#lust is mother figure

[porcelainbats-n-bugs]

[yeyinde]

baby blues

John Price + the panic of fatherhood x reader

pregnancy. babies. soft. sappy. angsty. slight allusions to rough sex. John being possessive and smitten. allusions to childhood trauma. the fear of children is somehow more potent than the fear of god. girl dad John. mentions of Price's divorce lmao

Most assume he'd take to fatherhood like he'd been born for the role; handcrafted to cradle a swaddled babe in his arms. The perfect father figure. But as he hovers over your sleeping form, the little bundle nestled in the sleepy bracket of your arms, he's overcome with a sense of dread that punches hard enough to shatter bone.

The reality is this: Price doesn't understand kids. He wants them. Covets them with a viciousness that almost immediately sets alarm bells off in the heads of those who were opposed to the idea of children, parenthood. Giving birth. But when it comes to being a dad, a role model, an effigy to siphon wisdom and knowledge off of, he flounders. Hesitates.

All he has as an idea of fatherhood is bruises laughed off by the neighbours as him being a clumsy boy. A man who drank in the living room, silent in his fury, his belligerence, until something—anything, really—set him off. He always seemed like he was itching for a reason to punish.

And god, was he ever fucking good at it.

If anger issues are hereditary, then Price picked up the generational slack of his seething ancestors. 

It's this, and the plethora of scars and burns that decorate his skin (well hidden, tucked away like a dirty secret because if Old Man Price was anything, it certainly wasn't stupid; he knows how to hide the ugliness of himself away, and how to turn a boy into a punching bag without causing too much damage, too much alarm) that make him ache something fierce when he sees his chubby little child for the first time. 

Price doesn't know how to be gentle. All he has are worn, rough hands and a constant stench of smoke. A voice that makes grown men tremble. An ire unmatched thus far in his life. 

Until you. Little spitfire. His hellion. You stood on the tips of your toes just to tell him off for being a stubborn pig! and then taught him how to hold you. How to be tender. But even now, he can see the wear on your skin from his bites. His propensity for violence that he morphs into desire. Into lust. 

How is he supposed to be a dad when he's this caustic? This mean? 

The answer doesn't come. All he gets is the rhythmic sigh of your breath as you sleep, well and truly exhausted after giving birth to their child. All alone. A constant in your lives, it seems. Aloneness. His work takes him away, throws him into dangerous situations. And you carry the brunt of it. 

It caused the rupture of his first marriage and is a needling fear he carried with him when you started pursuing him some odd years ago. To think that he'd be standing here now, gazing down at you with your heavy eyes and your soft cheeks, rounded with the additional weight you gained during your early trimesters. A plushness he's trying to keep on you for good—all softened edges, flesh that gives when he touches you, marshmallows out between his fingers when he squeezes.

You look good like this. Motherhood, despite your misgivings (it took three years of him hinting and hounding you before you'd relented with a sure, what's the worst that could happen? We're terrible parents and raise a terrible kid? Or we end up the catalyst for a list of psychological issues and get reamed out during their therapy sessions later on in life?), suits you. Fits you like a glove.

A fact you'd been quietly overwhelmed by in the first few months, grieving the loss of something he couldn't ever understand, or experience. A piece of yourself morphing into the mother that raised you. A kaleidoscope of feelings that you choke on when he asks, unable to render them into coherent words. 

But you're good at that, aren't you? Good at culling expectations, at superseding the limits others place on you. Even him. 

Especially him. 

When he'd said, don't know what you're gettin’ yourself into, love, you took it to the chin like he challenged you to a brawl, and set out to show him why you knew what this was, what he was, and why it didn't matter much. 

Even now—

Giving birth all alone. Overcoming the isolation of being shackled to a man who married his post first. Sisterwife to his career. Second in all things. 

Even this. 

He was in Iceland when he got the call. Laswell, of all people, was on the other line telling him his own wife was in the delivery room. Water broke. Baby is on the way. 

And you—

Don't worry, old man. Just do what needs to be done and we'll be waiting. Always. 

—well. You certainly are. Alone in a hospital room with the curtains drawn to blot out the sun as you sleep, cradling this thing he made with his fingers shoved deep into your mouth, uttering foul under his breath as he crushed you to the bed, rutting you like an animal—the most tender he could ever be—and he's suddenly all too aware of his own inadequacies. His shortcomings. Failures. 

He's not a dad. He's not the sort of man people think about when they think healthy father figure. He likes cigars and whiskey, and sometimes aches for a mission that will let him cut his knuckles on teeth—bloodletting; exorcising his demons out on the people he's sanctioned to kill. How is he supposed to guide a child when he threw a man over a railing without a second thought—

The bundle stirs. Wrinkled, red face scrunching up tight. Little thing is just like you, huh? All softness and give. All—

They cry, and it's shrill. Loud. It jars him.

Not the sound, but the anguish he feels piercing through his chest as they bellow out their confusion to the world, this lost little thing. Strapped with a father who was beaten black and blue and told to be a man when he cried. 

But right now—anger is the furthest thing on his mind. He can't fathom that emotion when his child is whimpering in your arms, chubby little fingers grasping at the air. Seeking comfort. 

Waking you feels cruel when you've spent the better part of two days awake. Four, really. You couldn't sleep when the contractions hit, wide-eyed and worried about everything. What if something went wrong? If they hated you? What if you hurt them—

Worries he tried to assuage, but couldn't deny he felt them, too. 

All he knows how to do is hurt. But as he reaches down for this little thing squirming in your arms, he tells himself to be tender. To be the man his dad never was. 

And they're soft. So fuckin’ soft. Tiny, too. His hands dwarf them, engulfing them completely. He tries to blame the way he trembles on the denial of nicotine for so long, but the mist in his eyes, and the burn in his throat, call him a liar. He doesn't know what to do. Even with all the hours spent thumbing through manuals and books and scoffing under his breath at the parenting courses you dragged him to (but paid rigid attention to every word the heavily bangled woman said to him), he feels lost. Unsure. The ground is shaky. Control slips. And that's maybe the crux of it all—

Babies can't be controlled. And it's the loss of this, what makes him whole, keeps him steady, that has him feeling rubber-limbed and fawn-like. 

“Quiet, now,” he murmurs, and then winces at the rough drag of his voice in the silence of the room. Too firm, too forceful. All the gentleness he has in his bones was devoured by your greedy mouth when you cracked him open like the legs of a snow crab, marrow slurped up until he was hollow. Empty. His tenderness rests inside your belly. What else does he have to give—

But the warm bundle in his awkward, clumsy hold stops their shrill cries. A girl, he remembers you saying. Crying. Sobbing into the phone when he called, all ugly and gross. He heard you sniffle, snot undoubtedly dribbling from your nose as you wept to him about how fucking cute their baby was. Their little girl. 

She's soft. Smells of a newborn, too—something powdery. Sweet. Warmed milk, fresh bread. The clinical books that made you squeamish, the ones that outlined every anatomical and chemical change to your body, mentioned that newborns smelled distinct to each parent. A phenomenon meant to encourage protection and bonding. 

It made you shiver, muttering my little parasite under your breath, even as your hand curved possessively over your bulging belly. 

He knows that's what this is. Chemical. His mind is evolving, shifting. Changing. And it's then that he feels something hot thicken in his throat. Something ugly, and bitter. The scars on his knuckles, the cigarette burns on his fingers are a sharp reminder of what his father felt and ignored. 

He scoffs, then, irritated at himself. He's a grown man and still—

Still thinks of him. 

“Won't be like that,” he says, still rough. Still firm. She blinks up at him, eyes rheumy and wide. “Not with you.” 

Never. Never. He pins the word to his pericardium, letting it rot his tissue. He'd rather die, he thinks, than ever hurt this little girl. But despite that, he knows he will. Inevitably. Just like he does everything good—or bad—in his life. Leaching from the goodness of others, sucking them dry and letting them moulder. A disappointment everywhere except the battlefield where he screams himself hollow and rents the air with his ire. Incorrigible. Immovable. An object of cruelty. Unforgiving in all aspects. A curse that follows him home, into his marital bed when he pins you down, and makes you profess your love for the beast inside of him. Never satiated, never quelled, until you're shackled at his side. Tucked away from the world he knows is too cruel to people like you who end up a corpse he has to step over on his way for empty retribution. 

He thinks, too, about all the ways he's going to ruin this chubby little thing in his arms, and wishes, suddenly, he was a better man. 

“Gonna hate my fuckin' guts when you're sixteen, aren't you?” In response, this little thing just opens its red maw and blows bubbles. He huffs. “You're gonna be nothin’ but trouble, mm? Steal my car. Crash it because your mum's gonna teach you how to drive and she backed into the garage six times already. Gonna gang up on me. Both of you. Little nightmares.” 

He's not sure what else to say, and thinks, already, that he said too much. Bared his belly to her too soon. She'll have this memory, buried down in the deep recesses of her psyche of her father falling to pieces while he held her. An impossibility, he knows, but can't shake the feeling that this, in itself, is an epoch. A marker for what's to come. All the ugly, the hate. The screaming matches that make him curl his hand into fists as she levels his failures at him. Not to hit. Never to hit. But to stop the tremble that won't stop. That has already started. The shake in his joints that tell him to run before he hurts. Before he ruins this precious mass of his blood and your tissue in his arms. 

“Gonna—” he isn't crying. Isn't. But there's a thickness in his throat as he thinks about how quickly she'll grow up. Age marked in the crows feet that gather around your eyes. The laugh lines. “Gonna be a fuckin' menace, and I'll—” he chokes, then, when she reaches up with a pudgy, red fist and snags the strap of his vest he didn't even bother taking off before he fled here. Fat, tiny fingers curling into the spot he grabs to ground himself from lashing out. “Fuck.”

He'd burn the world for her, he knows. Sacrifice everyone and everything just to keep her warm. Both of you. It begins and ends with this little thing that has your eyes and his nose. 

But he doesn't know how to translate that into love. Into affection. 

It comes out caustic. Abrasive. Possessive. 

And he is. 

Now that he has her in his hands he knows that nothing else will ever compare. That they'll never be empty because she'll always fit in his palms no matter how big she gets. There's only ever been enough space in his heart for you. Chiselled into with a fuckin’ pickaxe because you wouldn't wait for it to grow on its own. 

But there's give, he realises. This domicile you carved yourself has a room attached. A place for her. And she fits like a glove. Sliding inside. Cocooned against his pulse. 

He loves her. Endlessly. Forever. She deserves better. More. 

But when he tells her this, she makes a noise and it sounds like a giggle. 

“Laughin’ at me already, mm?”

She giggles again, and he likes that her laugh is a little ugly. A little mean. 

“Scarin’ the wits outta me,” he confesses, shifting her weight as she occupies herself with the clasp of his vest, disinterested in the man that breaks into pieces around her now. “I don't know—fuck, I don't—”

You come to in a panic. It starts as a slow roll to the side before your eyes flash open, wide and furious even as sleep congeals in the corners, pawing at the empty spot where the lingering warmth of your child presses into your chest. Anger, fury, darkens over your brow, and the apoplectic rage that simmers in the gaps of your dread, your fostering panic, softens him. Makes him melt. The burn of your ire, your fear, liquifying his bones. 

He falls in love with you a little bit more at that moment. When the snarl rucks your upper lip up, up, teeth bared to the world as you whip your head around in frantic, desperate dismay, searching for the little girl he knows you, too, will burn the world for. 

“I've got her,” he says, whisper-soft and low. Cadence even, clear. Tries to quell the howl he can see hammering its fists against your throat before it rips from your lips and scorches the world around you in a hail of horrifying anguish. “She's safe.”

It says something when you immediately go still at the sound of his voice, muscles going lax, slack, as you slowly turn your head toward him, blinking against the fog clotting your vision. Something that cuts him to the core. Rents his chest in halves. One side for you, and the other for her. Nothing left to spare. 

This feeling brimming in his chest sweetens when you startle at the sight of him, them, lashes shuttering like an old camera as if you were trying to sear the image in your head forever. Branded on the back of your eyelids. (A sentiment he knows all too well considering the stream of photos added to his camera roll of you and her nuzzled together.)

“You—” your voice catches, breaks from sleep. Fatigue. You swallow, slowly licking your lips. “When did you get in?”

Your eyes are glued to them. Unblinking. Widened with pure affection, the intensity of which makes him want to touch you, hold you.

“A few hours ago,” he murmurs, glancing down at his—

It cuts a jagged line through his chest. Knicks his bone with how deep it goes. False starts pressed tight to his heart. 

—his daughter. Fuck’s sake. 

He's choked. Strangled. Rendered mute, immobilised. It guts him, this. Daughter. The ring of it echoes in his head, filling the recesses of his mind. Embedding itself within his head. Congealed over. Fixed in place. 

“I have a fuckin’ daughter,” he breathes at length, the air knocked from his lungs. He's not sure why this is what breaks him, but it does. And it's you, then, holding the fracturing pieces together, hands reaching out—in a startling mimicry of his daughter, and fuck, doesn't that just eviscerate him—and curling against the heaving brackets of his ribs, boxing him in. 

“John,” you say, but your voice wobbles. Wavers. When he peels his eyes away from the sleepy yawn she lets out long enough to look at you, there's tears flooding your lashline. Threatening to break. “Fuck,” you say, crass and beautiful, and he's overcome with the urge to tuck you into his other arm, keep you both cradled in his hands. “Don't make me cry or my stitches will tug.” 

“We've got a daughter,” he says again, just to hear it uttered aloud. We. Yours. His. It messes with him. Bludgeons into his core. “We've—”

“She's beautiful, isn't she?” 

Your words shatter him, but the pinch of your hands on his waist keeps him from buckling. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice thick. Ugly. It's mangled in his throat. All fractured and raw. “Just like her mother.”

He shows his affection in the burn of his embrace. In the way he holds you tight, refusing to let go. Keeps his words callous and firm. Soft utterances, declarations of love, tucked away in the sure, greedy way he clings to you in his sleep. Yields to you like no one else. Lets you in. 

And he supposes he ought to say it more often if the way your face crinkles up just like his daughter when she cried, tears spilling over your rounded cheeks. 

“Don't,” you heave, ugly and brittle, and he thinks you're the prettiest thing he'd ever seen in his life. “Don't or I'll rip my stitches—”

He huffs. Nods only once, and then steps toward you. “Do you want—?”

“Keep her for a little while,” you mutter, leaning back into the bed, eyes lidded by fond. So in love with him, the picture they paint, it's almost sickening. “She likes you.”

He snorts. “She's only three hours old. Give her time.” 

You're quiet for a beat. Pensive. Mulling something over. It's never a good thing when you're silent, and the unease that grows in his belly is justified when you heave out a long, tired exhale through your nose. 

The way you look at him is raw. “You're not your father, John.” 

And isn't that just the worst lie he'd ever heard.

He scoffs, then. Shifts his weight, still cradling his daughter tight to his chest. “Mm, 'dunno about that.”

“I do.”

“Jus’—” leave it. Keep going. Keep feeding him lies as he stands here and pretends that he wasn't a horrible bastard for wanting this from you. From taking it. Strapping you with a man who's always, always, one foot out the door—

“No.” You say, soft and sure. “You're not him. I know you're not because you're still here.”

“So was he.” 

You don't acknowledge the interruption. Content, it seems, to rattle off lies and half-truths into the stifling air. Your eyes close, the curve of your lashes leonine. Breathtaking.

“Do you want me to take her?” You ask instead of the multitude of things he can see piling behind your eyes. Some of the ugly. Jagged glass. Others powder soft. 

He shakes his head. “You need your rest,” it's a half-truth. Fatigue clings to you still, swathed in the purpling of your skin. The slow, heavy blinks you take to try and fight the tug of an artificial sleep. 

But the real reason is this:

He's just not ready to let her go. 

Thinks, viciously, suddenly, that if he does, this moment built between them in budding, liquid blue will cease forever. Severed too soon. She'll carry the same resentment in her heart he feels for his own father, and he'll die in a shallow pit thinking about how badly he wanted just a second longer. 

Generational, right? Trickle down hatred. Ancestral rage. It's what your grandma talks about sometimes over tea and fried bread, half disbelieving you brought a white man into her home, and making a show, a facade, of wisdom even though he spotted the how to raise a child notebook she hastily shoved into the kitchen drawer when you arrived. Taking over in place of your own mother, stepping up. And yet—

She just doesn't get it, you said, rubbing your hands over your belly when she steps away after another long-winded conversation about traditions, spirits, and dead languages. Raising a child like yours in a world like this. She's just. I don't know. Ignore her. 

(He doesn't. But you don't have to know that.)

So. He clings to her a little tighter. Holds her a little firmer. Brings her close to his chest and hopes she can hear the echo of his heartbeat and know that this tired, old song is just for her. 

(The heart itself for you—)

And maybe—

Maybe he's not quite ready to see you be a mother. Some perverse part of him is already trembling at the promise of watching you nurture and feed her, the tantalising whisper is enough to make the air in his lungs turn humid, sticky. Tar, you remind him sometimes, having seen the ugly spatter of black in the grainy photos the doctor in Hereford likes to shove at him. Never too late to reverse the damage, John. 

Or maybe he wants you for himself just a moment longer. An hour. A day. When you're still you, shackled and bound to a man who reeks of stale tobacco, and started sneaking cigarettes in the dead of night like some pimply, awkward teenager when you first came to him, cheeks wet and eyes wild, and said:

“John, I'm—”

Pregnant. 

He did it, of course. Put that baby in you. Made it with his teeth buried into your throat and your hips canting up to meet him, taking everything he had to offer. Animal aggression. Nothing tender in the way he chewed you up, made you beg him for it. But still—

Wanting and having are worlds apart, aren't they? 

Faced with it, the consequences of his actions, he's at a standstill. 

You hum, and when your eyes slide open, he feels the mallet against his head. Cracked open. You fossick about until you find what you're looking for. Cheeky fuckin’ thing—

“Fine. Just pull up a chair before you keel over, old man.” 

“M’fine,” he grouses in that voice that serves as a dice roll between making you feel hot or homicidal depending on the mood he catches you in. Muttering something under your breath that sounds like a whispered plea for guidance (“tss, gimme strength.”)

But even with the waspish denial, he's inching closer to the spare chair left in the corner, looping his ankle around the leg to slide it closer. The squeal of rubber on aluminium makes him grimace, eyes darting down to his sleeping girl, nestled in his arms. Her brow pinches in the same way your grandma’s do when she's annoyed by the news. Her bingomates. The way he refuses her offering of burning tobacco and lemongrass whenever he goes away for a while, unable to really commit to this little, broken family that feels more like home than his own ever did. 

(“aint my place,” he says, and she scoffs. 

“fuck, s'matter wit’cha?” is her counter, the harsh line between her brows now perfectly superimposed on his daughter’s face. “tss. ain't yer place, eh. are you tryna piss me off? fuck, you make me mad—”)

He sees that spitting anger in you. Generational, he knows. The same inherited attitude his daughter will inevitably have. The one that singles him out as an outlier. Outnumbered. Three, now, to one—

There's got to be a reason why his chest bubbles, innervated by the thought of a Sunday dinner when she's old enough to watch her grandma make intricate bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and pins with thread and glass beads as you, her mother, cuss at the stove that doesn't burn as hot as it used to, flipping over golden dough in a sizzling pan. 

Orange juice in old cups your grandma kept since the nineties. Something soft playing on the radio. The peeling, waterlogged wallpaper flakes off the wall when you slam the pan down too hard. The way the spill of the sun through the rusting window rents the room in half. Pale yellow and oak. Little orange blossoms in soft pink above the speckled granite countertops. Everything awash in a gossamer of sleepy-eyed affection. 

Just like it is now. But—

He looks down at her, head full of lead. Cotton. 

Complete, maybe. 

“Don't know how to be a dad,” he confesses to you, and thinks of how much easier it is to slam a sledgehammer into a metal door than it is to peel back the veneer sometimes. “Don't want to mess up.” 

“You'll be fine.” 

The crinkle of the plastic mattress, the scratch of the sheets sliding across the bed is louder now than it was before. He cuts the gentle sounds with an abrading hum that clicks off his teeth. 

“Get some sleep,” he says again instead of the awful truth that buoys in his throat. Things like you don't know and I tricked you this whole time into thinking I'm a good man and look what you’ve let me do to you. “You need it.” 

Another noise. In his periphery, he watches you lean back against the upright pillows, lips parted on a soft sigh. He feels—

Small, then. An oxymoron considering he has to duck his head to get in and out of the room, towering over most he meets daily. But the inadequacies gut him. Vivisect him. He should be more comforting to you, he knows. This whole thing has been difficult. Tiresome. Cut into and having the life you grew inside of you cut out—

“Did good,” he rasps, still staring down at her even as he pulls the chair as close to your bed as he can get. “With her.” 

You snort. It's inelegant. Ugly. Brittle, like you're holding back tears. 

When he glances up, he finds that you are. “You're strong,” he adds, and knows he should have started with this first. “Doin’ this all on your own.” 

“I had help.”

It's awkward trying to adjust himself in the seat with his daughter perched in his arms, but he finds a way. Settled, then, with her still sleeping away, he lifts his hand from her back, keeping her cradled in his arm with the other, and reaches for you. 

The starchy sheets catch on the bramble of hair on his knuckles, the back of his hand, and the static jolts tickle against the rough scar tissue thickened over his knuckles, some still fresh, scabbed from the latest mission he'd been deployed to. You watch him, misty-eyed and tremulous, as he draws nearer, eyes flickering like a pendulum between the bundle nestled on the thick of his arm, to him, watching you back. Greedily taking in every spasm, every blink. 

Something inside of him cracks. Softens. He thinks, breathless, that you've never been as beautiful to him as you are right now. Bubbles of snot in your nose. Eyes reddened, dropping from exhaustion. A dizzying mess. The sort that speaks of tireless work, of physicality. Muted pain brimming in the backs of your eyes when you pull on your stitches. 

“Got a pretty wife,” he says, and it's not enough. He knows it isn't. Looks away before the fracture lilt to his tone breaks him in two. “And—” it's hard to say. He forces himself to. “And a beautiful daughter.” 

The tears stream down your face at this quiet, clumsy admission. 

“Don't—” you sniffle, hoarse. “Or I'll tear my stitches.”

“M’not doin' anythin’, love.” 

“Fuck you, John—”

He leans back in his chair with a hum, eyes slipping shut. A brief respite amid the panic still clinging tight to his ribcage. “Love you too.” 

It's quiet. Nothing but the soft drag of each breath his daughter takes, the tremulous sniffle you give as you try to dam the tears sliding down your cheeks. His heart hammering in his ears. He commits it all to memory. Glueing it to the fibrils of mind where it'll stay, embedded in tissue, for as long as he is of sound mind. 

Much like the grainy, black-and-white ultrasounds stuffed in his breast pocket. Tucked inside the drawer of his desk where he keeps the pictures of you. Keepsakes he's unnecessarily possessive over, elbowing the rowdier men who try to needle him for sparse information on the little wife he hides at home and the baby they'll never meet. Something just for him. Unshareable to the rest of the world because they don't deserve you. 

The feathered snores tell him you're finally asleep, and he thinks about resting for a moment as well—the bone-deep exhaustion he feels jetting from Iceland to home, to the hospital catches up to him with a vicious kick to temples—but the weight in his arm keeps him awake. Hyperviligent. 

There's this urge clawing at him, making ruins of his chest, and he answers its worried insistence by opening his eyes just a sliver to stare down at the little bundle in his arms only to find she's staring back at him. Eyes wide. Comically too big for her chubby face. 

She has your complexion, but his dark curls. Her eyes, though, are the perfect equilibrium between pools of sapphire, burnt blue, marbled with the dark gleam, that vibrant shade of yours that he's so fond of, the one that's often accompanied by a smart-ass remark. Seeing it gaze up at him with such incipient adoration knocks the air from his lungs. Has his heart shuddering in the brackets of his chest. 

It's love, he thinks first. Instantaneous. Apodictic. And then, cold, callous—

Chemical. 

Just to hurt himself, maybe. Just to let it cut deep. Scar. Because as he stares down at her, he knows it doesn't matter. No amount of hatred, of anger, will ever rip her away from him. His daughter. His family. His.

Like her mother. The root of it all. The catalyst. The start. 

Shackled to this gaping chasm that devours endlessly, never satiated. Always starving. 

Needy. Full of greed. 

Because even now he covets. Craves. Muses to himself about how he can convince you to have another the moment the opportunity arises and you're healed. Whole. Aching for it. 

