs, the taste of bubblegum hitting his senses... and then the lips withdrew, and he was treated to the much less pleasant sensation of small yet strong hands pressing down on his chest repeatedly hard enough that he was pretty sure he'd wind up with a bruised rib. Coughing, he sat up, more saltwater escaping his mouth and lungs with each deep, retching cough.

He looked around, and his eyes immediately locked with a pair of striking blue eyes.  An extremely familiar pair of striking blue eyes. Familiar eyes that suddenly made him regret his current nudity, if only because he felt it wasn't exactly proper to be naked around the literal girl of his dreams.

“Howdy. You must be Peter.” Bune said, smiling warmly as if she hadn't just saved him from being drowned in his shower. “My name is Magdalene. Or, Bune, I suppose. And the thing that just tried to kill you is Leviathan. You, uh, need a few minutes to get dressed?”

Peter supposed now would have been the time to say something witty and charming. Something to show how unfazed and cool he was in the face of near death. Something that would make Bune swoon and make him feel less awkward about the odd feelings he had for this girl. Instead of that, though, he fainted dead away.

Distantly, in the living room, there came a chirp from Peter's laptop. A new message.

[8:02 AM] ACEDIA: “HAS BUNE ARRIVED, PETER? I TRUST YOU'VE BEEN AVOIDING WATER LIKE I SAID.”

[8:10 AM] ACEDIA: “...PETER?”

[8:10 AM] ACEDIA: “...GOD DAMNIT, EVERY TIME.”