He wasn't joking when he said he wanted a football team. 

But for now—

The soft sighs you make in your sleep, ones that almost sound like his name, and the comforting weight of his daughter in his arms are enough to make the beast inside purr. Preening under its own conquest, its own victory of successfully turning your body into a home he can rest his weary head on. Sacrosanct. 

He looks at her, then, and feels the dread ease into pride. Into elation. An emotion he knows should have come first, but it's here now, and that's all that really matters.

“Gonna be trouble,” he grouses, watching her pink mouth gape wide, blood-red maw grinning up at him in delirious glee only babies can imbue. Unhindered by the ruination of the world around them. Unfettered. 

Something he couldn't protect you from, but knows you're both on the same wavelength when it comes to her. At all costs, you'd said, hand against the burgeoning swell. And he kissed you until he couldn't feel his lips anymore. Until all he tasted, all he knew, was the taste of you.

“Of the best kind, though, mm?” 

In response, she coos. And he hews the sound into his chest where it sits beside the brand of when you first said, i love you, too, John. 

So, he relaxes. Whispers soft, conspiratorily. "Think you might need'a brother, mm? What'd you say about that?"

And she giggles.

[thatonegayship]

I had to

Wait, does the cheating thing on the bond always works? bcs that would be kinda freaky for R!Dipper like imagine you get pinned down by someone in the corner of a br or smthng and then said person kissed you and proceeded to explode into red mist and you literally have no idea what happened.

Also, would the constellation mark be a "cursed" Mark over the years, like you would give birth to a baby and the doctor says "😟 I am so sorry ma'am,,, I'm afraid your baby has the Cipher Companion mark. ( could also be something equally as science-y like Ursa Major, Constellation Calamation, etc idk)" And you just burst into tears.

Would that mean that dipper would get into a special program(demon wrangling program or smthng, demonologist? Maybe)? Or would the parents hide it away hoping that Bill would never take their child away?

(Sorry this au is just very interesting to me,,,, I hope u get more motivation, keep writing author 💪)

These are all options! The fun part of reincarnation AU being left ambiguous is that technically any of them could happen.

[cupidlovesastro]

𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓾𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝔀𝓱𝔂 𝓹𝓮𝓸𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓳𝓮𝓪𝓵𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾

venus in 1st- the way you look , your aura, your energy, your presence, the impressions you give on others, the attitude you have about things, how put together you come off, your beauty, your charismatic spirit, your aesthetic, your clothes, your make up, your forehead, your hair or hairstyles, your masculine features/energy

venus in 2nd- your financial situation, your ranking in your work place, if you come off/dress rich, the things you own, house decorations, your room’s aesthetic, your work ethic, your career, if you own expensive things, your neck area, collar bone, your voice, your lips, jaw, your beauty

venus in 3rd- your way with words, how flirting/ talking is easy for you, the way you speak, the way your brain works, your social group, your siblings, your creative writing, your journal/ notes, the elementary school you went to, your neighborhood, your thought process, your shoulders, collarbone, hands, how youthful you look/act

venus in 4th- how you regulate or cope with your emotions, your family or the family you’ve created, your household, your furniture, your decorations, your family roots, your background, the way you mother people or your children, your motherly energy, your femininity, the way you express your femininity, your self care routine, your self care products, how you grew up, how your family treats you, your chest, your boobs, your rib cage, your round face shape, the softness in your features

venus in 5th- your relationship, your lover, your youth, your inner child or the fact you can express it, your children, your features that your children have/will inherit, your aesthetic, the way you express yourself, your art style, the art you make, your spirit, how easy it is for you to get along with people,how easy it is for you to attract people, how many kids you have, the people you’ve hooked up with, the way you express your happiness, your stomach, bellybutton, your confidence, thick hair

venus in 6th- your work out routine, your work out equipment, work out clothes, your health, your pets, work ethic, your organization or organized nature, your resourcefulness, the way that people need you, the service(s) you offer, the way you analyze things, your waist, hips, your youthful appearance,

venus in 7th- your relationship(s), your marriage, how fair you are or act, the way you go about justice, how giving you are, the contracts you have with businesses, your skin, your lower back, your symmetrical features, hair, your feminine features/ energy, your beauty, your aesthetic, the effort you put into your look, your music taste

venus in 8th- your sensual side, your sex appeal, your financial situation, the money or things you’ve inherited from your family, things that you own, your properties/house(s), your mysterious energy or aesthetic, the way your partner spoils you or the way you spoil your partner, sexual organs, your groin, the way people seem to lust over you

venus in 9th - your community, your religion, your culture, your traditions, the places you’ve traveled to, how often you traveled, your intelligence, the degrees you’ve earned, the college you attend to or used to attend, the philosophies you have, the beliefs you share or follow, the way you learn, how learning is fast or easy, your thighs, your waist, your height

venus in 10th- your career, the goals you’ve achieved, your popularity, your influence, your fame, your reputation, your status, your father or father figures in your life, the way you father your children, your masculinity, your masculine features/vibes, your bone structure, teeth

venus in 11th- your social group/ friends, the way you care about the world or a certain community, the amount of social awareness you have, the technology you own like iphone/ ipad/ laptops, etc, the way you dream big, your individuality, your uniqueness the people you surround yourself with, your calves, your ankles, your unique features

venus in 12th- your healing journey, the way you heal from things, your spiritual journey, your spiritual knowledge, spiritual experiences, you connection with spirituality, your connection with your after life, your connection with your subconscious mind, your manifestations, your feet, toes, feminine features, your empathy, your compassion, your emotional intelligence, your intuition

[fear-is-truth]

forgive me mother for i have sinned… hear me out, father charlie fucking reader with a crucifix

NSFW MDNI 18+ tags: f!reader・blasphemy・super dark content・ misuse of a crucifix・impact play a/n: gahdamn. anon you are insane for this

your eye the pale, cross-shaped patch on the wall where the crucifix used to hang. at least he had the decency to take it down, so the figure of christ didn’t have to witness you like this. bent over his lap, hands pressed into the armrests of his chair, cheeks burning from humiliation. father charlie mayhew’s methods for penance were nothing if not…unconventional. well, “kinky” or “downright blasphemous” might be better words to describe it.

“three years without repentance,” he muses, slowly dragging the edge of the wooden crucifix along your folds. “must have a lot of sins built up in that soul of yours. we’ll work on them one by one.” his tone is almost gleeful, as if the prospect of your transgressions excites him.

“tell me, where do we start? greed? sloth? oh, i can sense the laziness in you, even now.” a loud smack of wood hitting flesh, followed by a sharp sting on your left buttock—you squeal in pain, the sound slipping out despite your best efforts to keep quiet. the cross-shaped imprint it leaves behind numb tingling, and you just know it’ll leave a mark.

“and then there’s lust. look how wet you are.” he murmurs thoughtfully. this time, he taps the foot of the crucifix against your entrance and pushes it inside. you moan at the unexpected intrusion, the agonising stretch, not to mention the sharp angles pressing against your tight walls. it feels out of place—too rigid for the curves of the human body.

“how many impure thoughts have you had?” he asks, his tone almost playful, conspiratorial. “how many times have you let yourself get… carried away? or maybe,” he slowly pumps the crucifix in and out of your cunt, until the wooden shaft was shiny with slick, “maybe you didn’t fight those thoughts at all. maybe you liked them. indulged them.”

you whimper when he pulls out, an obscene squelching noise. “i wonder… how many times have you let yourself fall to temptation? all those late nights, alone… and no one to know but you. and god, of course.” you feel him shift on his seat, and suddenly, the base of the crucifix is blocking your vision, tapping gently at your lower lip.

“clean it, like you’re washing away your sins.”

m.list © fear-is-truth do not repost, modify or translate

[lokisgoodgirl]

Metal & Leather [Loki Odinson x Reader]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Prince Loki can't get to you soon enough after an arduous battle. (Yes, another one of those!😇) w/c 1.2k Warnings: Minors DNI. Smut/Fluff. Mild angst. Mild descriptions of injury. Loki x female reader.

The Einherjar’s roar swells higher, heating the cool night air. You run to your balcony overlooking the balustrade as Loki strides towards his mother and father standing poised at the furthest reach, waiting to welcome him: to congratulate him.

The crowds go crazy as Odin hands him something. One abrupt bow, Loki wrote in his letter from the victorious battlefield. One abrupt bow, and I make for my true reward without delay. Do not come to the ceremony. The underline had ripped the paper.

“Is that an order?” you’d asked the empty room while you imagined the wolfish glint of his smile as he wrote it. And now, he was finally here. He was finally home. The nights were long on the realm’s furthest battlefields, and although his victory had been by all accounts swift it still took weeks. Thirteen, to be exact.

Now, you can see the flutter of his cape as he makes a show of turning and striding from the dais where Odin and Frigga stand. He’s coming.

You turn, perching on the stone. You didn’t bother getting dressed properly, just a chiffon open-fronted robe tied loose at the waist. Warm air sighs over your skin as you wait, and wait. The main event is right here: and it starts in five…four…three— There’s an abrupt knock at the door. “Come,” you call sweetly. Loki pushes it open. His chin is lowered to the glint of his metal breastplate, his shadowed eyes swimming with promise in the flickering gloom. The hand curled around the ceremonial spear he just received from Odin tightens when he sees you, and his lips curl in a smile. Dark hair spills over his exaggerated, armour-clad shoulders and with a low whisper, the spear vanishes.

“The demon-brothels of Musselheim left much to be desired,” Loki sniffs with a sarcasm that can’t mask the affection in his eyes. “Heated in the most inconvenient of ways.” You search his face, noting the glint of his eyes and the twitch of his thin lips. “You’re terrible.”

He strides across the room, cape blooming like ink through water, and gathers you in his arms. “And I’m yours,” he replies as he dips and lifts your legs around his waist. "Aren't you glad, darling? In all my terrible, terrible glory."

The heat still hangs on his leathers from the Bifrost.

His lips slam into yours at force, the thud of his boots and the crisp rustle of his cloak making your thighs tighten. He nudges you higher, and eager fingers slip past his temples, fisting his hair, noting the ghost of bruises that shadow his face. Loki’s fingers pull at the ribbons holding your robe together, their slither between his calloused fingers and the nip of Asgard’s night air against your nipples flooding your brain. He’s home, he’s here, he’s safe. Thank you; thank you.

Your pussy slips against the metal buckle flush to his abdomen, and Loki’s kiss wanes. He pulls back as you’re rested on the wide flat of the balcony wall, towering over you like the victorious god he is. You reach to brush his tabard aside, but a hand flies out to stop it.

“No,” he says hoarsely, and for the first time you see the raw abrasions on his knuckles, the purple cloud edging from his wrist armour. He trails a finger down the valley of your throat, between the swell of your breasts. “My love..” The softness of his voice so at odds with the battle-weary figure he cuts. He never thinks you want him like this. Not at first: coated in the evidence of his destruction. You reach tentatively for his leathers, and this time he lets you brush the flap aside. Loki of Asgard stiffens as you unlace him, pulling him closer, kissing him deep. “My love,” you whisper against his heated, gritty skin. A shiver wrenches through him. When Loki returns from war, all the lust he’s re-directed bubbles over. This time is no different. You feel his fingers run over your hair, grabbing a clutch, tilting your head back. Loki’s mouth descends on your exposed neck: biting, sucking, groaning his need for you against the delicate, willing flesh. There’s a smack of metal against leather, a grunt as he positions himself between your spread legs. The balcony stone scrapes against the back of your thighs as he places a palm on your lower spine, protecting you from the drop. And then, he’s inside you. His cock claims the deepest part of you, and Loki swears as he bottoms out with a decisive thrust.

With one hand hanging against his neck, and the other gripping the belt slung over his shoulder, you ride the devastating thrusts he delivers with each jangling snap of his hips. Loki’s cock, and his love, are the missing pieces of you—the parts he takes whenever he leaves to fulfil his duty. But this is his duty, and you both know it. Ragged gasps scrape from Loki’s throat, his fingertips clawing against your back so desperately you know the truth of his desire will be marked on you by the night’s end. Purple, blue; just like the evidence of violence painted on his skin.

He curls close, and you wrap both arms around his neck, pulling the god’s face closer into the curve of your shoulder.

Loki’s illusion has wavered. His hair is matted, crisped with sweat and battle and bifrost and you inhale deeply, willing your love for him to wash it all away. His thrusts are sloppy now, out of time with the fiery grunts blasting against the shell of your ear. He smells like metal, and leather – and gods, you never want anything else.

“I’ll always come home to you,” he says, and you know he’s picturing the enemies he had to slay to get here. He never tells you everything of what he’s seen—but it changes him. It makes his love fiercer. The crowd packing the balustrade cheers at the conclusion of some speech: Thor’s, probably. But Loki’s body draws like a bow and you feel the tighten of his jaw against your neck. “I can’t stop it,” he pants, and you buck harder against him. There will be time for your pleasure later—Loki will make sure of it. In the baths, in the bed you share, in the blankets and pillows strewn through slats of amber sunlight on the endless days with him by your side. For now, in the torch-lit gloom where he wears the stains of hard-won victory, he needs this: he needs you. And right now, your pleasure is bringing his home.

The tunic, warm from your friction, scrapes your inner thighs as he seals his cock inside you once, twice, three times. On the fourth, he holds the throbbing tip at the entrance to your slit, his wild eyes meeting yours. “All for you,” he gasps, and his eyebrows peak.

Everything: he means everything. The sacrifice, the vulnerability he shares— the fact you’d only need to ask and he would tear the sky down in your name. Your lips touch, and he groans happily as he sinks inside a final, lingering time.

The force of his cum hits the back of your cunt and his whole body tightens. A tremble works through him while the grip on your back falters, and his knees wobble. He pulls you close, groaning his climax into your mouth; the heat of his breath and the fury of his love rippling across every nerve in your body. Below, drums begin: lyres, chanting, prayer. “You’re home,” you whisper, slotting your nose at the side of his. “You’re safe.” “Home,” he murmurs as the cool metal at his abdomen chills your flushed skin. He thrusts a final, gentle time, and you cross your ankles at his lower back, sealing him close. Loki smiles, “That’s all I ever wanted.”

❤️Tags in comments! x Next story will be Wednesday 18 Sept as I'm on holiday next week🌄

[darksvster]

okay i was asked to post this on tumblr since i posted a mini essay about it on twitter so here it is, i added some more examples and elaborated on my points that i couldn't over twitter.

so, when i first watched episode 207 i thought it was weird how religious rhaenyra was, until ryan condal mentioned the cult imagery. now i think instead of the show making her paranoid and neurotic in the final arc, they're going to make her more of a cult leader figure.

i think rather than leaning into her paranoia and the idea of a "hysterical paranoid mother" after she loses her sons, they're going to have her drink her own kool-aid more and more. it's interesting that this is what emma and ryan discuss in this scene with the dragonseeds in the inside the episode.

i think it's interesting that instead of the show positioning her like "a leader amongst the smallfolk," this episode positions her in a darker light, like someone who is manipulating the people there for her own goals. and when vermithor turns on the bastards, she doesn't let them run, the guards keep them barricaded in.

she is literally enraptured by the fire in these scenes. now that she knows it's possible for others to claim the dragons, she has been vindicated and wants more. this is not a merciful queen who is reaching out a hand to the smallfolk, she's throwing stuff at the wall and seeing what sticks. after all, these are just smallfolk. bastards with no honor. ryan literally describes the scene as a ritual sacrifice.

and who do you conduct sacrifice for? the gods. but in this case, the gods the seven or the old gods, they aren't even just dragons, but the fact that rhaenyra sees herself in the dragons. she says as much in the literal pilot of the episode when viserys asks her what she sees when she looks at the dragons. she understands the power they wield.

she knows that their power lies in the dragons. but she doesn't reflect viserys' belief that they are a power that man never shouldn't have trifled with. she leans into the chaos and fire and blood of the dragons, we see that in the sowing, clearly.

rhaenyra inherited the worst of both viserys and daemon and that will lead to her madness. she's got viserys' strong belief in prophecy (one now exacerbated by her desperation).

we see that faith in the prophecy falter but never truly fade. rhaenyra has always taken is seriously, to the point that everything she's done this season is in response to the prophecy. her pacifism isn't just due to avoiding bloodshed. she makes it clear to jace that before plunging the realm into war she had to know there was no other option because of the burden of the prophecy.

even though daemon has never believed in prophecy or superstition. she's also got daemon's desire and lust for power and strength (something she confessed wanting specifically because daemon is a man when she was speaking to mysaria).

it's a great deconstruction of the chosen one archetype to have her drink this koolaid and believe herself the chosen one only to have that belief corrupt her. emma d'arcy speaks on this in their interview with gq when discussing rhaenyra's growing fanaticism.

I think something that has been happening for Rhaenyra throughout the series is a growing religious fanaticism. After her father’s death, there is this desire to be connected to him in some way. And losing him happens at the same moment as having her throne usurped. And so that thing that would have been such a direct connection to him is also stolen. So in lieu of that, there’s that searching [through] the histories. I think imagining that at some point her name will feature next to her father’s is in some way comforting, and I find it very moving to see a person who in grief has committed themselves to the history books. As the series goes on, I think we see her more and more invested in her faith. She returns to the old gods. I think all of these actions are in search of her right; the thing that she thought she had received from her father, she is looking for evidence again and again. And part of it, I’m sure, is a choice. I think sometimes in times of loss, we can choose the anchors that we are going to cling to, and her faith becomes one. But I think there’s a narcissism in it. I think her connection with her religion is about wanting to reinforce a divine right. And I think, looking at [episode] seven when this miracle takes place, and this man claims Seasmoke, I think she feels that it’s a gift from the gods. I think it’s what allows her to ride roughshod over Jace’s very legitimate concerns about his own status. I think it’s what allows her to stage a massacre, essentially. She feels that she is riding on the wings of her faith. But her faith, and her belief that she is the ruler that is supposed to sit on that throne, are completely enmeshed.

They continue:

What is going through Rhaenyra’s mind as she watches the Targaryen bastards be devoured and torched alive? I think she feels like a god. I think she feels super proud. I mean, I think it’s uncomfortable. I think there’s something, actually, also that ties into the religiosity — even being back in proximity to dragons, to that fire, is to somehow be living her birthright. To be soaking up the divine, somehow. And do you think that she feels as though the decision to essentially stage a massacre, as you say, is vindicated when the two new bastard dragonriders are found? Totally. Without a shadow of a doubt. I mean, it’s horrendous, but I think she is now this sort of emboldened fanatic, [and] I think she’s experiencing events within a far bigger timeline. She’s imagining the history books. And you know, what’s happening right in front of her is awful. But in 300-400 years, what will be documented is possibly a very short war; a huge civil war that was averted, that this was the first ruling queen, that this ruling Targaryen queen expanded the Targaryen’s ability to have dragons within their armoury.

emma's read on this supports what we see on screen when it comes to rhaenyra's newly found zealousness. the religious aspect could lead her to do things that might have been seen as atrocities by her. it could lead to mysaria abandoning her, her riders turning on her, and we would see more of that targ madness.

gods are mentioned several times in 207. first by addam, who says that the gods are calling him to greater things. rhaenyra has never been the extremely religious sort but, in this scene, she looks like she's had a moment of clarity.

importantly, rhaenyra doesn't know who addam's father is, or hugh's or ulf's. this is simply the first time in history that a non-targaryen (at least in her eyes) has claimed dragons. it's something that she believed impossible. it can feel like destiny to the desperate and she's been extremely desperate after losing daemon, rhaenys, and continuous loss after loss with no hope of recourse.

mysaria says that rhaenyra is lucky addam chose to bend the knee to her rather than himself. and her reply is that it is ordained. this religious vocabulary being used is intentional!

her complaint against the lowborn is that there is an ancient fealty from highborn houses. she essentially implies that bastards do not have honor. mysaria corrects her by pointing out that her legitimate half-brothers aegon and aemond aren't exactly delights, but that doesn't make rhaenyra see the light. instead she recognizes that there's fealty to be had from lowborn people too. the order of things have changed, as mysaria says, so she realizes that she can lift up people who have been historically stepped on and give power to the powerless, calling them her army of bastards.

but when jace calls this out, predicting that someone (perhaps hugh?) could lay claim to her throne if she legitimizes these bastards if not by name then by offering them the power of gods. obviously, jace's concern is real, his entire legitimacy lies on both viserys' past support and also the fact that he has a dragon of his own. if any bastard can claim one, what does that make him? but rhaenyra's response isn't logical. she believes that the throne is part of her and her son's destiny. their right.

for years, on some level, rhaenyra has believed that even though people have insulted her sons, they are full-blooded targaryens. she says herself that if she was a man she could father a dozen bastards, and as heir, she gives birth to three without hesitation. these aren't strongs or velaryons to her, her sons are targaryens.

but even when jace essentially begs his mother not to give commoners dragons, bringing up her past sins and pointing out his own struggle knowing that he's harwin strong's son, her response is somewhat cold. she says now that the gods have laid this in front of her and she has no choice.

the dragonkeepers call what she's doing blasphemy and note that it isn't the gods who brought the dragonseeds to her, but she herself has done that.

Dragonkeeper Elder: This is an abomination. You sent an Andal before a dragon. The judgment was delivered. Now you would send more. Rhaenyra: Ser Steffon Darklyn was the blood of the dragon. Dragonkeeper Elder: It was a blasphemy. He was no dragonlord. Neither are these. Rhaenyra: And yet the gods have set them before us. Dragonkeeper Elder: You have set them before yourself! The dragons are sacred; they are the last magic of Old Valyria in this sad world. They are not pieces on a board for the games of men. Our order will take no part in this.

to the dragonkeepers, she's using these bastards and dragons like chess pieces in her war. but to rhaenyra, who has seen addam claim seasmoke, it seems like this is a divine right — a sign from the gods. and that's proven again when hugh claims vermithor.

addam claiming seasmoke changed everything for her. she talks about claiming a dragon as a transformation, and, in many ways, this claiming has transformed her as well. she tells the dragonseeds that their purpose now is the end the hardships of war.

she paints a lovely image promising them peace at the end, but it is a wholly false image. with vermithor and silverwing now in her arsenal, there will be more suffering, more bloodshed. there are no promises of peace now that the war has been given to the dragons, not until everyone is dead. and if that happens, well, the gods willed it, not her.

in this moment, when she says "may the gods bless you" i have to wonder, is she talking about the seven? or the valyrian gods? or the dragons? i don't think she's fully in deep, but i can see the set up for a much darker storyline for rhaenyra rather than the book plot. every time her beliefs are proven or something impossible happens, that could reinforce her zealousness.

i have always said that rhaenyra is a combination of viserys and daemon, and i think that still. i think that she has both of their madnesses within her. as she loses more, the only thing she'll have to hold onto is that prophecy and the divine right she believes in now.

even this scene from the finale promo has over-the-top messiah, chosen apostles, last supper vibes. her saying "i have entrusted you with a power only few have known" as if she wasn't desperate for them and had no say in who the dragons chose. i love it!

honestly i'm totally here for it, i think it's an exciting direction to take. i don't think rhaenyra was always like this, she might have had the proclivity for it growing up under viserys' wing, but it's the war that's pushed her to this point. desperate people will turn to things like faith in order to guide them when the real world disappoints. i think it's a far more nuanced look at a sort of "madness".

and i'm here for the conflict that will happen with daemon as a result. i think daemon will be in direct opposition to this. he's NOT the type to follow cult leaders. this will be their conflict on top of the existing power struggles. this, to me, is far more interesting of a struggle as opposed to nettles causing romantic tension. this show has a tendency to lean away from harmful stereotypes about women. pitting woman against woman is one of them, as is the hysterical woman.

daemon dying for her could be a form of devotion, or perhaps even a command from a delusional rhaenyra who believes he will survive it. daemon could end up drinking the kool-aid too after the devastations of the war or simply realize that this is the last thing he can offer to someone who is too far gone to be saved.

THIS IS THE FIRE I WANT FOR RHAENYRA. this is the mad queen setup that we could have had! targ exceptionalism and completely going off the deep end as a way of coping with an unwinnable conflict. without viserys, without rhaenys, no one is there to temper the fire within her.

[thesunloveschips]

Obsessed - Part 6 (Azriel x Reader)

Summary: Azriel and Y/n are idiots in obsession and perfectly matched in lust.

Warnings: Azriel & specs, Azriel's chest, delusional Azriel, smut towards the end, minors please stay away.

Click here for Obsessed (Masterlist)

****

Azriel was always an early riser. He would wake up at five in the morning religiously. The only exceptions were when he’d visit his mother or his two moronic friends. 

Today, however, was an exception because he had woken up at. . . what time was it? 

He felt quite refreshed but in many other ways than what sleep could do to him. 

He blinked a few times and took in his surroundings. 

Why was it still dark? Had he slept through the entire day? 

Azriel took his phone from the nightstand and checked. Midnight had just passed. 

He kept his phone back and turned to the side and saw a silhouette under the light of the moon. A woman. 

Azriel took his phone back and switched on the flashlight. It was a woman. Her back, to be more specific, but a woman nonetheless. 

He quickly sat up straight. 

He had to bleach himself. 

Out of what insanity or desperation had he invited a woman into this apartment? 

This apartment that he’d purchased solely for attaining his goal of making Y/n his?

He had to buy a new apartment now. 

Or a new building.

Wait. 

He had to go purify himself first. 

And then he could only hope and beg and pray that Y/n would still accept his adulterous self. 

Y/n, I have committed an unforgivable sin. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. 

Now, what did people do to cleanse their sins?

Repentance. But before he could do a Google search on how to regain his virginity, the woman beside him stirred. 

Azriel didn’t even want to know who it was. Knowing would make it even more real. 

He had to go to a temple, shave his head, and become a monk for a while before he became chaste enough for Y/n. 

What if Y/n saw this woman leave his apartment? She’d instantly reject him as a potential husband. The horror of it made it increasingly difficult for him to breathe.

How did people repent for infidelity? He had to know immediately. He had to make Y/n his and be hers in this lifetime. 

Maybe he should just go over to her apartment and beg for forgiveness already. Azriel could already see himself kneeling and apologising and begging Y/n to marry him.

He took a quick look behind him to see the woman’s face. 

Y/n. 

Y/n?

This beautiful goddess with the lovely figure was Y/n?

Was she real? Or just a figment of the uncountable number of fantasies and dreams he’d had of his woman? He calmed down a little. 

Azriel hesitantly poked her cheek. Fuck, she was so adorable. 

And then he pinched his cheek and pulled it until he felt the pain. 

Oh. She was real. 

Y/n was real. 

He nearly melted into the bed, now watching her carefully. 

Thank fuck he hadn’t cheated on her lest his conscious haunt him forever and beyond. 

Memories of the previous night flashes before him. Kissing her. Undressing her. Devouring her on the dining table. 

Fuck, fuck, that pretty mouth had been so good for him, taking his cock so well. And he’d tasted her again and then, he’d found himself inside her. 

How was it that he’d lost himself to this world again and again, only to find himself with Y/n? Was this what home meant? 

Her hair spread behind her in soft dark waves. Such lovely hair. So easy to grab and pull so that he could manoeuvre her body. 

Azriel dared to move closer to this ethereal being. And as if she’d sensed him, she snuggled closer to him, as if she was seeking him out. 

He checked whether they were wrapped properly in the blankets and watched her. Her legs were pushing and poking his own, trying to be sandwiched between them. 

His hand on her back felt like a dream. Such supple skin.

She was so beautiful, he had to tell his mother of his intention to marry her. 

He felt his brain become mushy as he watched her. 

His perfect Y/n. 

Such brilliance. 

Such a blessing. 

His phone began vibrating and Azriel suddenly felt murderous. 

Who the fuck thought they would interrupt his time with his woman and get away with it?

It was Rhysand. 

Of course, it was Rhysand. 

The asshole had no consideration about the time difference ever since he was hell bent on acquiring Hewn Inc. 

Azriel’s Umbra Industries and Rhys’s Velaris Corp. were all set to acquire Hewn Inc. and they were mapping out all their plans for its future. 

The acquisition was on its way with their lawyers working on it but when Rhys had an idea (which was usually a brilliant one), he also made it a point to be a menace. 

He cancelled the call and texted him. His arm was already missing Y/n’s skin from when it was draped over her. 

Why did he have to hold a device when Y/n was sleeping next to him? This was utterly ridiculous.

Rhysand’s reply was interesting enough that he left the bed, took out his laptop, and returned. Now, he was absolutely determined to get this done before he could return to holding Y/n. 

And if the sun rose before he could get in a good amount of cuddling time, he’d definitely thrash Rhys.

****

Y/n had woken up feeling rather refreshed. Her body turned and stretched on the bed itself before she properly opened her eyes and. . . where was she?

This wasn’t her fluffy furry blanket on her. The windows bringing the moonlight were on the wrong side of the room. There was another source of light in the room coming from the other side of the bed.

She turned around and saw a toned body lit up by the screen of a laptop. 

That body, inked in swirls and patterns unknown, belonged to Azriel. 

She looked up at that face and found him wearing glasses. 

So, overall, logically speaking, her neighbour, this man, had nice abs, tattoos, tanned skin, a perfect face, curly dark hair, and glasses.

Y/n buried her face under the sheets quickly, knowing that the movement would definitely catch his attention. 

Because she couldn’t look at him for too long. 

She’d faint. 

Of course, she’d faint. 

Why was this man so ridiculously, otherworldly, erotically, fictionally hot?

This should be illegal.

But when she realised that he hadn’t initiated a talk with her, she shyly took a peek. Only to see Azriel’s face close to hers. 

Y/n squealed as she hid under the blankets again. 

He was still wearing glasses. So unfair. 

“Y/n?” What was with that bedroom voice? 

Was this man determined to not let her breathe in peace? 

Could he take a break from being so hot?

“Sweetheart?” Somebody, have some mercy already. Lord or Lady or Satan, somebody better help her soon else she’d die of bliss and fuck off to the afterlife. 

Nesta. 

Nesta. 

The only one who could help Y/n right now was Nesta. That woman could manipulate men whereas Y/n was definitely the opposite if anyone could see her right now. 

And what the fuck was that world-rocking, toe-curling, mindblowing sex?

Did anybody warn her that her endlessly handsome neighbour, with a build as if the devil had personally sculpted him, was going to be some kind of a sex god? 

The man had literally picked her up like she’d weighed nothing and thrown her on the bed. 

He’d thrown her. 

The goddess of dark romance and smut had finally, finally, answered her prayers and blessed her. 

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank–

“Y/n?” While she was busy with her gratitude, Azriel had pulled off the blankets from her. 

She looked up at him, embarrassed at her own behaviour. “Hi?” 

“Hello.” And he wrapped the blanket over her excluding her head. He was now laying sideways, resting his head on his hand with the elbow propped up. “Why were you hiding?”

“Nothing.” And she moved to turn her body but Azriel grabbed her waist, pulled her closer, and secured her. 

“Nothing?” Why was his delicious chest in front of her? She shut her eyes tightly to control herself. Do not lick. No matter what happens, do not lick his chest. 

Y/n felt him closer as he laid down properly, his arm now extended and placed beneath her head. The other hand played with her love handles, gently pinching and poking them. 

“Sweetheart?” His voice was sincere and affectionate and Y/n couldn’t help but look at him. Under the moonlight, Azriel looked like he adored her the most in the world. “There’s my girl.” 

The hand on her waist trailed up to her side, his thumb grazing the underside of her breast before the hand came to cradle her head. Azriel leaned in and kissed her forehead softly. 

Once again, Y/n felt a veil fall on her. She didn’t understand what it was except that she felt immensely comforted. “Az?” 

“Hm?” He stroked her hair. 

“Mhm.” Y/n snaked her arms around his neck and pulled him towards her. “You’re so warm.” Yes. Focus on the warmth and fluffy things. Cleanse thyself from filth. 

“You like that?” Y/n had read this line in a smutty romance. Jesus had probably abandoned her after seeing her reading list. 

“Mhm.” She snuggled deeper against him. A few minutes of contented silence passed before Y/n realised why she’d woken up. “Az?”

“Hm?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Oh?” Y/n could hear the filth in his tone and she pinched his arm. 

“For food.” She added, hoping to heavens because she definitely needed more energy before even kissing him. 

Azriel kissed her temple, her cheek, her jaw, and descended to her neck. “Sure I can’t convince you otherwise?” 

“I really don’t have the energy. And I didn’t have anything after lunch.” At that Azriel stopped his attempts at seduction.

“What do you want to eat?” He sounded quite serious. 

“Do you have some snacks?”

“You’re a healthy eater, sweetheart. Will snacks be enough?” It wouldn’t. He knew her eating habits by now. 

“Cooking sounds tiresome.” She caressed his cheek. Gods, this man was so warm, she’d keep him as a personal heater. 

“Then let me take you somewhere.” 

“To that place you said earlier?” He did mention that right after they’d started kissing against her front door. 

“You paid attention to that?” The hand that snaked around her waist did not have any innocent intentions.

“Food, Az. Or I might faint.” Y/n desperately wanted to ride this man while he wore specs. Gods, that was a wonderful fantasy. 

“When we return, I’m having you all to myself.” Azriel grumbled, not liking the idea of being away from their cuddling session. 

Who was she to say anything when she was least interested in leaving bed where he was keeping her warm?

Once they’d somehow escaped the temptation of a warm bed, Azriel told her to dress warm and borrow his clothes as needed. 

He grabbed his keys and they were in the car, en route to some place her hot neighbour did not divulge. 

They reached a quaint fast food outlet from where they had burgers and fries and finally moved. 

****

“Tell me we’re going home.” Home? Gods, he loved hearing her say that. Home. What a beautiful place to be. But he was already home since she was next to him. 

“Not yet. I wanted to show you something.”

“Those mouthwatering burgers weren’t it?”

“I planned to bring you there anyway but this is something else.” They were headed towards the outskirts of the city. At some point, Y/n had fallen asleep. 

Such an adorable woman. He really needed to marry her. 

They’d reached their destination soon. He stepped out of the car, opened the door to the passenger seat, and gently shook her to wake her up. 

“Y/n? Sweetheart?” And she mumbled something incoherent and weakly pushed his arm away. He tried again and again and again before she finally woke up. 

“Az?” It was the softest he’d ever heard her. Now, how difficult was it to get a marriage certificate? It was certainly not difficult but Y/n and his mother would team up to kill him if he tried that. 

“We‘re here.” And it was a viewpoint in the outskirts of the city from where the city and the stars were an incredible sight. He watched Y/n as she admired them, awe on her features. 

“They’re so pretty.” She sighed, her head against his arm. “When did you find this place?”

“I went on a midnight drive a couple of days ago. Thought you’d like it.” 

“I do like it.” She affirmed. Azriel noted that. He needed to tell his PA to search for properties in the area. They leaned against the bonnet of the car for all of five minutes maybe before Y/n yawned loudly. 

“Let’s go back.” 

“But we came all the way here.” She protested sleepily. 

“And you’re sleepy. We need to rest. We’ll come back another night.” 

“Promise?” She was so fucking adorable.

“Promise.” He pinched her cheek. 

Azriel helped her settle in the passenger seat before entering the car himself. Y/n had once again fallen asleep on the way home. 

He had to wake her again since it would’ve been difficult to carry her and punch in the security code for the building and then open his door. 

During the elevator ride up, she stretched her arms like a cat waking up from sleep. By the time they reached their floor, Y/n was more awake than she was downstairs. 

They made it to the bedroom and Azriel knew they would undress. He knew they would go to bed. And yet, as she removed his jacket, he was consumed with need. 

If he removed his pants right now, he’d lose restraint and definitely beg for another round. He watched as she gathered her hair and secured it with a hair clip, claw, whatever that was. 

And she then removed the shirt he’d lent her for the night. It was one of his favourites but it looked so much better on her. Y/n gracefully removed it, giving him a spectacular view of her back and neck. 

The purple blots on her neck felt like his personal branding on her. Pride bloomed as he noted those hickeys. Those hands deftly unclasped her bra and she turned to keep the clothes on the chair. 

And Azriel, being the man that he was, was a goner as soon as he caught sight of those plentiful breasts. He was hard. And with good reason. 

And then, Y/n saw him staring shamelessly at her. She raised a brow. “What?” 

The plan was to reach the bed. 

The plan was to cuddle and sleep. 

The plan was no more. 

The new plan was to get her naked and fuck her silly. “Don’t seduce me if you’re not going to do anything about it, Y/n.” 

How stupid did he sound? She was undressing. Just as he knew she would. She wasn’t even fully naked and he was already aroused. The bulge on his pants was enough proof of his lust and shamelessness. 

Y/n was tired. Or was she? Since she’d been stretching in the elevator. But her gaze right now. As she watched him and her own eyes mirrored his desire. “Or what?” 

It was a challenge. 

Maybe his woman was not so sleepy after all. 

Her nipples were already hard and ready for his mouth and Azriel was looking nowhere else.

He marched over, a hand rising to her throat and the other playing with her breast, fingers pinching her nipple. “How about we see if you keep behaving like a brat once I’ve edged you for some time?” 

“Or shall I go to bed and you can take care of that in the bathroom?” She touched his hand on her throat and brought it to her cheek and leaned into his touch. 

Oh fuck. 

That confidence of hers did things to his belly, all of which shot straight to his cock. 

“And you’ll just sleep?”

“Maybe I’ll take care of myself here while you’ll be occupied with your cock.” 

“Really?.” Azriel lifted her and carried her to bed. He removed her jeans swiftly and sat right next to her. “Should I come on your tits?” Azriel kissed her, moving so that he was hovering over her. He moved to suck on her nipple and remained there for a while. 

“Or on your belly?” He kissed right above the pelvic bone. Her hands scratching his neck and back was a wonderful sensation. With that much, he was ready to fuck her. 

Azriel moved to capture her mouth in a searing kiss. “Or inside that pretty pussy?”

“Are you going to wear all that to bed?” She lazily asked, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt. His clothes were cold against her topless body. 

“No. I think I like being naked around you.” He responded with a playful smile. 

“Then, strip.” It was at this moment that Azriel once again realised that he was entirely fucked. 

He thought he was wholly hers from the moment he saw her but there were more parts of him. Parts that submitted to her when they kissed. 

When he ate her out. 

When she touched his cock for the first time. 

When he thrusted into that warm cunt. 

Every single time, a new part of him he didn’t know about became hers. “You’re making this hard for me.” 

“Your cock is hard for me?” She coyly rephrased and shot back, a sultry smile gracing her lips.

**** 

The way she wanted this man to rail her hard—it was honestly not funny. At this point, Nesta would be more proud of her sexual enthusiasm than Azriel.

“Yes, it is. And what a fucking temptation you are.” He grabbed her throat and kissed her. It was heavenly—the feel of his mouth pressing wet kisses to her neck.

She caught hold of his hair and let her nails through the scalp as Azriel brought some relief to her nipples with his mouth. 

For all her hunger, Azriel gave and gave and Y/n really wanted more and more. She sighed. “Az.”

“I know.” He growled. Frustration didn’t even begin to cover this. 

Azriel brought her leg above his and slowly thrusted into her, eliciting a moan. Her body curved, neck exposed for his mouth. 

“Now, sleep.” Wait. What?

He pressed a wet kiss to her throat. 

“Can’t sleep.” It felt so warm. And now that his cock was inside her, she couldn’t help her need. 

“It’s the only relief.” He kissed her shoulder.

“It’s not.” She whimpered. It was torture not to be fucked by that perfect cock. “Please.” 

“Like that?” Azriel thrusted once. 

“Oh yes.” And he thrusted again. The slow thrusts began, pace never faltering. Y/n was feeling more and more and she wanted to take more. 

“Dirty girl. I thought you were tired.” Azriel was now setting a slow, steady pace. 

“I thought that too.” She sighed. “Az!” She nearly shrieked his name when he sped up for a few seconds. “Wait.” 

Azriel paused, examining her face. “What happened?”

Y/n bent her leg and pushed herself up so she was now straddling Azriel. 

“Fuck me.” He sighed, hands coming to her hips.

Y/n felt her sensuality bloom. It felt good to know her effect on him. To know she had control. She rose and descended on his cock twice. “Like this?”

She then rotated her hips and rose and descended. “Or like this?” 

Azriel’s eyes were shut tightly, grip on her hips tightening. “Fuck.” 

This was liberating. To be sexually empowered. Especially when Azriel made his pleasure known, thereby making her feel like she was good. She felt wonderful. And she felt beautiful and sensual and so many things.

“Or like this?” And she willed herself to clench on his cock. 

Azriel opened his eyes instantly and moaned—moaned. 

Pride zapped her in the chest. To know that she could pleasure her man and find pleasure in it was such an empowering feeling.

And when she loosened her hold on him, he pulled her by the hand and let her fall on his chest. “My dirty girl.” 

Azriel bit her ear and Y/n felt him move his legs. His thighs moved and her face was suddenly pushed closer to his. “Az?”

“Prepare yourself.” That was the only warning she received before Azriel thrusted into her like that. He was now rigorously thrusting inside. 

Y/n then realised that he’d planted his feet on the bed for this position. She lifted her neck, floating high above the clouds in pleasure, waiting to fall and shatter. 

She couldn’t control her sounds. Whether it was a man or sigh or a groan, neither of them cared. She loved that both her and Azriel made their pleasure known and loud. 

Her head fell against his shoulder, incoherent cries leaving her as she tried to beg Azriel. She didn’t even know if she wanted him to stop or continue. 

Everything felt too good. The feel of his skin against hers. The sweat. The sounds. The hurried kisses. The grip on her hips. Being on top. And most of all—his cock. 

The harsh slapping of wet skin against skin contributed to her pleasure, reminding her again and again exactly what was happening. With a lewd moan, she found her pleasure.  

Azriel continued his unrelenting thrusts, his grip tightening as he came. He began stroking her hair and pressed a kiss to her temple. “My perfect girl.” 

They laid there in silence before Y/n began shivering. She was on top of him with no blanket covering her and the cold was getting to her. Goosebumps rose and she shivered before Azriel came out of his post-orgasm haze and realised what was happening. 

He immediately pulled the blanket over them, ensuring she was covered and she snuggled against him like a cat. 

Gods, she’d keep this man. 

Not just because she had real feelings for him or because the sex was fucking fantastic but because he was a great source of warmth. 

The warmth was a cosy feeling but his body in general was quite like a pavement. So once she gained her strength, Y/n moved to the side, choosing to settle there, curled against Azriel. He turned and caged her in his arms.

“What are you doing to me?” Azriel whispered against her ear. 

Y/n looked him in the eye and replied. “Probably whatever it is that you’re doing to me.”

****

Taglist:

@fantanbietsson @angstylittleb1tch @fhgsvbnh @olive-main @cherryjain17 @halo-mystic @starofanotherworld @latinxbipride @viatorem-maris @acotarbestie @sevikas-whore @anthonys-viscountess @randomgurl2326 @thelov3lybookworm @cat-or-kitten @mortqlprojections @tele86 @rorel1a @red0202 @atomictyphoonkitten @colorfulgardenerduck @scarsandallaz @anonymousdisco @rcarbo1 @workof-a-rr-t @fuckingsimp4azriel @isabella13dusk @donnadiddadog @yannnnooooxoxox-blog @nxgh1 @thedeviltohisangel @katherinebright @fandomtrash5092 @epicsweetness712 @anik-4 @hitsxbikbv @julesvanslutta @fae-dreamer-99 @cartonkid1200

[mssalo]

Hummingbird - Part: II

Summary: In the quiet town of Jackson, Joel becomes consumed by a dark and overpowering obsession with his new neighbor. What begins as fascination quickly spirals into something much darker as he loses control over his desires.

11k

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, dark!Joel, obsessive!Joel, manipulation (emotional and psychological), gaslighting, power imbalance, age gap (not specified), stalking, dubious consent, daddy kink, breeding kink, possessive behavior, noncon elements, oral (pussy eating), unprotected PIV, creampie, voyeurism, possessivel controlling dynamics, trauma exploitation, Joel using your vulnerabilities against you, power play, obsessive desires, Joel blurring lines between protection and ownership. Joel is a huge red flag and reader has major daddy issues. Enjoy!

long&intense

Here's Part I.

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

Joel’s days had settled into a new rhythm, one that orbited around you.

Every moment spent outside Jackson’s walls, on the lookout for threats, was consumed by a burning impatience to return. The dangers he once faced with such resolve now seemed trivial compared to the intense need he felt for you. His thoughts were constantly on you, wondering what you were doing while he was gone. He imagined your gentle smile as you taught the youngest children in the settlement.

His patrols, once a predictable routine, now felt like an unwelcome interruption—an unwanted separation from the focus of his obsession.

You.

And now, he was determined to make you love him.

When he wasn’t on patrol, Joel made excuses to cross paths with you. He’d drop by the schoolhouse under the pretense of checking on repairs or offer to carry supplies for you.

At first, you were taken aback by his attention—after all, the quiet, gruff man who led patrols through the wilderness outside Jackson wasn’t exactly known for being sociable. But your innocence worked in his favor. You didn’t question why he lingered a bit too long when you spoke or why his gaze followed you so intently whenever you were near.

“Mr. Miller,” you greeted him one afternoon, flashing that soft, sweet smile that stirred something dark in him. “Here again?”

“Just Joel,” he corrected, his voice low and rough as he leaned against the doorframe of the classroom. “Figured I’d check in. See if y’all needed anythin`.”

You laughed lightly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Always so helpful. I think we’re good today, but thank you.”

Joel’s eyes wandered to the children seated on the floor around you, their attention fixed on makeshift toys. He watched as one of the toddlers tugged at your dress, seeking your attention.

You were made for this. Made to be a mother.

He had seen you with them, crouched down, your voice soothing as you explained lessons or comforted tearful faces.

The way the children gathered around you, their trust unwavering, only heightened his primal urge. There was something about the way you nurtured and cared for them—the tender touch, the encouraging words—that stirred a desire in him beyond mere lust.

The sight of you, so gentle and attentive, sparked a deep, almost possessive longing in him. He imagined you with a child of your own. His child. The fantasy of you, swollen with his baby, your body soft and round, consumed him.

Joel pictured you in your small home, barefoot and glowing, your belly growing larger with each passing day.

The thought twisted something deep inside him, merging his desire with a possessiveness that bordered on madness.

You were too pure, too kind to grasp it, but Joel knew. You were meant for him—to bear his children, to belong to him in every sense.

His gaze darkened as he envisioned taking you right then and there. To bend you over one of the small desks, your soft curves pressed against the rough wood, his hands gripping your hips as he filled you—over and over.

The thought nearly overwhelmed him, the raw, primal urge almost too strong to control.

His hands flexed at his sides, clenching and unclenching as he fought for control. This wasn’t the time. Not yet. You weren’t ready. You still smiled at him with those innocent eyes, unaware of the dark hunger building inside him.

Joel wanted more than to claim you physically—he wanted to own every part of you. He wanted your mind, your heart, your body. He wanted you to be consumed by him the way he was by you.

He could wait. He’d be patient.

For now.

“Joel?” Your sweet voice cut through his haze, pulling him back to the present.

He blinked, realizing he had been staring. Your eyes met his, and you tilted your head slightly, concern touching your features. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he rasped, clearing his throat, his voice thick with a rough edge. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

You smiled again, that same sweet, innocent smile that made his blood boil, completely unaware of the filthy thoughts running through his mind. You were so trusting. So naive.

Joel forced himself to return your smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“If you need anything,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, “anything at all, you just let me know, alright?”

Your smile widened, and for a moment, his heart skipped a beat. “I will. Thank you, Joel.”

He nodded, turning to leave before his control slipped any further. As he walked away, he felt the weight of your gaze on his back, innocent and oblivious. He clenched his fists, his jaw tight as he stepped out into the cold air. His cock already throbbing again. His mind raced with plans, ideas forming and reforming. You were going to be his—he was going to make sure of it.

But first, he had to make you need him as much as he needed you.

· · ────────

In the weeks that followed, Joel's plan took shape with meticulous intent. Every interaction was calculated, every word carefully chosen to weave himself deeper into your life.

He began lingering outside the schoolhouse after his patrols, finding small tasks to do—fixing a loose door hinge, offering to carry supplies.

Always nearby. Always watching.

You began to smile at him more often, a soft glow in your eyes whenever he appeared.

Joel knew he was becoming a part of your routine, a constant presence you started to rely on without even realizing it.

The simple greetings, the quiet moments—each one brought you closer to him.

You started seeking him out.

You’d ask him for help with things around the house, questions about Jackson, and slowly, unknowingly, you let him into your world. Joel played the part of the dependable neighbor with ease, masking the deeper hunger that burned underneath.

It wasn’t just about being near you anymore. It was about making sure you needed him—emotionally, physically.

He wanted to become the one person you couldn’t live without.

One late afternoon, he found you sitting on the porch of your house, the sun casting a soft, golden light over everything. You had a worn notebook in your lap, absently humming a soft, familiar tune as you scribbled something down.

The sound was sweet, gentle, and it tugged at something deep inside Joel. He paused for a moment, just watching you, captivated by the way the melody seemed to wrap around you like a warm embrace.

When you finally noticed him, your face lit up, and his chest tightened at the sight.

“Hey, Joel,” you greeted him with a soft smile, the tune fading into the quiet evening.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice rougher than usual as he approached, the wooden porch creaking under his weight when he sat down beside you. “What’re you workin’ on?”

You glanced down at your notebook, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Oh, just some lesson plans for the kids. Busy day.”

Joel’s gaze softened as he watched you.

The way the light caught the soft strands of your hair, the way you absentmindedly tapped your pencil on the edge of the notebook—everything about you was so gentle, so perfect.

His hand twitched at his side, aching to reach out and touch you, to feel the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips.

Instead, he kept his voice steady, though the desire simmered just beneath the surface.

“You’re good with them. The kids, I mean.”

You smiled again, a little shyly this time, the compliment making you blush just slightly. “Thanks. I try.”

The way you smiled at him, the trust in your eyes—it was all he needed to know that his plan was working.

You were beginning to let your guard down, to lean into his presence. Every time you looked at him like that, so open and unaware, it drove Joel further into his obsession.

my pretty little hummingbird.

The melody of your earlier humming lingered in his mind as he sat next to you, and he couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to have you all to himself—to be the one to hear you hum as you moved about your shared home, maybe with a child cradled in your arms.

The image of you, round with his child, your body soft and full, made his heart pound, once again.

He wanted that. He wanted everything with you.

You had no idea just how deeply he wanted to be your everything, just like you were becoming his.

For now, he would keep playing the part of the protector, the one you could count on.

But it wouldn’t be long before he’d make sure you needed him just as much as he needed you.

He could already see the shift—the way you sought him out more, the way your eyes softened when they met his, how you were humming more often, especially when you were near him, like you were already growing comfortable in his presence.

You were slipping into his grasp, slowly but surely.

And soon, you’d realize just how much you needed him—how much you craved the protection and the stability he offered.

He watched as you turned back to your notebook, your lips parting slightly as you absentmindedly hummed again, lost in thought.

Joel clenched his fists at his sides, the desire to claim you in every possible way nearly overwhelming. But he could wait.

For now.

· · ────────

That same evening, as the two of you sat on the small, worn sofa in your living room, the air between you seemed heavier, more intimate.

Joel was sitting close, the warmth of his body radiating toward you as the low light from a nearby lamp flickered softly against the walls.

There was a strange comfort in his presence, a grounding sense that you hadn’t expected to feel. Yet there he was—always there.

You hadn’t planned to talk about it, not with Joel, not with anyone.

But something about the quiet of the evening, and the way he sat so close, made you feel safe enough to let it out.

You shifted, pulling your knees up onto the couch, hugging them slightly as you stared at the floor.

“My father… I don’t talk about him much,” you began, your voice low, almost a whisper.

Joel didn’t interrupt. He just listened, his fingers barely grazing your arm, his touch subtle, steady.

He was patient, waiting for you to open up.

“He was never really the same after my mom died. He was… distant, like he was there, but at the same time, he wasn’t. I kept trying to reach him, to get him to see me, to just… care.” You paused, the lump in your throat growing harder to swallow.

“But no matter what I did, no matter how hard I fought for his attention, for his approval, he just... pulled away more.”

Joel’s fingers tightened slightly around your arm, his silent way of telling you he was there, listening. Right?

“We survived together for a while, just the two of us, after everything fell apart. He wasn’t much of a father by then, more like… just someone I had to follow, to keep up with. I was always trying to prove myself to him, to show him I could handle it. But it was exhausting.”

Your voice broke for a moment, and you felt your breath catch in your chest.

Joel shifted closer, his arm resting behind you on the back of the sofa, offering you the comfort of his presence without a word.

“And then… he died,” you whispered, the pain of the memory washing over you like a wave.

“We were out there in the wilderness, trying to survive, just like always. He got hurt, and I tried—I tried so hard to save him, to keep him alive.

A silent tear slipped down your soft cheeks, "But, again, it wasn’t enough. I wasn't enough. He died, and then he really left me. For good.”

A shudder went through you as you recalled those final moments, the coldness of his absence washing over you again.

"He left me, Joel. After everything. I was so alone after that. Completely abandoned.”

You took a shaky breath, the weight of your confession settling between you. "The anniversary of his death is soon."

You could feel the weight of the silence between you, the raw emotion of the confession hanging in the air.

You hadn’t spoken those words aloud to anyone, not since it happened. The loneliness, the helplessness—it had all stayed locked away inside you for so long.

Joel’s grip on your hand tightened, his thumb stroking the back of it in slow, soothing circles.

He shifted slightly, moving closer to you on the couch until his thigh pressed firmly against yours. His other arm, warm and strong, wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you toward him with a gentle but insistent force.

“Come here, sweet girl,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with that unmistakable Southern drawl that had become so comforting.

Without thinking, you leaned into him, your head resting against his chest.

The solid weight of him, the quiet rise and fall of his breathing, made you feel grounded in a way that nothing else had. His fingers tangled in your hair, stroking lightly as he held you close.

“You shouldn’t have had to go through that,” Joel whispered, his lips brushing the top of your head.

“Your father… he should’ve seen how hard you fought for him. But he didn’t. He failed you.”

The words struck a chord deep inside, and you felt another tear slip down your cheek, quickly absorbed by Joel’s shirt as he held you tighter.

He made it sound so simple, so black and white, and in this moment, it was comforting to believe that maybe it really had been that way.

· · ────────

He’d watched you closely in the weeks that followed, noting your increasing need for support, how you seemed to lean on him more and more.

It was all part of his plan, a strategy to make you depend on him, to crave his presence in ways you hadn’t before.

He saw the cracks in your composure, the way your smiles were less frequent, and how your gaze held a kind of forlorn hope whenever he was near.

And then he began.

Joel had put his plan into motion, slowly pulling away over the past week—just enough to make you feel the cold sting of his absence.

The timing wasn’t random; the anniversary of your father’s death was looming, and he knew the weight of that grief would come crashing down on you.

It was the perfect moment.

He could see it already in your face, the way sadness mixed with confusion, the subtle flickers of desperation as you searched for his familiar presence.

You leaned on him more in those days leading up, seeking comfort, but now, with him gone, you were left alone again, the emptiness creeping in.

Joel understood what that feeling of abandonment could do—it would remind you of the ache of being left behind.

But this time, instead of pushing you away completely, it would draw you closer to him.

You’d start to wonder where he was, why he wasn’t there, and with each passing day, your need for him would grow stronger.

And that’s exactly what he wanted.

The power of it fueled something dark inside him, but Joel didn’t flinch from it. It wasn’t cruelty, he told himself.

It was necessity.

· · ────────

The night of the anniversary, he knew you’d be at your most vulnerable. The idea of you coming to him, desperate and broken, fed his twisted satisfaction.

And sure enough, as he watched you from his porch, he saw you approaching his house, your posture hunched and hesitant, your eyes red from crying.

You were exactly where he wanted you: fragile, yearning for comfort, and completely under his control.

When you knocked on his door, your voice barely more than a whisper, Joel paused deliberately, savoring the moment.

His face stayed cold for a beat longer, a flicker of something darker dancing behind his eyes.

He knew it was you—he had expected this.

The satisfaction of your inevitable need for him made his chest tighten, not with tenderness, but with a twisted sense of control.

His mind wandered briefly, picturing you on the other side of the door—fragile, vulnerable, and craving him in the way he wanted.

The image sent a rush through him, his hand flexing at his side before he reached for the doorknob.

Joel knew what you would look like, how you would be standing there with those wide, innocent eyes, pleading silently for comfort.

It was exactly where he wanted you.

As he turned the handle and slowly opened the door, his gaze traveled over you, drinking in every detail.

You were wearing one of those soft, simple dresses he loved—the kind that hugged your curves in just the right way, brushing against your thighs.

The fabric clung to your chest, outlining the subtle rise and fall of your breath.

Your hair, slightly tousled, framed your face, and the way the fading evening light touched your skin made you look even more delicate. Almost ethereal.

Joels eyes lingered on your body a little too long before he forced them back to your face, taking in the sadness in your eyes.

You were so beautiful like this—small, fragile, clearly aching for someone to hold you.

The thought of you being this broken, this dependent on him, sent a pulse of something darker through his veins and all his blood rushing to his cock.

He let a slow breath out through his nose, shifting his expression into something softer, more concerned.

But underneath that, there was a twisted thrill.

You didn’t even realize how much you needed him, how perfectly you were falling into the trap he had set.

"Hey," he said, voice low and calm, his gaze flicking up and down your body before settling back on your face. "You alright?"

But the way his eyes darkened just a fraction as they swept over you again hinted at more.

His need to consume you was barely hidden beneath the surface, masked only by the false tenderness he had learned to wear so well.

You hesitated, a mix of hurt and confusion on your face.

“I… I don’t understand,” you said, stepping over the threshold and into Joel’s home, your voice wavering with uncertainty.

“You’ve been so distant lately. I thought—” Your gaze flicked up to him, pleading for answers. “I thought we were closer than this.”

Joel closed the door behind you with a deliberate, measured movement.

His eyes followed your every action, noting the way you hesitated at the entryway, clearly unsettled.

The sight of you, standing there with your heart exposed, only intensified his dark satisfaction.

He could see the raw need in your eyes, the desperate hope that he might provide the comfort you were seeking.

“Come on, baby,” he said softly, his voice laced with a false warmth that barely masked his true intentions. “Sit down. Let’s talk.”

As you settled onto the couch, your fingers twisting nervously in your lap, Joel took a seat beside you, his proximity charged with a subtle tension.

His gaze remained steady, almost predatory, as he observed the way your defenses were weakening.

The dim light in the room cast a soft glow over you, highlighting the vulnerability in your features.

Joel’s eyes lingered on the curve of your profile, the way your shoulders seemed to slump in defeat.

For a moment, he stayed quiet, eyes flicking down to where your fingers fidgeted in the fabric of your dress.

Then, in a voice that was strangely soft, he broke the silence.

"I thought maybe..." He paused, his jaw tightening slightly as if weighing his words carefully. "I thought maybe you'd gotten too used to me."

His words caught you off guard, and your eyes shot up to meet his. "Too used to you?" you echoed, confusion evident in your tone.

Joel nodded slowly, his expression shifting to one of thoughtful hardness.

There was something in his eyes, a shadow of frustration mixed with a dark calculation.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice gruff. “Maybe I’ve just been around too much. Maybe you’ve been handling things just fine on your own.”

His gaze was steady, almost penetrating, as he watched your reaction.

You could feel the weight of his words, a subtle threat hidden in the casual tone.

The idea that he might pull away, leave you to handle things alone again, seemed both daunting and unsettling.

“Joel, I didn’t mean—” you started to say, but he cut you off, leaning in closer.

His hand rested on your thigh, his touch a mix of warmth and intensity, grounding yet unsettling.

“I’ve been thinking,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “about how you’re managing. Maybe you don’t need me as much as I thought. Maybe it’s time I stepped back and let you handle things on your own. Alone.”

The way he spoke made you feel the absence of his presence even more acutely.

His hand on your thigh was a stark contrast to the coldness in his words, a reminder of what you could lose.

Joel’s gaze remained locked on yours, his expression a careful mix of concern and something darker.

Joel’s fingers traced a small, deliberate path on your thigh, each touch a reminder of his influence and control.

“Maybe it’s time I let you prove it. All on your own”

As his words sank in, a rush of fear and vulnerability overwhelmed you.

You felt a cold, biting loneliness creeping in.

The memory of being abandoned, left alone in a world that felt hostile and unforgiving, came rushing back.

“Please, don’t leave me alone,” you pleaded, your voice trembling. “Not again. Not like this.”

The desperation in your voice was raw, a stark reminder of the pain from your past.

Joel’s expression softened ever so slightly, though the darkness still lingered in his eyes.

He watched as you struggled, the fear of abandonment triggering old wounds.

You could see the glint of something almost satisfied in his gaze, a cruel sort of pleasure at the way you were unraveling before him.

His hand on your thigh remained steady, a reminder of what you stood to lose if he followed through on his threat.

Joel leaned in, his voice a whisper of false reassurance. “I don’t want to see you suffer, baby. I just need to know you really want me here. That you need me.”

"You don’t know how much I need you," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

The words came out before you could stop them, a slip of your guard that Joel pounced on immediately.

He smiled, but there was nothing soft about it. "Yeah?"

His thumb, again, began to trace slow circles against your thigh, the touch deceptively gentle, though the look in his eyes was anything but.

"Because, baby, I’ve been needing you. More than you realize."

His voice dropped lower, and he shifted closer, his presence suffocating in its intensity.

"And I’ve been thinking... maybe you didn’t want me the same way. Maybe I pushed too hard, too fast."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off again, his hand moving from your thigh to cup your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye.

"But I get it now," he murmured, his voice dark and possessive. "I see it. You need me just as much. You’re just afraid to admit it."

His words hung in the air, heavy and laced with meaning, and you felt your heart pounding in your chest. Joel leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear.

"You don’t have to be afraid," he whispered. "You don’t have to hide how much you want me."

His hand slid from your chin down to your shoulder, then lower, grazing the fabric of your dress in a way that made your breath hitch.

He was testing the boundaries, pushing them, seeing how far he could go before you pulled away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

"I just needed to know," Joel continued, his voice soft but insistent, "that you want me, too. That you’re as hungry for this as I am."

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Joel’s fingers trailed down your arm, intertwining with your own, holding them still.

His grip was firm, grounding, and yet there was that undercurrent of dominance there—the same unspoken claim he always made, like you were something precious and fragile, yet wholly his.

"I’m sorry," he murmured, though the apology didn’t feel entirely sincere. His voice was calm, soothing, but the darkness in his gaze remained.

"I didn’t mean to push you away. I just needed to make sure you wanted me like I want you."

His hand brushed over your cheek, the gesture tender, though you could sense the raw desire behind it.

"Tell me you want me, baby," he coaxed, his thumb stroking the side of your face. "Tell me I wasn’t wrong."

Your heart raced as you met his gaze, the intensity in his eyes almost too much to bear.

He was pulling you in, breaking down every last wall you had left, making you crave the very thing you’d been trying to deny.

"I need you," you breathed, the confession spilling from your lips before you could stop it.

Joel’s smile widened, that dark, twisted satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

His grip on your hand tightened, his other hand slipping around your waist, pulling you closer.

"I knew it," he whispered, his lips brushing your ear. "I knew you couldn’t resist."

Joel’s eyes darkened with a twisted satisfaction as he leaned in closer, his hand brushing against your arm with an intimacy that belied his words.

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, but with a dark undercurrent. “I’m here now. I’ll take care of you.”

You shifted slightly, feeling a mix of relief and unease as you looked up at him. Joel’s gaze was intense, his expression one of smoldering desire masked by a veneer of concern.

He watched as your defenses crumbled, your need for comfort making you more vulnerable to his manipulations.

“Just let me be here for you,” he continued, his hand moving to your cheek, his touch almost tender but charged with a possessive edge.

“You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll take care of you, baby. You just need to trust me.”

You nodded slowly, your resolve faltering as you leaned into his touch.

His words, though laced with a veneer of sympathy, were a seductive promise of control.

Joel could see the way you melted under his gaze, your need for him growing stronger with each passing moment.

He let his hand slide down your arm, his touch deliberately lingering as he coaxed you into his embrace.

“You’re safe here with me,” he whispered, his voice low and sultry.

“You don’t have to think about anything else. Just let me take care of you.”

You were too overwhelmed by your emotions to resist as he gently pulled you closer.

His hands roamed over your body with a possessive urgency, each touch calculated to deepen your dependence on him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. “I’ve wanted this for so long. You have no idea how much you mean to me.”

The warmth of his breath, the intensity of his gaze, and the possessiveness in his touch combined to create a heady mix of pleasure and apprehension.

Joel’s manipulation was complete—he had broken down your defenses, making you crave his presence as desperately as he desired to control you.

As his hands explored your body, his touch became more insistent, his words a blend of comfort and dark desire.

“You want me, sweet girl, don’t you?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

As Joel's words and touch sank in, you felt a wave of relief mingled with your desperation.

The fear of being abandoned, of losing the small comfort he provided, made you cling to him even more.

Despite the unsettling edge to his words, the fact that he was showing you kindness again brought a surge of gratitude.

You wanted to feel cared for, wanted to be held in a way that made you forget the fear of being left alone.

"Please, Joel," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. "I want you."

Joel’s touch became a tangled mix of comfort and possessiveness.

He held you close, his hands roaming over your body with a growing insistence, reinforcing the notion that you were his and his alone.

His whispers and touches were a heady mixture of dark desire and a twisted form of affection, leaving you both comforted and caught in his web of manipulation.

Joel’s voice was low and soothing, yet carried an undercurrent of dominance.

“You’re just a girl who needs someone to look after her,” he said, each word dripping with arousal.

“Let me take care of everything for you. You don’t need to worry about a thing while you’re with me. Just relax and let me handle it all, baby. I’m here to make sure you’re okay.”

His touch was slow and deliberate, slowly tucking up your dress, his words designed to reinforce both his control and your vulnerability.

You shivered as his lips pressed against your skin, your mind clouded with a mix of longing and confusion.

Joel’s voice was soft, almost tender, but with an unmistakable edge.

“You’ve been so lost and vulnerable,” he murmured, drawing you closer.

“You need someone strong to guide you, to make you feel safe. Let me be that for you. You don’t have to handle any of this alone. Just let go and let me take care of you.”

His lips brushed against yours, soft and insistent.

"Let me be that for you, let me take care of everything. You don't have to do anything but trust me."

As his lips pressed firmly against yours, he deepened the kiss, each movement reinforcing his words, pulling you further into his control.

His tongue slid into your mouth, exploring and claiming you with a possessive fervor.

"You're so sweet," he murmured between kisses, his voice raw and heated.

"I've been waiting for this, needing to feel you like this." His hands roamed possessively over your body, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss, his desire unmistakable in every touch and caress.

Joel’s lips remained locked on yours, the kiss growing more urgent and desperate.

His hands wandered over your body, exploring with a mixture of hunger and tenderness.

One hand gripped the back of your neck, pulling you closer, while the other slid down to your waist, pressing you firmly against him and his pulsing length.

His kisses were relentless, each one deeper and more insistent than the last.

He traced the contours of your lips with his tongue, his touch turning more possessive.

“You feel so perfect,” he whispered between heated kisses, his breath hot against your skin.

“I can’t get enough of you.” His fingers roamed over your body with increasing boldness, every touch stoking the fire between you.

Your body responded instinctively to his touch, even as your mind struggled to catch up.

Every caress, every lingering touch made you shiver, a mixture of confusion and pleasure rippling through you.

Your breathing quickened, each kiss and stroke sending waves of warmth through your veins.

Though you were unsure and your thoughts swirled with uncertainty, the sensation of his hands roaming over your skin felt undeniably good.

You leaned into his touch, your body betraying your confusion with a need that grew stronger with each passing second.

Your fingers clung to him, finding solace in the way he held you, even as a part of you grappled with the intensity of the moment.

You just want to finally feel safe again.

You clung to him, breath shaky and eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and need.

“Please,” you whispered urgently, voice breaking, “I need you to take care of me, to make me feel safe. I can’t do this alone anymore. I need you to be the one to make me feel good, to give me what I’m missing. I want you to be everything for me.”

Joel’s eyes darkened with a mix of lust and satisfaction. He pulled you closer, his voice a low, seductive murmur.

“Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea how much I’ve been waiting for you to say that. You need me to take care of you, to make you feel safe? I’m going to give you everything you’ve been craving. You don’t have to worry about a thing anymore—just let me be the one to fulfill all your desires.”

His hand traced a heated path along your side, each touch designed to ignite your senses further.

“Yes, please” you whimpered into his mouth.

That’s all he wanted.

Joel’s touch became reverent, his hands exploring your body with a possessive hunger. His lips followed the path of his fingers, kissing every exposed inch of skin as he spoke with a fervent, dirty intensity.

“Fuckin‘ perfect, every part of you is just for me,” he whispered against your collarbone, his breath hot and tantalizing.

“I want to worship every curve, every soft spot. you’re so fuckin beautiful, and you need me to show you just how much. Let me savor you, baby—every touch, every kiss is for you. You’re mine now, and I’m going to make sure you feel that deep in your bones.”

Joels lips slowly traveled down your body.

His breath was warm and heavy against your skin as he knelt before you. His gaze was dark, filled with an unrestrained hunger as he whispered, his voice a sultry murmur.

“so sweet, so irresistible,” he said, his fingers grazing your inner thighs with a teasing touch.

“I’m going to show you just how much you need me. You’re like a little princess who needs to be worshipped, and I’m more than happy to oblige. Let me taste every part of you, baby. I want to make you feel so good, so full of pleasure, you’ll never want to leave my side.”

Joel's hands were deft as he slowly peeled away the rest of your dress, his touch both deliberate and reverent. His lips traced a path along your skin.

"Need someone to think for you, hm?" he murmured, his breath sending shivers down your spine.

"To make every decision, every choice for you. You just need to surrender to me, let me take care of everything. I'll make sure you’re completely taken care of, baby. Just relax and let me handle everything."

His fingers continued their slow, teasing exploration, each movement fueling his deep, perverted desire to have you wholly in his control.

Joel carefully lifted you into his arms, carrying you toward his bed with a purposeful stride.

He lowered you gently onto the mattress, his hands lingering on your waist as he took in the sight of you in nothing but your underwear.

His breath was warm against your exposed skin as he settled beside you. "You're so perfect," he murmured, his voice a mix of tenderness and unspoken hunger.

"Just relax. I'm going to make sure you feel good."

His fingers traced lightly over your exposed skin, each touch both soothing and charged with a possessive intensity.

The sight of you, vulnerable and exposed, ignited a primal hunger deep within him.

Every curve of your body seemed to call out to him, each subtle movement you made only heightening his intense need.

The way you looked, soft and eager, made his pulse race with anticipation.

He imagined the many ways he could take control, shaping your need and dependence to match his desires.

The thought of making you entirely his, of fulfilling his fantasies and watching you respond to his every touch, filled him with a dark, thrilling excitement.

His cock, leaking and pulsing inside of his - now too tight - pants.

He couldn't help but notice the way his body reacted to you-how every time you were near, his pulse quickened, and that familiar ache stirred deep inside him.

It was unexpected, really. At his age, he thought those days were behind him, but being around you had changed everything.

His body responded to you in ways he hadn't felt in years, his cock hardening almost every time you so much as smiled in his direction.

It was like his body refused to let him forget just how much he wanted you-constantly reminding him, throbbing with need whenever you were close.

He lowered himself to the bed beside you, his breath warm against your skin.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured, his voice laced with both tenderness and an unspoken hunger.

“Just relax. I’m going to make sure you feel good.”

His lips brushed softly against your stomach, his kisses slow and deliberate, hinting at the path his hands and lips might take.

“Let me show you how much I care,” he whispered, his breath making your skin tingle with anticipation.

Joel's hands moved with deliberate patience, his touch growing more assured as he pressed your thighs to open.

"You don't have to think about a thing. Daddy's got you."

Your breath caught in your throat when the word left his lips—daddy. It hit you like a shock, a jolt of something both unfamiliar and undeniably magnetic.

You weren’t sure how to process it, weren’t even sure you should. But it stirred something deep inside, a part of you you hadn’t acknowledged in so long.

The air between you thickened, your heart racing as the room suddenly felt smaller, warmer.

You knew you should say something, stop this before it went further, but your body betrayed you, leaning into the heat of his touch, the promise in his voice.

The word echoed in your mind, twisting through your thoughts, confusing you with how natural, how right it sounded in his mouth.

You wanted to push him away, to ask what he thought he was doing, but you didn’t.

Instead, you stayed—silent, wide-eyed—because part of you wanted to hear him say it again.

Part of you wanted to be taken care of, to be small, vulnerable, safe in a way you hadn’t been since...

Your heart thudded in your chest, and you couldn’t deny how the word sent a rush of warmth through you, settling low in your pulsing cunt.

Joel's lips hovered just above your skin, each kiss trailing lower, igniting a soft, trembling need within you. You moaned.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice rough with desire as his hands gripped your hips gently, holding you in place.

“Daddy’s gonna take care of you.”

His mouth moved slowly, deliberately, his breath warm as he teased you, each moment making your body tense in anticipation.

“You’ve been needing this, haven’t you?” he murmured, “My poor baby“, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

“Needed daddy so bad, hm?”

He paused, his lips hovering dangerously close, his voice dropping lower.

He lowered himself with a deliberate slowness, his gaze locked onto you with a mix of fervent anticipation and adoration.

“Let me show you just how much I want to take care of you,” he whispered, his voice a husky murmur, slowly taking of your damp panties - leaning in close.

His prominent nose brushed teasingly against your pulsing clit, sending a shiver through your entire body.

Each delicate nudge felt almost like a promise, hinting at what was to come.

The sensation left you both confused and intrigued, your breath quickening as you struggled to process the mingling of shock and unexpected pleasure.

His tongue made a tentative, deliberate swipe against you, licking your pussy gently, sending a shiver up your spine.

The sudden warmth and wetness made you gasp, your body reacting instinctively to the unexpected sensation.

A mix of confusion and pleasure swirled within you as your breath hitched, your fingers gripping the sheets, trying to steady yourself amidst the overwhelming, unfamiliar pleasure.

Joel noticed your inexperience in every hesitant gasp and shiver. It only made his cock harden more in his Jeans.

Joel's focus remained intently on your little cunt, his every touch purposeful. He moved with deliberate slowness, savoring the reactions you elicited.

His tongue traced light, teasing patterns onto your twitching clit, his breaths warm and soft against your skin, making you shiver with every delicate touch.

His lips lingered on your most sensitive part, the sensation of a subtle, rhythmic suction, barely perceptible yet unmistakably suggestive, creating a wave of shivering anticipation through your whole body.

You, already, were so close to the edge; Joel could see it clearly.

Your breaths came in rapid, uneven gasps, and your body quivered in response to his touch. He noticed the way your muscles tensed and the subtle tremors that ran through you.

The urgency in your breaths and the way your legs slightly shook were unmistakable signals of your nearing climax.

He pulled back just enough to watch, relishing the heightened tension as your eyes fluttered open, a mix of frustration and anticipation evident on your face.

Joel’s voice was low and filled with a dark, seductive promise. “I can feel how close you are, baby,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

“I want to feel you come undone, baby. I want to watch you lose control. Just give in and let Daddy take care of you.” His voice was a seductive whisper, every word designed to heighten your need, as his touch lingered, coaxing and teasing.

Slowly taking off his pants.

As Joel’s pants fell to his ankles, the sight that greeted you was both startling and mesmerizing. His leaking cock was noticeably larger than you had imagined, with a thickness that made your eyes widen in surprise.

The smooth, dark skin of his shaft was veined and visibly engorged, hinting at the intensity of his desire.

It was already leaking a glistening bead of pre-cum, which pooled at the tip and gave it an almost ominous sheen.

Joel's gaze never wavered from you, his eyes dark and filled with an unsettling mix of satisfaction and dominance.

“This is what you’ve done to me,” he said softly, his voice rough with need.

Cock jumping every time you looked down at him. “You’re the only one who makes me feel this way.”

You hesitated, a mixture of confusion and reluctance evident in your eyes. “I don’t know, Joel…”

He paused, his voice taking on a more commanding tone.

“If you don’t let go, baby, I might just have to leave you to figure it out on your own. You don’t want that, do you? Daddy’s here to take care of you, to make sure you’re okay. Trust me and let me help you.”

His words were wrapped in a mix of persuasion and a subtle edge of threat, aimed to coax you into surrendering.

You felt a flutter of apprehension mixed with a yearning need for his touch. His whisper, dripping with both authority and promise, coaxed you into a state of surrender.

“You don’t want me to leave, do you?” he murmured, his voice a low growl. “Say it, baby. Tell me you want me to stay.”

Your breath hitched as you struggled with the rising tide of vulnerability. Scared of being left alone again.

With a soft, hesitant voice, you finally whispered, „I want you to stay.”

His eyes darkened with a mixture of satisfaction and hunger as he heard you utter those words.

He cupped your face gently, his fingers tracing along your jawline as he continued to whisper soothingly, “That’s a good girl. Let me take care of you. Just relax and let me handle everything.”

His touch, though tender, carried an unmistakable edge of possessiveness, making it clear that he was in control.

He gazed at you with a warm, tender smile, his eyes softening as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your face.

“You’re so pretty, you know that?” he murmured, his voice gentle and affectionate.

“Such a good girl for me. I’m so proud of you.” He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his tone filled with genuine adoration.

“You’re perfect, just the way you are. Let me take care of you.” His words were laced with a blend of endearment and possessiveness, wrapping you in a comforting cocoon of reassurance.

You felt a surge of warmth at his words, a mix of relief and comfort flooding through you.

You looked up at him, your eyes glistening with vulnerability.

A shy smile tugged at your lips as you leaned into his touch, finding solace in his praise.

The reassurance of being called "pretty" and "good girl" felt like a soothing balm, calming the storm of confusion and fear within you.

In his presence, despite everything, you felt a strange, tentative peace.

He leaned in again, his lips brushing softly against yours.

The kiss began gentle and tender, filled with a careful exploration of emotions.

His touch was both reassuring and passionate, gradually deepening as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer.

The heat between you intensified, the kiss becoming more urgent and consuming. Every caress of his lips was a promise of intimacy, blending comfort with an insistent desire.

As the kiss deepened, his hands began to explore your body with a gentle, possessive touch.

His fingertips traced a slow, deliberate path down your sides, moving closer to your chest.

With a careful, almost teasing touch, he caressed the curve of your breast through the fabric of your bra, savoring the way your body responded to his every movement.

His voice was low and commanding, his breath hot against your skin.

"Let me see all of you," he murmured, his hands already starting to slide your remaining clothes off with a mix of urgency and reverence.

"| want to see you all laid bare, just for me."

His eyes burned with intensity as he eagerly worked to reveal more of your body, his touch lingering with every movement.

As the fabric slipped away and your bare breasts were revealed, his eyes darkened with a primal intensity.

He gazed at you hungrily, his breath catching as he took in the sight. His fingers roamed eagerly over your skin, their touch lingering and possessive.

"God, you're incredible," he groaned, his voice dripping with desire.

"|'ve wanted to see you like this for so long." His hands explored your breast with a ferocity that left no doubt about his hunger, his gaze fixed on you with an almost obsessive fixation.

He couldn’t help but revel in the sight of you, so exposed and vulnerable before him.

His hands roamed possessively over your breasts, fingers tracing the curves and contours with a reverent touch.

His lips finally descended, capturing one of your nipples in a gentle, teasing kiss.

He nuzzled and licked, savoring the softness and warmth, his tongue flickering with a hunger that made his intentions clear.

Each delicate brush of his lips and tongue was an unspoken promise of his complete adoration, his perverted fascination with every part of you laid bare.

As Joel's tongue traced over your nipples, he couldn't help but let his mind wander.

The sensation of your skin against his lips, your warmth radiating through him and your sweet moans only fueled his thoughts.

He imagined you carrying his child, his own mark on you in the most intimate way.

Each teasing lick and gentle suck was accompanied by the fantasy of you pregnant, fulfilling a desire that went far beyond the present moment.

His mind drifted to the idea of you nourishing him in the most intimate way, the anticipation of tasting your milk driving him wild.

His cock throbbed incessantly, each pulse a painful reminder of just how much he yearned for you.

The ache grew with each touch, each kiss, until it became a near-constant throbbing, demanding release.

The sensation was overwhelming, an almost unbearable pressure that seemed to grow with every inch of contact, his desire for you mounting with every second

Joel’s breath grew ragged as he pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire.

He looked at you with a mix of need and intensity, his voice low and gravelly.

“Daddy needs to be inside you, sweet girl” he murmured.

He stared at you with a burning intensity, his voice a hushed whisper of urgency.

His movements were deliberate and filled with a raw desire that was impossible to ignore, his body pressing closer to yours with each passing moment, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.

You could feel the unmistakable pressure and heat of him as he positioned himself, at the opening of your tight pussy.

His eyes locked onto yours, a fierce determination in his gaze.

“I’ve waited for this moment,” he growled, his voice thick with desire.

Silently your voice whispered out to him, “Daddy,”

The sound of your voice seemed to unlock something deep within him.

Joel groaned as he pressed deeper, feeling the way your body clenched tightly around him.

The stretch was almost too much, and you could feel just how thick he was as he slowly sank inside, inch by inch. 

"God, you're so tight," he rasped, his voice thick with strain and something darker, almost possessive.

He paused, giving you a moment to adjust, his breathing heavy as he fought for control. 

"You feel so perfect around me," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, the weight of him settling heavily against you. "Just relax, baby. Let me in." 

As Joel pushed deeper, your body reacted to the overwhelming sensation—a mix of pleasure and a sharp, lingering ache.

Each inch of him brought a new wave of heat that burned through you, the stretch almost too much, yet somehow not enough. 

You gasped, your body tensing under the pressure, unsure whether to pull away or draw him closer.

The pain ebbed with every slow movement, replaced by a growing warmth that made your pulse quicken.

“Easy,” Joel whispered, his voice thick and soothing, his lips grazing your neck.

“I know it’s a lot… but you’ll get used to it. Just let me take care of you. My sweet, pretty girl”

Your body responded instinctively, a wave of pleasure crashing over you with each deliberate thrust, making you feel completely and utterly exposed.

He pressed into you with a steady, deliberate force, each thrust deep and insistent.

The sensation of him moving inside you was both overwhelming and all-consuming, his control evident in every motion.

His thrusts were measured but powerful, pushing and pulling with an intensity that made each moment stretch, filling you completely.

The way he moved was both commanding and passionate, amplifying every sensation and hinting at his unrestrained desire.

Joel's sounds were raw and primal, each groan and sigh escaping him with a deep, guttural intensity.

His breaths came in short, ragged bursts, every exhale a mix of pleasure and need.

The way he grunted and muttered, his voice rough and strained, made it clear how much he craved and needed you.

His movements were urgent and powerful, driven by an almost feral desire that made him seem less controlled and more driven by pure, unfiltered instinct.

As he continued to move, he couldn't help but notice how perfectly you enveloped him.

Every shift and thrust seemed to be met with an almost intoxicating tightness, making each motion feel even more intense.

Joel's voice was rough, almost primal, as he spoke through gritted teeth.

"You're driving me crazy," he growled, the need in his voice palpable.

"I've been waiting for this, to have you just like this. You're so perfect, so tight...I want you to scream my name."

Each word was punctuated with a forceful thrust, his eyes dark with a perverted hunger.

"Tell me how much you need me, baby. Let daddy hear you."

You moaned softly, your voice trembling with a mix of desperation and surrender. "I need you so badly. I want you to take care of me, to give me everything."

His grip on you tightened, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.

"That's right. Tell me how much you crave me, how much you want me to make you feel good. I need to hear you beg for it."

Each thrust was deliberate, designed to push you to the edge of your limits, to make you feel every inch of his need.

He watched you intently, eager to hear every plea, every expression of your deep desire for him.

“Please,” you begged, your voice breaking with raw need. “Please, just—make me feel good. I need you so badly. I want you to take me completely.”

He thrust harder, a dark satisfaction in his eyes.

“Beg me. Tell me exactly what you want. How you want me to make you feel. I want to hear it.”

You whimpered, your body trembling under his relentless pace.

“I want you to touch me everywhere. Make me come so hard, I don’t know my own name. I need you inside me, every inch. Please, Daddy, don’t stop.”

His smirk widened, a cruel thrill in his voice.

“That’s it. Let me hear how much you need me. Tell me you’re mine.”

Your voice was a desperate, pleading whisper as you gasped, “Please, take over. I can’t think straight—just make me feel what I need.”

His eyes blazed with a primal hunger as he heard your desperate plea.

A low growl escaped him, filled with raw, unchecked desire.

"You want me to take over, baby?" he rasped, his voice thick with lust.

"'Il make you feel everything you need. Just give yourself to me completely."

His grip tightened, and his movements grew more urgent, driven by an insatiable need to dominate and fulfill your every desire.

His thrusts grew more insistent, every motion deliberate and filled with a primal urgency.

He pressed deeper, feeling the tightness of you enveloping him, each movement stirring an intense reaction within him.

His hands roamed over your body with an unrestrained hunger, lingering on your breasts as he traced their shape with a feverish touch.

He cupped them firmly, his fingers gently kneading and teasing, feeling your sensitive nipples.

He leaned closer, his voice dripping with possessiveness.

“You’re my perfect little girl, aren’t you? Let Daddy make sure you feel everything you’ve ever needed. I’ll take care of you in ways no man could ever do. No man ever did. “

Something about the way he said it - the promise, the claim - ignited something deep within you.

Your body responded to his words before your mind could catch up, and a wave of pleasure washed over you, muscles tightening around him as you trembled, overwhelmed by the release.

As Joel’s movements grew more insistent, his breathing quickened, the tension between you palpable.

His hands roamed over your body, his touch both commanding and tender.

Every thrust, every caress seemed to draw you both closer to the edge of an all-consuming release.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark with an intense, almost primal desire.

“Tell me you need me,” he rasped, his voice rough with the effort of holding back. “Tell me you’re mine.”

The pressure of his body against yours, the heat of his breath, and the intensity of his gaze all combined to overwhelm you.

You felt your own need rising, a reflection of his own desperate hunger.

“I need you,” you whispered, your voice trembling with both emotion and desire. “I’m yours.”

Joel’s grip tightened on you, his control slipping as his own climax approached.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with a dark satisfaction. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

His movements grew more urgent, his body pressing against yours with an almost unbearable intensity.

You could feel the unmistakable heat of his cock, deep inside. The rhythm of his thrusts becoming more erratic as he neared the point of no return.

With a final, deep groan, Joel’s body tensed, and you felt the surge of his release, his warmth spreading inside you.

His hands held you tightly, his breathing ragged as he let out a low, satisfied sigh.

The moment was both primal and intimate, a profound culmination of the need that had driven you both.

As his movements gradually slowed, you could feel the lingering heat of his cum inside of you, a reminder of the intense connection you shared.

Joel’s voice, now soft and breathless, whispered against your ear. “I needed this… I needed you.” His hands continued their slow, lingering caress, as if unwilling to let go of the moment, of you.

You lay there, caught between the afterglow of your shared intensity and the deep, unspoken understanding of what you both had given

Joel turned to you, his gaze dark with an intensity that made you shiver.

His hand wandered, brushing lightly against your lips before sliding down to gently caress your breast, a possessive touch that left no room for misunderstanding.

You looked up at him, a mix of confusion and an unspoken need flickering in your eyes. “But what happens now?”

“You don’t have to worry about anything, baby,” he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

“Tonight was all about showing you just how much you mean to me—and how much I need you.”

Joel’s fingers traced idle patterns on your skin, his touch both tender and insistent.

“It means you’re mine,” he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “And it means I’m here to take care of everything. You don’t need to think about a thing.”

You shivered as his thumb brushed over your nipple, the sensation sending a jolt through you. “I just want to feel like I belong somewhere.”

Joel’s smile was a mix of satisfaction and possessiveness.

“You belong with me. I’ll make sure you never feel empty again. We both have our voids, but together, we fill them.”

His fingers continued their slow, teasing exploration, making your breath catch with each gentle touch.

“You’re not just filling a space, baby. You’re giving me everything I need.”

You felt a strange blend of relief and anticipation. “I guess... I needed this too. I can just let go.”

Joel’s hand lingered on your breast, his grip firm yet reassuring.

“That’s right. You don’t have to think about anything else. Just be here with me, and let me take care of you. I want to see you happy, feel you close.”

The way he spoke, his voice thick with desire, made you feel a mix of comfort and excitement.

His touch was a constant reminder of the connection you now shared, both physical and emotional.

As you settled into his embrace, you felt a strange sense of completeness, knowing that, in this moment, you were filling the emptiness for each other in a way that was both intense and deeply satisfying. It’s all gonna be okay. Right?

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

These two really need therapy! Hope y’all enjoyed x

Probably will only do oneshots & smut scenarios with these two fuckers- from now on.

Also, I had no beta, so if you see anything that needs correction, let me know!

[stllmnstr]

champagne problems: part two

pairing: jake sim x f reader

genre: enemies to lovers, rich kids au, fake dating au, college au, angst, fluff

part two word count: 33.2k

part two warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, jealousy, a kiss or two, my incessant need to make sunghoon a figure skater in everything I write, family drama, use of the american (usa) university system

soundtrack: boom - dpr live / bad idea! - girl in red / blood on the floor - kuiper / calico - dpr ian / comme de garçons (like the boys) - rina sawayama / lust - chase atlantic

part one can be found on my masterlist!

note: reuploaded from my old blog with the same name! welcome back if you've been here before, and enjoy the conclusion to part one if you're new. happy reading ♡

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The second son of a wealthy family, Jake Sim has gotten used to always standing in the shadow of his older brother. From grades to girls to talks of becoming future CEO of the Sim Corporation, he’s no stranger to coming in second place. So when an opportunity arises for Jake to finally have the one thing his brother can’t and best him once and for all, he knows he’d be a fool not to take it.

There are only two problems. The first is that the thing his brother wants so badly isn’t a thing at all. It’s you, semi-estranged daughter of the Sims’ closest and most long-standing business partner.

The second is that Jake Sim can’t fucking stand you.

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PART TWO

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Jake Sim has been staring at his philosophy homework for the last twenty minutes when a stack of pastel pink papers slides across the table towards him. 

“What is this?” Much like most interactions he’s had with you, your sudden presence at Jake's favorite coffee shop is entirely unexplained. Hell, he’s not even sure how you found him here. He’d ask, if he thought you’d give him a straightforward answer. 

But Jake knows better at this point. So with a grumble, he takes out his headphones instead and prepares for a conversion that will probably put him in a worse mood than he started it in. 

Sliding down into the seat across from him without an invitation or the courtesy of an explanation, the only thing you say is, “You know, I really am starting to get a bit worried about your future success.” Nodding at the stack of papers you’ve just put on the table in front of him, you add, “How are you a third-year business major that still can’t recognize a contract?”

“I know what a contract is.” Jake defends, eyeing the papers warily, reaching out to pick them up. “But usually they’re not printed out on pink paper.” Really, who do you think you are? Elle Woods? And where did you even get this stuff? Jake doubts that this shade of pink cardstock came from the shelves of your local office supply store. Bringing the paper up closer to his nose, he levels you with a disbelieving look. “Hold on, is this paper scented?”

“Don’t put your gross nose on it! That paper is custom ordered.”

Of course it is. “Why the fuck did you print out a contract on custom ordered lavender-scented paper?”

You have the audacity to look affronted. “You should be thanking me.” With half a mind to snatch it out of his hands, you instead tell him with a glare, “Lavender is a very calming scent and probably the only thing stopping me from strangling you right now, y’know, since this entire thing is your fault.” 

Setting the papers back on the table with a little more force than necessary, Jake isn’t in the mood to play your favorite game of beating around the bush.“What entire thing? What kind of contract is this?” 

“I’m so glad you asked.” Your tone says otherwise. “Since someone’s loser brother couldn’t keep his mouth shut, just like I predicted, and someone’s mother found out about someone’s unfortunate use of the B word–”

“Hold on,” Jake’s brow creases in confusion. “I never called anyone a bitch–”

“Boyfriend,” you clarify, cutting him off. “I figured we better lay out some ground rules. You know, if we’re really gonna go for this.”

“Go for what?” Jake is still lost. “It’s just a family dinner–”

Shaking your head, you paint a perfect picture of disappointment when you tell him, “Your lack of foresight is astounding. Truly. Forget econ, I’m surprised you managed to pass classes that involve basic logic or any kind of critical thinking skills.”

Across from you, Jake does his best to close his laptop screen inconspicuously, keeping his untouched philosophy homework hidden from view. 

Then he returns, “And you don’t think you’re overreacting? Like, at all? What do we need a contract for?” Not that the lavender-scented abomination looks particularly legally binding to begin with. “Like I said, it’s just dinner–”

“For now,” you interrupt. “It’s just dinner for now. But two days ago, it was just a fundraiser, and to the best of our families’ knowledge, you were just my plus-one.” Giving him your best fake smile, you add, “And like the person at this table who has an IQ higher than a goldfish predicted, things are already getting messy. This,” you nod to the contract, “will help us clean them up before James or my mother realize that everything about you and me is nothing but one big lie.”

Jake sighs. Tries to defend himself even though he knows it’s futile. “Look, how was I supposed to know that my brother would open his big mouth to my mom?” And it really is just terrible luck all around – that James couldn’t keep a secret, that he chose to divulge it to the one person that actually cares about Jake’s love life and not just its potential effects on the family business. 

In fact, in Jake's opinion, his mother cares a little too much. The messages that started Sunday morning haven’t stopped since then. It’s a big part of the reason why his phone is currently face-down on the table that separates the two of you. Jake is not about to let you see anything that could potentially inflate your ego any more. 

His mother, however, seems to have other ideas. Right now, his message thread with her looks more like a one-sided fan club.

Mom: I can’t wait to meet her! I remember her as a little kid. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.

Mom: Does she have any dietary restrictions or allergies? I’m starting to put together the menu for this weekend.

Mom: Does she prefer white or red wine? 

Mom: Never mind the last message. I’ll just pull out some of both. 

Mom: I just stumbled across a recent picture of her. Wow, she’s even more beautiful than I remember! I hope you’re treating her well. 

Mom: Can you send me your apartment address again? I want to mail you something.

Mom: Oh, and what’s ___’s favorite kind of cookie?

Mom: Forget it. I’ll just give them to you this weekend to take with you. 

Suppressing a wince, Jake decides to put his mother’s incessant prying to the side for the time being. Right now, he needs to build the most bulletproof defense of his intelligence and common sense as possible before you keep shooting holes in it. But contrary to his beliefs, you’re not here to argue with him about where the blame for your unfortunate situation lies, at least not for the most part. 

You tell him as much. “I’m not here to yell at you about how this is all your fault.”

Jake raises an eyebrow, lips flat. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Don’t worry,” you assure him. “I got my anger out already. Your picture’s right in the middle of my dartboard.” Across the table from him, you smile sweetly, imitate throwing a dart directly at the center of his forehead. 

Jake can’t tell if you’re kidding or not, and somehow that’s more unnerving. 

“So what, you don’t need to hear me say that everything’s my fault? You’d rather get it in writing instead?” Jake glances at the forgotten contract. Suddenly, a wave of panic crests in his mind. “If you’re trying to sue me–”

You roll your eyes before he can finish the empty threat. “Again, that’s not what this is for.” Looking at the papers, you tilt your head, considering. “Although it’s not too late for an amendment…”

Jake cuts that train of thought off as quickly as he can. “Okay, what exactly is it for then?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Like I said, just like someone with more than two functioning brain cells predicted, your little slip of the tongue made things messy. So if I’m gonna save your ass and pretend to be your girlfriend in front of your family this weekend, we’re gonna need some kind of written agreement about how this is going to play out. Think of it as an agreement, something to outline the…” you pause, weighing your words, “expectations on both of our ends.”

A contract. A fake dating contract. It’s all Jake can do not to burst out laughing. He’s trying to egg you on a little, piss you off and push your buttons like you’re so good at doing to him when he tells you, “Y’know, it’s kind of funny how seriously you’re taking this.”

You don’t understand how he can be so blase about it all. Sure, maybe the contract was a little overkill, but the two of you are about to start pretending to be dating, to be a couple, in front of your families. It’s not something that you’re willing to walk into blindly. 

“Really? I think it’s kind of funny the whole reason I’m in this mess is because of you.” Suddenly, there’s a reignited fire in your eyes. Jake almost regrets his taunting. “In fact, I think it’s absolutely hilarious–”

“Okay, okay,” He can sense a losing battle when he sees it. Not wanting to rehash your argument from earlier or put himself at the center of any more dartboard target practices, Jake surrenders. And then he frowns. Reaching for the stack of papers again, he scans the first page. Trying to make sense of all the legal jargon and stylized formatting, he’s hesitant when he glances at you and slow to admit, “To be completely honest with you, I’m actually not that good with contracts–”

“Oh my god.”

“So, do you think you could go over the highlights for me?”

“You are absolutely insufferable.”

“I’m sorry,” Jake intones flatly. “Are you talking to me or the mirror you spend five hours a day looking into?”

You kind of have to hand it to him. Ever since your run in with his brother, his insults have been landing a lot better. That one was actually pretty good. Not that you’d ever admit it. 

“Anyway,” you glare instead. “The highlights.” Nodding to the contract you spent most of last night writing up, you explain, “The first page is just basic contract language. The actual content of our proposed agreement starts on the second page.”

Following your explanation, Jake sets the first page aside, makes quick work of skimming the second. Or at least he tries to. It proves a difficult task, however, when he gets a little caught up on the very first line. 

“Really?” You’re not quite sure what kind of expression is on his face when he looks up at you. It’s an odd mix of shock, disbelief, and perhaps, if the sudden flush on his cheekbones is anything to go by, embarrassment. “Rule number one is no kissing?”

Across from him, you just rest your chin in your palm. “I know I’m crushing your dreams and all, but don’t be so surprised.”

Jake’s glare is easier to read this time. “That is not what I meant. It’s just… I don’t know.” It seems so obvious. He didn’t think you’d feel the need to actually write it out like he’s about to start trying to plant ones on you every hour of the day. “It’s not what I was expecting.”

“I mean, I don’t know how family dinners work at your house, but mine usually don’t involve makeout sessions between courses.”

“Exactly,” Jake returns. “It hardly seems like something we need in writing when it’s more than easy to avoid.”

Still, you don’t back down. “Don’t blame me for erring on the side of caution. We’re pretending to be a couple in front of your brother. And we both know that you don’t exactly make the most rational decisions when he starts  pushing your buttons, boyfriend.”

The use of the pet name is intentional. It’s a reminder that Jake can’t be trusted where his older brother is concerned. Not when in the heat of the moment, he would say or do just about anything to get under James’ skin in the same way James has been getting under his for the last twenty-one odd years.  

“Point taken.” Jake can’t exactly argue that one. 

And in all honesty, Jake kinda feels like he’s getting off easy, at least with you. Not that he would ever tell you that. 

He’s feeling apprehensive about this dinner, yes, and now about being legally bound to you, but he supposes things could be a lot worse. For starters, you’d been much easier to convince than he initially thought. He wasn’t sure what kind of bribes would work on you, how he was going to get you to keep up the facade he started for one more dinner. 

Maybe, he thought,  he would be able to leverage your phone number against you in a new way. He could promise not to pass it along to James, but only as long as you did him the solid of playing the part of his girlfriend, this time at a dinner with his family. 

But that felt a little too much like blackmail, even for him. So instead, he had told you the truth. 

Listening to the phone ring after clicking on your number, it was all Jake could do not to throw his phone across the room in anticipation of your rage. But then you answered, and it all came spilling out. 

He told you that James could not be trusted with secrets but could absolutely be trusted to do everything in his power to ruin Jake’s life, even if unintentionally. He explained how his mother was now unfortunately involved, that your initial plan to just mention each other occasionally and claim that things fizzled by the time the clock struck midnight on New Year’s was no longer viable. 

You had remained completely silent for a long pause. Too long. Jake was suddenly very grateful that he took the precaution of having this conversation over the phone. Mostly because he was pretty sure if he tried to tell you face-to-face, you would cause him actual bodily harm. But instead of threats or curses or even sarcasm, Jake had listened as a long sigh came through the other line and then–

“Yeah, my mom has been asking me about you too.” Much to his shock, you were resigned to the fact, not angry at the news. And you had told him, “I’ll come to your family dinner. Just let me… Let me think about the best way to go about this.”

Less than twenty-four hours have passed since that phone conversation, and Jake shouldn’t be as surprised as he is that your idea of the best way to go about this is printed out for him on custom pink lavender-scented paper.  

Deciding to leave the kissing debacle alone for the moment, he reads through the rest of your so-called rules. With more of an idea as to what to expect, nothing shocks him quite as much as the initial line. 

He reads the second section wordlessly: Both parties will do everything in their power, to a reasonable extent, to maintain the image of a false relationship in the presence of family members and those with immediate connections to them (including, but not limited to employees, business partners, etc).

The third section covers another base: Friends and other acquaintances of both parties are not to be informed of the arrangement. Neither party is under obligation to maintain the lie of relationship with friends or acquaintances unless deemed necessary to maintain secrecy of the relationship. 

Jake glances up with a furrow in his brow. You clarify before he has the chance to ask, “Basically it’s saying that you don’t have to lie to your friends and tell them that we’re dating, unless they get suspicious or start asking. Just don’t tell them we aren’t. And absolutely do not tell them about the contract.”  

Jake nods, moves to the next line. 

Neither party may involve themself in a romantic relationship of any nature with another individual for the duration of this contract. Both parties are to avoid to the best of their ability any situation in which it could be interpreted that they are in a romantic relationship of any nature with another individual for the duration of this contract. 

“So essentially just no dating other people?” Jake asks. 

“Right.” You nod. “And try to avoid getting into situations that make it look like you might be dating someone else. I’m not gonna make you agree to stop hooking up with people or anything.” You look mildly ill at the mere proximity of Jake and the term ‘hooking up.’ “Just, y’know, be discreet about it.”

Jake looks up at you. “I’m not hooking up with other people.”

You cringe. “Thanks, but I really don’t need the gory details of your sex life. Do you understand the rule or not?”

Jake nods. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Great,” you move the contract aside, setting a new stack of papers down on the table. Also printed on pink paper, this pile is considerably thicker. “That’s about it for the contract, then. This,” you gesture to the new set of papers, “is for you to memorize.”

Jake would be a little less wary if it didn't look as dense as an encyclopedia. “What is it?”

“A list of everything a real boyfriend should know about me.” Jake waits for you to finish the joke, to land a punchline, but you’re entirely serious when you add, “Think of it as your ___ cheat sheet. I’ll need one for you too, of course. Preferably in the next couple of days so that I can get it down before dinner this weekend.” 

Hesitantly, Jake picks up the first page. Scanning over yet another meticulously formatted document printed on – he sniffs again – yep, lavender-scented paper, Jake privately thinks that this may actually come in handy. If nothing else, he’s sure he could reference it for some of his mom’s questions instead of needing to guess at your responses. 

It’ll help with the basics, at least. Jake is pretty sure you wouldn’t have bothered to include things like your favorite kind of cookie in there. 

But then he glances again at the stack of papers, and more specifically, how how thick it is. He looks a little closer at the page in his hand. Single spaced. He flips it over. Double sided. 

Looking over the back of the page in his hand, he forces himself to actually read some of what you’ve written. He doesn’t get far before he’s leveling you with a disbelieving look.

“Is this a prank?”

You have the gall to look confused. “Not even a little bit.”

Jake wants to tear his hair out. Because what the actual fuck? “I really don’t think anyone is going to ask me about your third favorite shade of Dior lip oil–”

“They might. And think of how suspicious it would be if you got me one as a Christmas gift or something and the color washed me out.”

Across from you, Jake’s eyes just widen. And then he’s weighing your words. 

Despite the ridiculousness, your argument does raise a point. Albeit not the one you intended. 

“Christmas gift,” Jake repeats slowly. As of now, you’re already over halfway through fall semester, which means the holidays will be approaching in just a couple of short months. Suddenly, they seem a lifetime away. “Does this contract of yours have an end date?”

“Oh, right.” Reaching for the contract again, you turn to the final page, lay it on the table in front of Jake. “Feel free to propose something else,” you offer, “but I put the termination date as January first of next year. I figured that we could use this arrangement to get us through all of the inevitable holiday parties. My family always hosts a giant one on New Year’s Eve, so I thought we could go to that together and then call it off the next day. What do you think?” You turn to him. “Too long?”

Jake discards your insane list of personal preferences for the time being and picks up the last page of the contract. At the bottom, he locates the verbiage in the final section, just above the two blank signature lines neither of you have filled yet. 

This contract will be terminated as of January 1 of the coming year. 

Jakes stares at the date for a moment. It feels odd to see an expiration date on your relationship, regardless of the fact that it’s all a facade. Seems strange to be starting something with the sole intention of ending it. But he can hardly voice those feelings, so instead he taunts, “You wanna be stuck with me that long, huh? Just can’t get enough?”

Your lips flatten as you reach for your phone. “I will literally text your brother right now.”

“Nice try,” Jake calls your bluff. “You just told me that you didn’t want your mom knowing that you lied about dating me either.”

“No,” you correct, dangling your phone between your fingers. “What I said was that I want her off my back when it comes to my dating life and who I spend my time with. It wouldn’t matter even a little bit to her whether that’s you or James. In fact, she would probably actually like him bet–”

“Whatever.” If Jake is suddenly sulking, he figures that no one needs to be aware of it. “I know you like me more than him.”

“Incorrect. I hate him more than I hate you.”

Jake stares at you blankly. “Is there a difference?”

“Obviously,” you scoff. 

“Whatever. You’re still willing to tolerate me until New Year’s.”

“Is that actually high praise to you? Do we need to start working on your self-confidence too?”

Insult aside, Jake supposes that your deadline does make sense. Although family obligations are intermittent in nature, it would be nice to have a go-to plan for every event and dinner and interaction with his older brother that he’s forced into between now and the New Year. 

Honestly, the thought of having you at his upcoming family dinner has made Jake’s steps the last two days feel a little lighter. If anything, he thinks that you’ll be a great distraction for his father. Something to talk about besides the gory details of Jake’s many failures. 

It’s a chance to be impressive in the eyes of his family, even if only in some small capacity, even if only until New Year’s. 

A moment later, Jake warily eyes the pen you hand him. “Let me guess, pink ink?”

“Obviously not.” You roll your eyes. “How would that show up on pink paper?”

So Jake’s signature is written on the first dotted line of the contract with the matte black ink of your shockingly normal ballpoint pen. Moments later, your name joins on the second line, right next to his. 

And it’s as if something shifts in the air, as if something suddenly feels a little heavier, slightly more weighted. The following silence that passes between the two of you feels like a finale of sorts. The end of something and the beginning of another. 

Looking at the boy across from you, it feels strange to say that for all intents and purposes, even if they’re fabricated, you’ll be dating him until the New Year. Showing up on his arm and laughing at his jokes and filling in the quiet moments with little displays of affection, practiced bouts of intimacy. 

It’s weird. It’s daunting. It’s not something you have any clue how to navigate, even if the contract gives you a false sense of security, of control. 

You break the moment by glancing at the clock that hangs above the front door of the coffee shop. Suddenly, your mind is elsewhere. On the other part of your original agreement. “Your first tutoring session is tonight, right?” Jungwon mentioned it to you in passing. 

“Yeah,” Jake nods. If his voice has an odd sudden hoarseness to it, you’ll both ignore it for now. “Why?”

“What time are you supposed to meet him?”

“Six-thirty.”

A second glance at the clock confirms, “It’s six thirty-five.”

“Shit!” Jake is suddenly frantic, panicked as he rushes to repack his bag and salvage what’s left of a good first impression on his tutor. 

It hardly registers when you remind him, “Don’t forget to make me a cheat sheet of things I should know about you!” Already halfway out the door, the only acknowledgement you get is a half hearted nod. 

Frowning at the mess of papers in front of you, scattered from Jake’s hasty exit, you make quick work of rearranging your newly minted contract in the correct order. 

“Men,” you whisper, to no one in particular. Even though it doesn’t land on the ears you want it to. Even though Jake is too far gone to hear it. 

…

Instead, what Jake hears a handful of minutes later, is a less than friendly reminder from the librarian at the front desk that the university library is a quiet area and that running is strictly prohibited. Still out of breath from the way he just bolted across the entire campus, all Jake can offer her is an apologetic nod. 

He pulls out his phone to double-check the brief message thread between him and Jungwon, to confirm the exact location of their first tutoring session. 

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [3:02 pm]: Study room 103 on the first floor

After that, there are only two other messages – one being Jake’s hasty, misspelled apology for being nearly fifteen minutes late, to which he received:

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [6:41 pm]: No problem! I’m here

After navigating his way to the reservable first floor study rooms, Jake finds himself in front of Room 103. Suddenly, a wave of self-consciousness sweeps away any adrenaline fueled by his lateness. Any lingering annoyance brought on by a conversation with you. 

Should he knock? Is there a certain etiquette to this? How embarrassed should he be that the person waiting for him with both better punctuality and significantly better grades is two years his junior, according to the sparse information you gave him?

In the end, Jake decides it would be weird to knock and chokes down all his other uncertainty. Opening the door slowly, he nods at the boy already inside. 

“Hi, Jungwon?”

If his tutor is at all put off by Jake’s lateness, he does a great job of hiding it. Jungwon is all smiles when he says, “That’s me. You must be Jake.” Jake is still stuck halfway in the door like he wants to hold onto the opportunity to bolt, just in case he needs it. Jungwon picks up on some of his hesitation. “Come on in.”

Jake does so quietly, setting his stuff down as he slides into the seat across from Jungwon. As he pulls out his laptop, Jake glances at his tutor. All smiles and friendliness, the oversized hoodie he wears looks comfortable enough to fall asleep in. Altogether, he kind of reminds him of an overeager puppy. Or at least he would, if his features weren’t so distinctly feline. 

“Sorry again for being late,” Jake mumbles, opening a Word document. “I completely lost track of time.” More like his time was completely overtaken by someone that does a great job of consuming all his senses and sends his mind spinning sideways, but Jake can hardly say that. 

Just like he did over text, Jungwon doesn’t appear bothered in the slightest by his tardiness. “It really is no problem. I’m glad you found the room alright. It’s kind of like a maze back here.”

He’s being nice again. It’s a single hallway with a handful of clearly labeled doors. But Jake isn’t one to look kindness in the mouth, especially when he’s still sitting on a pile of discomfort. Instead, he figures it’s as good a time as any to express his gratitude. 

“Thanks again for doing this, and for keeping it on the down low. ___ mentioned that you’re great at econ.”

Across from him, Jungwon shrugs. “I’m good with numbers and data and stuff like that. And I had to get good at studying pretty quick, since I’ve been on academic scholarships since middle school.”

That tidbit swirls in the air for a moment, falls through the room like a bad premonition before settling uncomfortably in Jake’s gut. It makes him wonder, makes him question a lot of things. 

What would he be like, Jake wonders, if his family name wasn’t a safety net, a security blanket in its own right? If he had to fight to earn things like the university admission letter he took for granted?  Resented, even, since it was yet another choice made for him by his father. 

Would he be like Jungwon, tutoring older students for extra cash? Forgiving people when they’re late and convincing himself that years of staring at math problems until his eyes felt like sandpaper is the same as being ‘good with numbers and stuff like that’? 

And Jake is assuming, of course. Maybe Jungwon is just good with numbers, has a natural inclination for economics. 

But the only thing Jake has ever had a natural inclination for is doing what he’s told and then blaming the world around him when he hates himself a little for it. 

All at once, he feels like an observer in his own life. An external force that does nothing but shake the snowglobe and wait to see where the dust settles, where everything lands. 

But his self-prescribed identity crisis is not Jungwon’s problem, and Jake is at least self-aware enough to know that any hardships in his life likely pale in comparison to Jungwon’s. It’s not like measuring misery has ever done Jake any good, and it feels unfair for him to be jumping to conclusions and stacking their lives against each other when all Jungwon is doing is trying to make conversation. 

So Jake decides to save the psychoanalysis for a sleepless night and is nothing but neutral when he chooses to reply to the first part of Jungwon’s comment, “Well, I’m grateful that you’re willing to help me. I’m kind of a disaster when it comes to econ.”

“So I hear,” Jungwon smiles, and Jake thinks that maybe him and Jungwon will get along just fine, whether they have the common ground of economics or not.  “Don’t let ___ tease you too hard about it, though. I used to help her, too. Back in high school.”

And if Jake was trying to stop himself from feeling sorry for Jungwon, he doesn’t have to try for very long. He suddenly thinks friendship will be a very hard thing to form. Mostly because he has the distinct sense Jungwon is reflecting on your high school days together rather fondly. Maybe a little too fondly. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Jungwon nods. “I’m a freshman, so I’m a couple years younger than you guys,” he sighs like it’s a terrible thing to be and Jake has never been more appreciative of his own birth date, “but she’s been friends with my older sister for years now. ___ was always pretty good at most subjects, but physics gave her a run for her money, so I helped her a bit when I could.”

It makes sense, he supposes. Jungwon was your physics tutor, so you knew you could recommend him with confidence. With all your first hand experience. 

“You two are close, then?” Jake hates the way he sounds almost defensive. Hates the way he doesn’t recognize the odd feeling that’s beginning to swirl in his gut unpleasantly.

“We’ve definitely gotten closer,” Jungwon nods. Jake doesn’t think he’s imagining the sudden flush on the younger boy’s cheeks. “Especially since I started university here. My sister decided to get her degree abroad, but ___ and I have still stayed in touch even without her around as the middleman, y’know?”

“Right,” Jake agrees. To what, he’s not sure. He has no idea if you have the same feelings towards your relationship with Jungwon, if you’d corroborate the fact that the two of you are getting closer, if your cheeks would get a little color in them while you talked about it. 

It strikes Jake then that he really doesn't know anything about you. At least not anything substantial. And while the dictionary of personal details you’ve compiled is still sitting in his bag, he doubts it will divulge things related to relationships. Things he’s suddenly curious about. 

He can at least feel confident in the fact that you’re not currently dating anyone. He wouldn’t have just signed a contract if you were. But that still leaves a lot of gray area, a lot of questions. 

Are there any recent exes he should know about? Messy situationships that would be glad to land a few punches on him if word of your supposed relationship were to accidentally get out? 

Jake has no idea, and even less of a clue as to how to find out. But he doesn’t like the way those uncertainties settle in his gut. And he doesn’t like the way Jungwon says your name. 

Jungwon must mistake Jake’s sudden silence as passion for fixing his grades, because the next thing he says is, “Sorry, I kind of went on a tangent there.” His apologetic smile does nothing to quell the riot in Jake’s mind. “Anyway,” he opens his laptop. “Economics. I figured we could start by looking at the upcoming assignment to see which parts are trickiest for you and go from there.” Glancing at the older boy, he asks, “Or did you have a different idea?”

“No,” Jake shakes his head. “That sounds good to me.” And he shouldn't say it, but, “I’ve got plans this weekend, so I’m hoping to get as much of this done as I can before then.”

“Oh,” Jungwon asks. It’s more of an effort to be polite than genuine curiosity. “Anything fun?”

Jake shouldn’t. Not considering the conversation you just had. Not considering the contract he just signed. 

“I don’t know. I can’t decide if I’m more nervous or excited.”

He really, really, shouldn’t. But–

“I’m taking ___ to officially meet my parents.” 

The way Jungwon falters is barely perceptible. Jake only notices because he’s watching for it. 

Jungwon’s brow creases for a moment, putting the pieces together until he realizes that they definitely only fit one way. “You two are dating?”

Jake tries not to be offended at the shock in his voice. “Is it that surprising?”

“I mean, kind of.” Jungwon is still reeling a bit. “When she mentioned that you were looking for a tutor, she said you were just a friend.”

And now Jake has to think of how to play his cards here. He needs to tread carefully, choose his words wisely. There are too many ways he could back himself into a corner, accidentally tell a lie he can’t talk his way out of. That’s probably, definitely, why you made the point of saying the two of you should leave your friends out of the arrangement entirely. Should only divulge the details if they start poking around first. Which Jungwon was definitely not doing. 

Ultimately, Jake decides to leave his explanation as vague as possible, hoping that the less he reveals, the less Jungwon will be able to poke at it until his lie crumbles and leaves nothing but the truth in its wake. 

Shrugging, he says, “We’ve been keeping it pretty quiet. You know how rumors can be.” They can catch fire at the first sign of wind. Can spread before there’s any chance of controlling them. Kind of like the one he’s single handedly spreading right now.

“Oh,” is all Jungwon says. And despite himself, Jake does feel kind of bad for the kid. He feels even worse when Jungwon finds his smile again a moment later and adds, “Well, I hope it all goes good for you. ___’s a great girl.”

But all that guilt is pushed to the side when that odd, unpleasant feeling at the bottom of Jake’s gut releases a little bit of tension, heaves a giant sigh of relief. 

“Yeah,” Jake nods without thinking. In his mind, he sees a gold dress, a black marker, his name in your handwriting. There’s a sliver of truth there, albeit a small one, when he agrees, “She is.”

…

Saturday night puts you back in the passenger seat of Jake’s car, a sense of deja vu overcoming you as he navigates out of your apartment building’s parking lot and onto the highway. Although this time, he did manage to avoid an argument with your doorman. Mostly because Jake Sim is now a name on your list of approved visitors. 

And there are more differences to be found. Tonight, you’ve traded your evening gown for a pair of dark wash jeans and a sweater that Jake insists his mother will love. The aged bottle of red wine you brought as a gift for his parents has a bow wrapped around its neck where it sits on the back seat of Jake’s car. 

If nothing else, Jake has to applaud your insistence that you not show up as an empty-handed guest. Your commitment to the facade is truly admirable, even if it is motivated by the contract you keep safe and sound in the top drawer of your desk. 

And finally, as opposed to the drive to your family’s fundraiser, this commute is far from silent. 

“Good,” you nod, praising Jake’s most recent answer. Despite his initial protests, he did his studying. And if his string of correct responses is anything to go by, you seem to be a subject he has an easier time grasping than economics. Or perhaps one he simply has more vested interest in. “And my top three favorite colors are?”

“One,” Jake answers seamlessly. “Gold, but only if it’s 24 karat. Two, the exact red of the Hermès Satin Lipstick in shade Rouge H. Three is pink. But not hot pink. You like softer shades, like baby pink.” Like that damn contract. 

“Nicely done. My major is?”

“Pre-law,” Jake fills in. “But you’re still undecided on if you’ll attend law school after graduation.”

It’s a tidbit that he finds mildly interesting. He’s not surprised that like him, like James, you’re following in your parents’ footsteps. As the daughter of ridiculously successful lawyers, it’s a career path that makes perfect sense for you. 

And the compassion also has him thankful for the partnership between your families, which has undoubtedly done you both some favors. First, Jake suspects that a few under-the-table deals have likely funded more than one of his childhood family vacations. And second, it adds credibility, at least from an outsider’s perspective, to the relationship the two of you are faking. 

He does wonder why you’re undecided on law school, though. If law is your field of choice, it seems like a natural progression. Not to mention that as third-year university students, the two of you are running out of time for indecision. Jake is well-acquainted with this particular reality, but it strikes him as out of character that you are as well.  

From the outside, at least, you’ve always been an image of perfection to him. Someone who has it all together, who has a ten-year plan and the actual conviction to see it through to the end. Unlike him, who’s still grasping at straws where all matters of his future are concerned. 

A fact that he’s reminded of when you say, “You know, I didn’t exactly have high hopes, considering your academic track record, but that was perfect.” You shift in your seat, preparing for a challenge. “Okay, your turn. Quiz me.” 

Your work has been undeniably easier. As opposed to the multi-page, double sided, single spaced abomination you handed him a few days ago, the Jake Sim cheat sheet still sitting on your night stand was nothing but a small assortment of facts that fit on a single sheet of paper. 

But now, the subject of your major takes Jake from thinking about your future to thinking about the classes you’re currently taking. Which makes him think of something he hasn’t been able to let go of since his first tutoring session a few nights ago. Instead of cooperating, he hands the reins to what’s been weighing on his mind. “Are you taking any physics classes?”

“Ugh,” you groan. “You were doing so well. And you literally just answered that one. I’m a pre-law major, remember?”

But Jake needs to know. Doesn’t quite have the room to think about anything else right now. “Just answer the question.”

The glance you give him is scathing, but you can sense that he’s not going to let it go until he gets his answer. “No, I’m not taking physics.” Jake hates the way that odd feeling in his gut makes a sudden reappearance, hates the way it unclenches at your response. “I haven’t since high school. I hate that stupid subject.”

Still, he can’t stop himself from offering, “Well, if you ever do–”

“Did you listen to anything I just said?”

“I was pretty good at it in high school.” He’s only kind of lying. He was pretty decent at it, at least the times he bothered to finish his homework. 

“... Okay?” You still don’t see a point to this sudden detour in the conversation. 

“So I could, uh, I could help you out. If you ever have to take it for some reason, I could help with your homework and stuff.”

“Right, because the first person I would go to for homework help is definitely Mr. I Failed Economics Twice.” Jake can hear the sarcasm. He thinks to himself, a little miserably, that if you were actually picking someone to go to, it would probably be the same person tutoring Jake now. Your old physics tutor from high school. 

Jake will pretend that the way that makes his blood pressure rise is only because he’s worried Jungwon won’t have as much time for their sessions if he picks you back up as a client. 

“Don’t hold econ against me. They’re entirely different subjects–”

“Whatever.” You cut him off. “Who gives a shit about physics? Just quiz me.”

Jake wants to press it. He really does. Wants to ask his real questions, which have a lot less to do with physics and a lot more to do with a certain econ tutor, but it’s not like you’d entertain his curiosity there either. So he relents. “Fine.” Trying to remember what he even wrote on the sheet he gave you, he starts with, “My major is?”

“Business.” Slightly quieter, you mumble, “A questionable choice, if you ask me.”

“Hey!” Jake protests. “I didn’t add any commentary to your ridiculous answers.” And some of them had been ridiculous, indeed. “I mean, seriously. You made me memorize your five favorite necklines.”

“Clearly not, since you put sweetheart and off-the-shoulder in the wrong order.”

Jake just blinks. How are you a real person? “You are actually the most annoying person I have ever met.”

The dig rolls right off your shoulders as you return one of your own. “That’s hardly even an insult, considering the size of your social circle. It’s not my fault you don’t get out much.”

“It’s like you want me to kick you out on the side of the highway–”

“And show up to your family dinner without me? Yeah, sure.”

“Besides, you know that means you’re admitting to being more annoying than Heeseung–”

“On second thought, the side of the highway sounds nice. Feel free to drop me at the next mile marker.”

“Yeah?” Jake taunts, glancing down at your choice in footwear. Another pair of heels so tall he’s impressed you can walk at all. “You think those shoes would be comfortable to walk home in?” Taking one hand off the wheel, he leans over menacingly. “In fact, why don’t I break them in for you now–”

“Okay,” you push back at him in a way that’s probably unwise, considering the fact that he’s driving. “Okay. No extra comments from me.” You mime zipping your lips with your finger. “You’re a business major. End of answer.”

Jake doesn’t believe you for a second. But after pausing to send you a withering glare for good measure, he continues anyway. “Sport I played growing up?”

Much to his surprise, your answer is genuine, concise. “Soccer.” And correct. 

“Pets?”

“Just a dog. Layla.”

As the road stretches on in front of you, back and forth quizzing takes you all the way to his parents’ house. As he pulls into the long driveway, Jake spares a glance in your direction. You wear an expression he hasn’t seen on you before. 

It confuses him a little, worries him even, until he realizes–

“Hold on. Are you… nervous?”

“What about it?” Even visibly tense, your gut reaction is to deny, to make excuses. Finally, you admit, “It’s been a while since I’ve met anyone’s mom.”

Jake almost considers telling you that he’s pretty sure she’d redecorate one of the guest bedrooms and put your name on the door if she thought you’d like that, but decides against it. 

“Hey,” he reaches for your hand instead, interlaces your fingers. “My mom will love you.” In fact, she probably already does. “It will be just fine.”

Jake supposes that divulging just one of her many messages from this week couldn’t hurt. Besides, he’s half afraid you’ll actually run back down the street the two of you just drove up if he doesn’t give you some sort of confidence boost. “She’s really excited to meet you. That cheat sheet of yours actually came in handy, because she asked me what your favorite kind of cookie is. She’s sending us back with a box of homemade snickerdoodles tonight.” What Jake doesn’t mention is the fact that he’s never been big on cinnamon. 

“Really?”

“Mhm. So there’s no need to wor–”

“What about your dad?”

“My dad is…” Jake trails off, searching for the right words. “He’s a businessman. In a lot of ways, he’s difficult. And very set in his ways, which makes him particular. But on the outside, he’s easy to get along with. He wants to make a good impression on people. And even if he didn’t, you really don’t have anything to worry about there either. His biggest concern is always how things will reflect on the company, and you’re pretty much as perfect as it gets in that regard.” Pausing for a moment, he adds, “And we both know my brother’s kind of obsessed with you.”

And he really did set himself up for it, he realizes, the second you turn to him with a wink and say, “Must run in the family.” Jake won’t even argue with you on that one for now. His mission was to get you out of your head and back to your usual self. The version of you that he knows and occasionally tolerates. The version of you that could probably win an Oscar for playing the role of is fake girlfriend, if you really put your mind to it. 

So before you can start to linger on your worries again, Jake steps out of the car. Makes quick work of walking around the front to open the passenger side door for you. 

When he offers you, and outstretched hand, you take it. This time, it’s you that initiates the interlacing of your fingers. Glancing at the expanse of the home in front of you – although mansion may be a better word for it – you take a deep breath. 

“Ready?” Jake echoes your words from your family’s fundraiser just a week ago. 

You’re a little less confident this go around. “As I’ll ever be.”

Jake, too caught up in his attempts to soothe your frayed nerves, forgets to warn you that Layla can be a bit of a jumper, especially with new people. Sure enough, the first person to greet the two of you as spoon as he turns the doorknob is his favorite family pet. Honestly, Jake is a little more concerned about the bottle of wine in your hands than anything. 

Especially when, just as he remembered a little too late, Layla makes quick work of giving you an overexcited greeting. 

When he does finally manage to get her mostly off of you, he’s relieved to note that the alcohol is unharmed. With a bit more trepidation, he lets his eyes wander up to your face. It’s a safe bet, he thinks, that someone with five favorite necklines isn’t a fan of obnoxious furry greetings.

To his surprise, however, the only expression he reads is pleasant surprise. 

“This is Layla?” You ask. Jake nods, still a bit strained from the way he’s preventing Layla from trying to lick at your face and leave paw prints on your jeans. 

But that’s not what you’re thinking about. No, you’ve suddenly been transported to an unfortunate forty-five minutes wasted in a restaurant all on your own. The catalyst of all of this. 

Because Layla is the same dog you saw while doom scrolling James’ social media profile. You thought she was cute, back then, sandwiched between gym selfies and other photos more telling of James’ awful personality. 

But now, looking at the way she almost seems to smile while Jake scratches her behind the ears, wraps her up in a big, warm hug, you think you just might like her even more. 

You’ve never seen your fake boyfriend look at anything with so much… fondness. It’s palpable, all of his pent up love, as he lets some of it loose to shower Layla with it. Everything about him is a little easier, a little more relaxed. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, the absence of tension in his jaw. 

Most of all, you see it in his smile. Bright, warm, genuine. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him wear that expression before. It suits him, you think, as you reach down to give her a greeting of your own. 

“Hi, Layla,” you smile, reaching down to pat her on the head. 

And if that makes Jake turn to look at you with a little too much fondness, you’ll assume it’s just lingering remnants of his reunion with his favorite girl. Layla, that is. 

You’re pretty sure the two of them could spend hours just catching up, especially when Layla turns onto her back in a silent demand for tummy rubs, but a voice from a nearby room cuts it short. 

“Jake?” A distinctly feminine voice calls. “Is that you?”

“Well,” Jake gives Layla one final pat for good measure, turns his eyes to you as he stands. “Shall we?”

You don’t mean to be, but you’re nervous again. This is his family, his space, his mother. Not only are you a stranger here, but one that’s been invited under false pretenses. There are too many things to fuck up, too many ways you could send this evening spinning sideways by accident. 

Here in the entryway, with just you, Jake, and Layla, things feel peaceful, simple. You know that just a few steps in the direction of his mother’s voice will turn that calm in your chest upside the head. You’re not ready for it. You’re not. 

You don’t respond to Jake’s invitation, but he reads your hesitation all the same. 

“Hey,” he whispers, all the hard edges gone from his voice as he steps a little closer. “She’s gonna love you.” Again, his hand finds yours, slides his fingers through your own and finds little resistance on your end. 

She. You don’t know how he knows, when you haven’t told him, but it’s true. You don’t care all that much about pleasing his father and even less so about making a good impression on his brother, but his mom… 

You care. You don’t know why, but you care. 

And you don’t know how, but Jake knows. 

You hope his words aren’t empty reassurances as you let him tug at your hand, pull you a little further into his home, wrap you a little more inextricably into the threads of his life. 

His mother waits for you in the living room. A head or two shorter than her youngest son, she has nothing but a smile for him as she pulls him into a hug, reaching up to wrap her hand around the back of his shoulders. 

Your hand is still linked with his. The angle makes it somewhat awkward, but neither of you is quite ready to let go. 

Looking over his shoulder, her eyes settle on you. Breath suddenly stuttering in your chest, your knees feel a little wobbly underneath you. 

Jake won’t let you fall. As soon as his mother releases her embrace, he’s tugging you closer. He undoes the bind of your hands only to wrap his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side. 

“Mom,” he introduces, smiling. “This is ___,” eyes locking with yours, he adds , “my girlfriend.” If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was proud of the fact.

And then his mother is looking at you. Really looking at you. It’s hard not to wither under her stare, hard not to brace for the results of her inevitable appraisal. But where you expect to see scrutiny, judgment, disdain, you only see a smile. A warm one. A real one. 

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she says, and you almost have the feeling that she means it. 

Remembering yourself, your role for the evening, you give her a smile of your own. “It’s lovely to meet you too.” You hope your voice is more steady than it feels. “You have a beautiful home. Thank you for inviting me to it.” Remembering the bottle of wine still encased in your hold, you hold it out towards her. “And this is for you.”

“Oh,” she beams, accepting the gift. Reading the label, she admonishes lightly, “You shouldn’t have. How did you know this is my absolute favorite?”

Glancing at her son, you admit, “I may have had some help.”

“Well at least one of us got some guidance.” She leans towards you, pulling your arm into her own and leaving Jake behind the two of you. “Tell me, what do you prefer? White or red?”

“Usually white.” 

Jake rolls his eyes at your answer, or rather, the brevity of it. According to the stack of papers you made him memorize, your real answer is…

Chardonnay with poultry, sauvignon blanc with seafood, pinot grigio with dessert, pinot noir with red meat (unless it’s ribeye, then cabernet sauvignon)...

But it does make him smile, the way you fall into step at his mother’s side so naturally. The way she makes you flush when she gives you yet another compliment on your hair or your outfit or your beauty. 

Even the protest dies on his lips when he hears her whisper a little too loudly, “And how do you put up with him when he’s in one of his moods? You know, the one where he gets all cranky and can’t be reasoned with at all.”

At her side, you just giggle. Jake would be lying if he said he didn’t think it was kind of adorable. 

He likes it, watching you and his mom together. Watching her light up at the chance to finally have a pretty girl to fawn over. His mother loves her sons – Jake has never doubted this for a moment – but there’s a certain kind of connection that only comes with a daughter. 

It’s a shame, he thinks, that your own mother is in the habit of squandering it with criticism and shame and admonishment. 

Watching the two of you now, Jake isn’t sure if he’s ever seen his mom enjoy herself more. When the three of you reach the dining room, she insists that you take the seat directly across from her. Even in her excitement, she won’t let anyone fill the seat next to you except for your boyfriend. 

It’s sweet, the way she dotes on you. And Jake is content to just watch, for the time being, hoping you and her both enjoy it as long as you can. 

Until New Year’s, that voice in his head reminds him. And suddenly, even with the back half of a semester in front of him, the holidays don’t seem so far away. 

The conversation only dies down slightly when his father and brother enter the room. Even in the comfort of his own home, his father strikes an imposing presence. He’s not cold when he introduces himself to you, reaching out an arm for a firm handshake, but there is no extra warmth embedded in the action either. After sending his youngest son a nod, he takes his seat at the head of the table. 

James doesn’t bother with formalities. Sliding down next to his mother, he’s already a little smug when he says, “Hi Jake.” Pausing, he glances towards you. “___.”

“James,” you return, smile significantly faker than it was moments ago. 

Jake is debating how worth it it would be if he kicked his older brother under the table when the first course is brought out, interrupting that train of thought. 

After passing the first set of dishes around and filling your plates, his mother is the first to pose a question. To test your thorough preparation for the evening. 

“So,” she asks, taking a sip of wine. “How did you two meet?”

And it’s such an obvious question. Such a painfully straightforward inquiry and yet somehow, too wrapped up in getting a contract signed and memorizing each other’s fun facts, it’s something the two of you completely neglected to cover.  

You both freeze, absence of a mutually agreed-upon backstory making you look like twin deer in headlights where you sit next to each other. 

A beat passes. Two. 

You say, “a mutual friend” at the same exact moment he says, “a class.”

Passing each other panicked looks, you smooth things over with a shaky, “A mutual friend in our class.” After a steadying breath, you add, “We have a mutual friend in our class, and he introduced us.”

“Oh, how nice.” Jake’s mom smiles. Turning to her youngest son, she asks, “Which friend was it? Someone I know?”

“Heeseung,” Jake nods, just as you say, “Sunghoon.”

This time, Jake is the one to cover your tracks. 

“My friend Heeseung and her friend Sunghoon know each other,” he explains. “I guess it’s technically two mutual friends, since we met through them.”

“And all four of you are in the same class together,” Jake’s mom is still beaming. “That’s awfully lucky. What a coincidence.” 

“You could say that again,” James mumbles under his breath across the table, decidedly less enchanted by the false tale of your first meeting. And considerably more suspicious. His eyebrow is arched when he asks, “What class did you say it was, again?”

Your brain scrambles only for a second. “Econ,” you answer quickly. Jake’s struggles aside, you figure that it's your best bet, considering that at least two of the four people you’ve listed are actually in that class. 

The glare that strikes the side of your face from Jake’s seat is frigid enough to kill a houseplant. 

“Econ,” James echoes flatly. And then something a little sinister enters his eyes. His spine straightens, poised for offense, when he directs to you, “I hope Dr. Kang isn’t as much of a hardass as he was when I was in school.”

You open your mouth to reply, probably to bite back with something along the lines of the class actually being rather easy, or you having a stellar rapport with Dr. Kang.

But Jake spots the trap before you can fall into it and cuts you off just as quickly. “It’s Dr. Jeong, actually.” He’s not glaring at his brother, but there’s no extra kindness in his stare. “I’m sure you remember, since you always say that he was your favorite professor.”

“Oh.” James’ eyes slide to his little brother. “That’s right. My mistake.” But his words make you think the switch in names was intentional bait, not a lapse in memory. Bait you almost fell for. 

Before you can let the implications of that sink in, Jake’s father directs his attention towards you, speaking for the first time. “You’re a business major, too, then.” It’s not exactly a question, even though he doesn’t know for certain. Even though he’s wrong. But men like Jake’s father don’t get to where they are by asking questions. They get there by making assumptions and talking over everyone else in the room until wills bend to their whim and reality is what they’ve made it. 

Still, Jake’s voice is steady when he corrects, “No she’s a pre-law major.”

Something flashes in his father’s eyes, but he says nothing. 

His mother, on the other hand, passes her youngest son a look. “I think ___ can speak for herself.”

It’s under his breath, but just a little too audible for comfort when Jake argues, “Not after I just had to memorize–”

“The entire case with me!” The sudden volume of your outburst rings awkwardly in the air. Adjusting your voice, you add to your explanation, “We got a crazy complicated case assigned in criminal law a couple weeks ago.” If the elbow nudge you give Jake is a little too hard, no one bats an eye at the way he winces slightly. “I’ve been talking about it so much I’m sure Jake has practically memorized it.”

Jake’s father hears what he wants to. Picks through the pieces of what you say and paints his own picture. “It’s nice to see a young person so dedicated to their studies.” No one at the table misses the way his eyes slide over to his second son. “And the family business by extension. I’ve always liked your parents,” he nods to you. “And they’ve been excellent partners. You’re going to law school, then, I assume? After you graduate.”

Jake can practically see the answer you typed out for him, words stamped in his brain from the amount of times he forced himself to look over them. My major is pre-law, you’d written in a font that’s almost as high maintenance as you. I’m considering attending law school after finishing undergrad, but I’m still undecided. 

But then he hears you say, “That’s the plan.” 

Jake can’t quite help the way he glances over at you, a question on his face, written all over his features. The two responses can’t hold true at the same time. 

One of your answers, either the one you typed for him or the one you’ve just given his father, is a lie. If the way your shoulders round slightly is any indication, he thinks the packet you gave him must be the real one. 

But as his father nods at you approvingly across the table, you just smile at Jake. Then you shake your head slightly, almost imperceptibly. He reads it as you intend it – a silent signal to move on and act as if nothing’s amiss. A nonverbal request to just let it go. 

Across the table from the two of you, his mother is the one to speak next, to divert the conversation from one area of dangerous territory to another. “James tells me that you two were together at your family’s fundraiser event.” Like Jake considered earlier, it’s all you can do not to kick him under the table at the reminder. That gossipping little shit. “You’ll have to pass on my apology to your mother that we couldn’t make it. But I have to say, I’m surprised the two of you decided to announce your relationship by attending together.” She frowns, but there’s a lightness in her tone that tells you she’s not mad, not really. “And I still can’t believe you made me hear it from your brother!”

Jake, thankfully, handles that one with ease. “We’ve been keeping things pretty close to the chest these last few weeks.” He glances at you fondly, and you have to applaud him. From the outside, you think it must look quite genuine. “We just liked each other.” Under the table, he takes your hand back in his. You assume that he’s just caught in the moment, forgets the fact that there’s no way for his family to see the display of affection. “We wanted to see where things would go.” Turning back to his mother, he adds, somewhat apologetically, “It was never meant to be some big announcement. Of course, I would have told you, Mom, when we did actually announce our relationship.” Jake lets his eyes fall on his older brother. “If someone hadn’t beat me to it.”

You can see the way James’ hackles rise, and so can she. 

Sensing the potential for another argument to brew, his mother cuts in again, smoothing over the tension. “Well, what’s done is done.” Turning to you, she smiles. “And we’re very happy to have you here, ___. I hope my son is treating you well.”

Jake isn’t sure how you manage to do it without grimacing, without turning up your nose at the lie, but you assure his mother, “He is.” And your smile looks almost genuine. “The very best,” 

Jake isn’t the only one that seems to think that you mean it. Across the table, his mother swoons while James crumples a little. His father just looks mildly disinterested, if anything. 

And those expressions remain steady for the rest of the evening, more or less, as you and Jake take turns spinning tales of the early days of your romance. He divulges the details of the outfit you were wearing on your so-called first date (a top with a sweetheart neckline, not off-the-shoulder), and you supplement with a tall tale of the time Jake saved you from getting soaked to the bone when he showed up outside of your lecture hall with an umbrella after a torrential downpour began out of nowhere. 

After a while, even his beaming mother can only handle so much sappiness, and she begins the end of the evening by excusing herself, referencing an early morning tomorrow as her reason for leaving. After giving you both one final hug, she bids you both goodnight. His father follows soon after, sans hug, leaving the table to take an urgent business call. 

In an effort to escape James and his wandering eye, Jake is quick to excuse the two of you moments later, whispering some half hearted excuse about giving you a tour of the house. To his credit, he does actually lead you around a handful of rooms on the first floor, but the tour is cut short by the time the two of you go up the stairs and step out onto the outdoor balcony on the second floor. 

The cool autumn air is refreshing, washes away lingering anxieties from a few close calls, a handful of narrow escapes from certain fiascos. From keeping up your hastily constructed lies for an entire evening.

For long minutes, the two of you are content to say nothing at all. And Jake isn’t uncomfortable in the silence, but after a while, he still searches for something to fill it. Something to get a conversation going. Something to see where your head's at. He finally settles on, “I can’t believe we forgot to come up with a story of how we met.”

He half expects you to say something scathing. To use your wit to insult or blame him for the lack of foresight, but you don’t. Instead, you exhale. And then you agree, somewhat amused, “Me neither.”

“I think we did alright, though,” Jake reasons. He hates to admit it, but, “That cheat sheet idea of yours came in handy, after all.”

Again, he doesn’t get the sarcasm he expects. “No kidding.” And then you’re the one looking for ways to keep the interaction flowing. Something to fill the silence. “Your mom seems nice.”

“She is,” Jake nods. And he knew she would like you just as much. “She’s the person I’m closest to in my family.”

“Mm,” you hum. You can see why. She’s warm in a way that your own has never been. But it’s not like Jake exactly got dealt an easy hand when it comes to family members. You mean it when you tell him, “Your brother still sucks.”

Jake just laughs. “And I wouldn’t hold my breath for that to change anytime soon.”

A half smile pulls at your lips. It’s replaced by a small frown when you suppose it’s time to comment on the last guest of the evening. “You were right, in the car. Your dad is… intense.” It’s not like you exactly hit the jackpot of parental relationships, but you can’t imagine it’s easy for Jake to have a father like that, to have grown up with those expectations, those scrutinizing eyes, weighing on his shoulders. 

Instead of responding, Jake just looks at you for a moment. His eyes trace your profile, committing details to memory, as you look out at the night in front of you. And then he says, “Can I ask you something?”

You sigh. You’re still not looking at him, but you can sense the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Aren’t you going to anyway?”

Jake shakes his head even though you can’t see it. “I wouldn’t have asked for permission if I was going to anyway.”

A moment of silence rings in the air. And then, “Okay.”

Jake isn’t sure what you’re referring to. “Okay, you agree or okay, I can ask?”

At that, you turn to look at him. “Both, I guess.”

Jake meets your eye, considers the best way to ask what’s been weighing on his mind for the better part of the evening. “When my dad asked you about law school,” he starts, “why did you tell him that you’re planning to go? You wrote that you still aren’t sure on the paper you gave me.”

You only pause for a moment. “It’s what he wanted to hear.”

“What?” There’s no evasiveness in your words, but Jake is still looking for clarity.

Sighing, you elaborate, “Your dad didn’t want to hear about my indecisiveness when it comes to the future. He wanted to hear about the plan I have. One that would make sense to him. So I told him what he wanted to hear.” Breaking eye contact, you look back out at the stars. “Sometimes, it’s just easier that way.”

But Jake still has one other question. He might be pressing his luck, but he asks anyway, “Why haven’t you decided? About law school, I mean?”

Your gaze lands somewhere in the distance, somewhere it might take light years to reach. “What do you want to hear?”

For the second time, Jake asks,“What?”

It’s ironic, almost, how easily you’re able to rifle through his insecurities, his inner thoughts. “What do you want to hear? Something that will make you feel better about having questions about your future? Something that will make you believe you’ll have everything figured out soon?” The stars blink above you, and you ask him again, “What answer do you want to hear from me?”

Jake realizes it then, under the glow of fading moonlight, why you’ve always been an image of perfection to him. It’s not accidental, but it’s also not entirely honest. Perfection, he realizes, is your identity of choice – it’s what you think other people want from you. So you construct it, you practice it, you create it. And then you give it. You let people do what they want with it. 

But Jake isn’t asking about your future career plans because he’s trying to feel better about himself. He’s not trying to stack up your lives next to each other and see how his compares. He’s not trying to put cracks in the exterior you’ve worked so hard to maintain.

But he does want a glimpse of what’s underneath.  

So when he answers, he opts for a third option. “The truth.” Above you, the moon glows. “I want to hear the truth.”

If it catches you off guard, you recover quickly. You’re not sure what it is about this moment that has you wanting to spill your guts, but you can’t remember the last time someone asked. The last time someone cared.

So you tell him, with all your honesty, “I don’t want to go to law school. I never have. My mother has made it clear that that’s the expectation, though. So I can’t decide how willing I am to estrange myself completely. To potentially lose what’s left of our relationship.”

Jake listens. He hears you. He gets it. “What would you do?”

It’s another answer that comes easy, even though the question hasn’t been asked by anyone in a long, long time. “Architecture.” Your smile is small, but it’s real. “I had a great aunt who was an architect. And she always used to tell me, when I was kid, that the secret is to put a little love into everything you build. It doesn’t have to be actual buildings, of course. That was just her thing, y’know? The thing she could always put a little love into, even on the hard days.” You sigh. “Truth be told, I don’t hate law. It’s interesting, and I’m good at it. But it’s not something I’ve ever been able to put a little love into.”

You turn to him, words still ringing in the air. You ask, “What about you? Was business always your calling?”

If you can give him the truth, Jake supposes he ought to return the favor. “To be honest, I have no idea. It was never a question. It was always a given that I would study business and take on some kind of role in the company.” He turns over your great aunt’s words in his mind. “But I don’t think it’s something I have any love for. Not even a little.”

“So what would you do?” You echo his question back to him. “If you could do anything?”

Jake’s answer comes less easily. “I don’t know.” You raise an eyebrow. “I really don’t. To be honest, I don’t even think I could tell you most of the other majors that are offered at our university. It’s always been business. It’s what my whole family does. Even Jay, my closest friend, is a business major too.” Jake realizes how odd that must sound, but it’s true. “It’s all I really know.”

“Hm,” you muse. He can see the wheels spinning in your brain, the beginning of an idea. “Maybe it’s time for you to find your thing, then. Somewhere to put your love.”

“Yeah, right,” Jake scoffs. He doesn’t think that’s possible, and especially not at this point. “I may not ever be the CEO, but I still don’t want my dad to disown me. And besides, we’re in our third year. Not exactly the best time to change my major.”

“Yeah,” you agree, but Jake can tell you still haven’t quite let it go. “I suppose you’re right.”

This time, when the silence between you returns, you let it linger. With nothing but the pale glow of the night sky and quiet whispers of the wind, long moments bleed into each other. You take it all in, let it all wash over you – the stillness, the chill of an autumn breeze, the presence of the boy at your side.  

And it’s a long time before either of you moves again. 

…

At this point, Jake really should be used to ominous, slightly threatening messages from you. Still, he can’t help but stutter a bit when he checks his phone after another tutoring session with Jungwon the following week. 

Without any family events looming on the horizon, you and Jake have had a few days to yourselves without any fake dating facade to follow. Aside from the white lies Jake slips Jungwon every now and then, he hasn’t seen or mentioned you since e dropped you back off at your apartment after dinner at his parents’ house last weekend. 

His thoughts, however, are an entirely different matter. No matter where he is, what he’s doing, they have the very annoying habit of always straying back to the same scene. A moonlit balcony. A cool autumn breeze. The most scraps of truth he’s ever been given from you at once. A thousand misconceptions shattered and reconstructed all in a single moment. 

Still, Jake’ not quite sure how to interpret the message that greets him, other than as a very direct threat. 

You [7:48 pm]: Meet me at the far end of the quad next to the library tomorrow at 2:45 or I’m telling your brother we broke up and I have uncontrollable romantic feelings for him

Jake [8:02 pm]: Should I be scared?

He’s not reassured by your reply.

You [8:04 pm]: :)

So Jake is standing on the far end of the quad, beside the library, the next afternoon at 2:42 when he sees you approaching. 

The first thing you do when you finally reach him is swat at the baseball cap he’s wearing, knocking it askew. “What are you, a frat boy?”

“It’s sunny,” Jake defends, fixing his hat. Something you’re well aware of, if the obnoxiously large sunglasses balanced on the bridge of your nose are anything to go by.

“You know,” you tilt your head, giving it a second thought. “The hat might be kind of perfect, actually.” Deciding to divulge the reason for your message, you tell him, “I need you to come somewhere with me.”

“What?” Jake balks, suddenly thrown by the lack of details. He needs a little more warning than this, if he’s expected to play the role of your boyfriend convincingly. “Is this,” he leans in close, waits for a group of students to pass by before he whispers apprehensively, “a contract thing?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I mean, don’t like, start hitting on other girls in front of witnesses or anything, but we don’t have to act like a couple.”

Now, Jake is even more confused. “Then where are we going?”

Never one to give in easily, all you say is, “You’ll see.”

Jake crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you give me more information.”

“I literally have James’ phone number in my favorites.”

He holds his ground. “And I have the right to know where you’re taking me!”

“Ugh,” you roll your eyes. “Fine. We’re going to the Student Union Building.” A multipurpose building in the center of campus, it’s a typical place for events that are too large to be hosted anywhere else. Which really doesn’t give Jake much to work with.

“Why?” His question is slow, suspicious. 

“My god.” You throw your hands in annoyance. “I’m going to have to start paying Jungwon double if this is how annoying you are when you have a question about something. Just come with me,” you reiterate. “You’ll see what we’re doing soon enough.”

“But–”

It doesn’t matter, you’re already grabbing his hand in yours, more or less dragging him through the quad towards the Student Union Building before he can get his protest out. Jake’s eyebrows are still creased in confusion when you pull him through the front doors and he sees the unusually large crowd of people inside. 

Then, he sees the banner hanging from the ceiling. His lips flatten into a thin line. 

“Absolutely not.” But you’re already behind him, blocking his exit and pushing him towards the makeshift check-in counter. 

“Hi!” The student employee greets, far too cheerfully in Jake’s opinion. If she notices the way your knuckles are white around his arm, holding him in place, she doesn’t comment on it. Jake pulls his hat down further over his eyes. “Are you two here for the Explore Our Majors event?”

“Yep,” you beam. And Jake is actually going to kill you. “I’m in my third year here, but my friend Ja–”

“Jacob,” Jake intercedes. 

“Right.” You spare a glance at him. “My friend Jacob.” You’re still way too excited when you lie, “He’ll be a freshman soon, and he’s hoping to look around and see all the different programs that are offered here. Do we need to go in a certain order or anything? Or is there somewhere we need to sign in?” 

There better not be. Like hell is he putting the name Jake Sim on a sign-in sheet for a major exploration event for freshmen. It’s not like his father has time to poke around at things like this, but his claws and connections run deep where this school is concerned. And Jake imagines he would be less than pleased to find out his son is wasting his time doing something so frivolous. Or something that could signal any kind of disinterest in the future that’s been laid out for him, his eventual place at his father’s company.

“Nope,” she smiles. “Each major has its own table, and majors are grouped by college. So all the STEM tables are over there, for example,” she points over to where a group of high school seniors are flipping through pamphlets. “You can just wander around as you like and chat with the people at the tables. There’s a mix of students and faculty. Oh, and each major should have a pamphlet you can pick up too, if you’d like.”

“Great,” you grin back. “Thank you.”

Again, if she sees the way you practically have to yank Jake by the arm to get him to move, she doesn’t comment on it. But once you’re out of earshot, he does lean down to hiss in your ear, “Why the fuck are we at the Explore Our Majors event for incoming freshmen?”

“Why do you think?” Your voice is entirely too loud. He has half a mind to slap his palm over your mouth to prevent you from spilling his secrets here in the middle of the Student Union Building’s largest event hall. “We’re finding you somewhere to put your love.” The large group of girls that walks by do a double take and then proceed to take turns shooting him death glares. 

Jake panics. “Would you stop saying it like that?”

You roll your eyes, paying the group of girls and his worries no mind. “Don’t knock my great aunt. Anyway, where do you want to start? Should we go over to the STEM tables?” Pausing to consider, you ask, “Or is your performance in econ more indicative of your math and science skills in general? We could look for liberal ar–”

“I just told you this weekend that I was good at physics.” It may have been a white lie, but who’s keeping track? 

“Oh, right.” You nod, eyes already searching for the table in question. “Should we go there, then?”

“No,” Jake shakes his head immediately. “I was good at it.” Questionable. “But I didn’t really like it.” A lot more true. 

“Alright,” you agree. Spinning to look in the other direction, you take him with you “Humanities it is. Or we could always go the fine arts route.” You turn to look at him for a moment, assessing. “You know, I feel like you would actually be a great dancer. You have the face for it.”

“Has that ever made sense to anyone you’ve said it to?”

“Wouldn’t know.” You shrug. “You’re the first.” Trying not to read too much into that, Jake lets you pull him along until you’re standing in front of a table with a rather gaudy ‘Journalism’ banner hanging on the front. 

“Hi,” you smile at the students standing behind it. Jake pulls his hat down a little further. You don’t know a whole lot about journalism other than the basics, but you’re pretty sure they’re also in charge of student media on campus. “You guys run the student newspaper, right?” 

Picking up a pamphlet, you nod as the boy behind the table answers brightly, “Yeah, we do.” He’s proud when he adds, “Our last issue was one of our most read yet. We ran a really great article on the front page about the importance of understanding how economic trends affect our daily lives–”

Delicately setting the pamphlet back down on the table, you glance at Jake before apologizing to the overeager boy, “I’m sorry, but I think Jacob and I are gonna head to the next table.” 

ANd then you’re dragging him along again.

“Okay,” you turn to Jake once you’re out of earshot, “So that’s a veto for journalism. What about other kinds of writing? You point to a table a few rows away. There’s the creative writing table.”

Jake shakes his head. “Even discussion board posts are like pulling teeth.”

“Noted.” Your jaw sets with a little too much determination for his liking. “Minimal writing it is, then.” 

The two of you pass several more tables in the same fashion, Jake shutting each one down before you have a chance to so much as grab a pamphlet. 

There’s history, but who cares about dead people? English, but he’s seen the career outlook and he’d rather not study unemployment, thank you very much. Sociology, but he already lives in society. Why would he waste his time studying it?

Finally, you point out a major that he doesn't have anything scathing to say about within the first five seconds. “Graphic design,” you nod towards the table a few spots away. “That could be interesting.”

Jake hates to admit it, but he kind of thinks so too. He does think visual design is pretty interesting, and marketing and advertising have always been some of his favorite aspects of business. He’s about to say fuck it and fully embrace Jacob the incoming freshman when he notices one glaring problem. The graphic design table is set up right next to the business table. 

A nonissue, really, except for the fact that students are helping to run this event. And as you drag him closer, Jake realizes with mounting dread that he recognizes one of the faces spending an afternoon trying to convince high schoolers that choosing a business major will change their lives for the better. 

He turns to make a break for it before you can reinforce your grip on his arm and physically drag him with you, but it’s too late. 

“Jake?” he hears a horribly familiar voice call. “Is that you?” Turning around slowly, he knows he’ been caught. Jake kind of wishes the ground would open up and swallow him. The only thing he wants to do is melt into the floor. 

“It is you,” Jay says upon closer inspection. And because you seem so hellbent on making his life even more painful, you pull him with you until the two of you are right in front of his best friend. “What the hell are you doing here?” Jay asks him. “You said you had a date.”

Butting in on the conversation, your smile is entirely too smug when you turn to Jake. “You said what now?”

Glancing at you, Jay’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to connect the dots. “You were telling the truth? Dude, that’s even worse.” Jay looks at you almost like he’s trying to apologize on behalf of his friend. “You’re not exactly wine-ing and dining her, here.”

“Hi,” you introduce, extending a hand. Jay shakes it warily. “I’m ___. Jake’s…” you search for a good term to use, and finally, with a private smile, settle on, “plus-one.”

“To an Explore Our Majors event?” That clears up none of Jay’s confusion. He turns back to Jake. “What the hell? Are you going on dates with incoming freshmen–”

“This is my third year,” you interrupt again. “We’re just looking around.”

“Hold on,” Jay pauses, a flash of recognition crossing his features as he studies you for a moment. “You’re the ___ that Jake was trying to get a phone number from for his brother, right? Is that what’s going on? Are you making him do a bunch of stupid shit like this to get it?”

You shrug, glancing at Jake. “You could say that.”

Jake has to give it to you. You’re a lot better at beating around the bush, at avoiding giving straight answers about the nature of your relationship, than he is. Jay looks more confused than anything at your evasiveness. If James were to somehow hunt him down and inquire about the validity of your relationship, Jake is positive that his friend would have absolutely no idea how to answer. 

A reassuring idea, other than the fact that Jake is also sure Jay will be hunting him down after this to get the real story, since he couldn’t get it from you. Targeting the weaker prey, a classic strategy. 

“Anyway,” you build yourself an out. “We’re gonna go check out the graphic design table.”

You tug at Jake’s wrist, but he stands his ground this time. Thoroughly embarrassed and done letting you pull him around, he tries to back you into a corner with one of your tricks from the fundraiser. “We should get going, actually,” he argues pointedly. “Look at the time. We don’t want to be late for…” Unfortunately, he’s still no better at coming up with excuses, “that thing.”

You roll your eyes at the obvious trick. “Don’t worry.” Your smile is sugary, but your eyes flash with warning. “I canceled it. Let’s go.”

This time when you redouble your efforts to drag him to the graphic design table, he has no choice but to follow, a little miserably. Behind the business table, Jay has zero idea what to make of what he just witnessed.

As the students at the graphic design table start their spiel, Jake is glad at least one of you is paying attention. You nod along enthusiastically while the student representative talks your ear off about the pros and cons of various online photo editing programs, asking well-timed follow-up questions as you expertly skim the pamphlet you’re handed simultaneously. 

Jake, on the other hand, still coming down from the mortification of being caught, is suddenly a little caught up in the way your hand is still wrapped around his wrist. A light pressure he could easily work his way out of. But despite himself, he’s having a hard time coming up with any motivation to do so. 

Distantly, he concentrates on the sensation. Your skin is soft, warm. The gentle pressure of your fingers is a tether to you. And in this moment, it’s a reminder that out of everyone in his life, you’re the first to be so obnoxiously concerned with what his interests are, where his passions lie. 

Despite his rightful protests against attending this event, he can read your intentions behind bringing him here. And it would be a lie if he said he didn’t appreciate them, just a little. 

At this point in his life and academic career, he feels a little bit like a toddler you’ve thrown in a pool to try and teach to swim. It’s hard for him to tread water, to keep his head above the waves, when the solid ground he’s used to is suddenly replaced by new matter entirely. 

But if Jake is sure of one thing, it’s that he won’t drown. How could he, with the lifeline of your arm still reaching out towards him? With the steadiness of your fingers still wrapped around him? He thinks you just might save him too, if you saw him drowning. Would pull him in and teach him to float on his back. To work with the water instead of against it. 

To swim, even when the water gets rough. 

At your side, terms like visual communications and web design and typography all blur together. And Jake’s focus is still narrowed in on the pulse point on his wrist, the way his heartbeat is entrusted in your unwavering grip.

…

Jake has a well-practiced routine for checking his econ grade whenever results of a new assignment or exam are posted. 

First, he makes sure that anything fragile or breakable is out of his reach. Then, he lights a scented candle. Setting the new one he just bought a few days ago on his desk, he checks the label again. Lavender Dreams. It’s all he can do not to laugh, a little miserably. Well, he supposes, thinking back to your words a couple of weeks ago, time to find out if lavender is actually calming. 

Third, he makes sure he has no other important plans for the day. Nowhere else to be, nothing to do that he can’t show up for in a ruined mood. Because that is usually what happens during this little ritual of his.

Finally, his last step is to look up at the ceiling of his bedroom, imagine the sky above it, and whisper one, desperate, “Please.”

Then he sits at his desk and opens his laptop to greet his fate with a grimace and a racing heart. Today, Jake follows all the same steps until he’s navigating to his university’s learning management platform. He clicks on the Econ tab, slowly releases a breath he wasn’t meaning to hold. 

His shoulders tense at the notification of a newly inputted grade that pops up, the icon begging for his attention. He inhales deeply, letting the smell of lavender enter his nose and hopefully work some magic in his nervous system. 

Maybe he should adjust his ritual, he thinks, mouse hovering over the new grade notification. Maybe he should start burning incense or something, cleansing the air of any bad energy before he looks. In his indecision, his finger slips, presses, clicks. 

And Jake doesn’t quite have time to screw his eyes shut before the number flashes on his screen. 

Oh, he is so fucked.

So, so, so, terribly, absolutely, completely fucked. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise at this point, that the score of his latest homework problem set is a–

Wait. 

Jake opens his eyes, just barely, peeking at the screen again. 

82.

Jake pauses for a moment. His eyes open completely. His brow pulls down in confusion. 

82. He double checks to make sure he’s seeing the grade correctly, that the numbers haven’t somehow been reversed. 

They haven’t. 82. It’s his real, true, honest to god score. It’s a B. A low B, but that’s still the highest econ grade Jake has seen since his third round of the syllabus quiz.

Oh my god. Oh my god. 

Jake kind of doesn’t know what to do with his body, with all of the extra energy he suddenly has. In that moment, he thinks he could do anything. If Jungwon were here, Jake thinks he might actually kiss him on the mouth. 

82. It’s not enough to save his grade, not yet. But if it’s a trend that continues, Jake Sim just might finally pass econ. 

He goes to text his tutor the good news, to confirm their next session, but finds that Jungwon has beat him to it. Fingers still slightly shaky from the excess of nerves, he reads the new messages. 

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:03 pm]: Hey, I saw that the latest homework grades were released. Lmk how you did!

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:04 pm]: Also, sorry to do this kind of last minute, but I’m not gonna be able to meet you at our regular time tomorrow. We could reschedule if there’s another time that works for you? Or we could just wait and meet again next week. 

Frowning, Jake reads the message again. He’s still riding the high of a B- and is reluctant to do anything that might prevent it in the future, including missing a tutoring session. 

Jake [7:10 pm]: Is there any way we could still meet tomorrow? Maybe before our usual time. 

Jake [7:10 pm]: And I got an 82! You’re actually a lifesaver

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:12 pm]: That’s great! 

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:12 pm]: I’m sorry, but I don’t think tomorrow afternoon will work either. I’m going to the university skating competition to support a friend

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:12 pm]: You probably know him actually. Him and ___ are good friends too lol. It’s Park Sunghoon

Jake rereads the message, sighs. He supposes it makes sense. He can’t really fault his godsend of a tutor for wanting to support a long-time friend at one of the most important competitions of his season. Still, Jake’s a little slammed this week, and the thought of missing a tutoring session is enough to sober him from the thrill of his latest assignment grade. 

Park Sunghoon. Jake has only met him once – in search of you, or rather, your phone number – and he doubts Sunghoon remembers much of that interaction. Jake doesn’t really know anything about him, other than the fact that he’s rumored to be one of the best skaters to come through this school and that he’s apparently good friends with both you and Jungwon–

Wait. 

Oh no. Oh no. 

Jungwon can’t go to Sunghoon’s skating competition tomorrow. Because Jake is almost positive you’ll be there too, is pretty sure you and Jungwon are probably going together. If there’s a flare of jealousy in his gut, he’ll ignore it for now. He has bigger problems.

Namely, the fact that Jungwon is under the impression that you and Jake are dating. Officially dating, since he knows that Jake took you to meet his family this last weekend. Quite seriously dating, if the lovesick expression on Jake’s face every time he talks about you in front of Jungwon is anything to go by. 

And the sole reason Jungwon is under that impression is because Jake couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. Because he essentially told him, flat out, that the two of you are very much enjoying the honeymoon phase of your relationship. 

Still working in a cloud of panic, Jake leaves Jungwon on read for the time being and sends a message to you instead. 

Jake [7:17 pm]: What time is Sunghoon’s thing tomorrow? I’ll pick you up

You [7:18 pm]: ??? 

You [7:18 pm]: What the fuck?

Before he can think of a reply to type, Jake’s phone screen is overtaken by an incoming call notification. One that he knows better than to ignore, even as something in his shrivels a little. 

“Hello?” He answers, wheels in his brain spinning as he tries to come up with some sort of explanation on the spot. 

You don’t waste any time. “How do you even know about Sunghoon’s competition? And what do you mean you’ll pick me up?” On the bright side, you don’t sound angry, at least. Just very confused. 

“Jungwon mentioned it to me.” Jake decides he can at least be honest about that. “He had to cancel our tutoring session tomorrow.”

“So what?” Even through the phone, Jake can sense your exasperation. “You thought you could squeeze in some econ notes at the athletics center? My god, you are so persistent about the worst things. Leave poor Jungwon alone.”

Poor Jungwon. Poor Jungwon. 

Jake’s tone is a little less even when he clarifies, “No, it has nothing to do with econ. I just want to come with you. To, uh… to support Sunghoon.” It’s a weak explanation, even to his own ears. 

“You don’t know him.” Your voice is flat.

“We’ve talked,” Jake argues.

“You’ve had one conversation. He thought your name was Jacob.”

“Which turned out to be a very useful alias for me.” At the event for incoming freshmen you dragged him to unwillingly. “I owe him one.”

There’s an extended silence on your end. 

Jake begs a little more. “I let you drag me to that stupid event last week. You know, I had to run, actually, full on run, away from Jay the other day so he couldn’t ask me about it. Just let me come with you tomorrow.” 

You hesitate. “I might, if you tell me why you want to go so badl–”

“Fine,” Jake sighs. “You caught me. My secret passion in life is actually figure skating. I didn’t start training young enough, so now I have to live vicariously through–”

“You are so fucking annoying” But it works. “Fine.”

“Fine, as in, I can come?” Jake knows better than to sound too hopeful. 

You refuse to answer him directly. “Be at my apartment by four-thirty tomorrow. If you’re even a second late, I’m leaving without you.”

On the other line, Jake lets his fist fly into the air in silent celebration. Into the receiver of his phone, he says calmly, “Great. I’ll pick you up, then.”

You hang up without bothering to respond, and Jake returns Jungwon’s message. 

Jake [7:26 pm]: Let’s just plan to meet next week for tutoring. And thanks for the reminder. You kind of saved me again, actually. I’ll see you tomorrow at the competition

Sighing, Jake sets his phone down. 

For the moment, the crisis is averted, at least partially. But Jake knows he’ll have his real work cut out for him tomorrow. As he turns it around in his brain, the celebratory feeling in his chest slowly begins to morph into dread. 

How on earth is he going to sit through an entire evening with you and Jungwon without the illusion shattering one way or another? It feels like an impossible task. 

But then he takes a long inhale of lavender-scented air, looks back at the proud B- still displayed on his laptop screen. If he can pull that off, he thinks he just might be able to do anything. 

…

It’s a confidence that Jake is finding hard to rediscover the following afternoon. Just after three, every ounce of self-assuredness Jake has ever had is slowly draining from his body as the clock ticks closer and closer to four-thiry with every passing second. 

Standing in front of his mirror, Jake can’t decide how he feels about the black button-down he’s wearing. Is it too much? Not enough? 

He knows he’s probably overthinking it, but he’s about to spend an entire evening sitting with you and Jungwon, watching Sunghoon. If you don’t think he looks at least a little good in comparison, something in his pride is going to be very, very wounded. 

On the other side of his bedroom door, Jake can hear Jay poking around in his kitchen. After a few days of successfully dodging him, his best friend finally snuck his way into his apartment under the guise of delivering a package. Still a little terrified to face him and the questions he’ll inevitably ask, Jake has been hiding in his room since his arrival. 

He curses the situation now. If nothing else, Jay could at least provide a set of fashion-forward eyes to help him choose his outfit of the evening. But that would also involve explaining where he’s going, which would only send Jay’s suspicions about you and Jake skyrocketing. 

Unlike you, Jake is not particularly well-versed in avoiding leading questions. In fact, he regularly does the opposite, if his interactions with Jungwon are anything to go by. 

Somewhat regrettably, he decides he’ll have to use his own intuition for this one. 

That turns out to mean that Jake spends the next forty minutes trying on half of his closet, pulling out shirts that he hasn’t seen since middle school and watching the pile of rejected options pile up on his chair as uncertainties pile up in his gut. 

Finally, he lands on the black button-up he was wearing originally and decides to make the disaster of his room a problem for later. Glancing at the clock, he realizes with a bit of dread that he needs to head out soon if he doesn’t want to miss your threat of a deadline. But then his eyes land on the small handful of ornate bottles on top of his dresser, and he suddenly has a new problem. 

Running low on both steam and time, Jake decides that facing whatever Jay has in store for him is better than trying to make this last decision on his own. So he scans that array of bottles, picks his two favorite scents, and opens the door to his bedroom slowly, doing his best to delay the inevitable inquisition. 

Stepping out warily, he sees that Jay has moved from the kitchen to the living room and is currently snacking on a sandwich he made with whatever ingredients he found in Jake’s fridge as he watches something on the TV. 

“Hey, Jay?” Jake calls out, a little hesitantly. 

“What?” Jay doesn’t even turn to look at him. “Oh, you decided you’re talking to me again?”

“I’m sorry,” Jake searches for a feasible explanation for his avoidance. Finding nothing solid, he settles with the classically vague, “I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what? Training for a marathon? I can’t believe you actually ran from me–”

“I realized I forgot my computer at the library,” Jake lies. “I wanted to go back and grab it before it got stolen.”

“Whatever.” Jay doesn't buy it for a second. But he is eating Jake’s food, so he figures he owes him a little. “What do you want?” 

Jake moves to stand next to his couch, careful not to block Jay’s view of the TV and annoy him further. Tentatively, Jake holds out the two bottles of cologne. “Which one of these smells better?”

Jay sends Jake a look of disbelief, sets his sandwich down on the coffee table. “Do I look like a fucking Macy’s employee to you?”

“Just help me out,” Jake pleads. “Please,” he adds for good measure.

Jay stares at him blankly for a moment longer. “Well, it depends,” He finally concedes. “The Yves Saint Laurent has more of a causal vibe, and the Giorgio Armani feels like you’re trying a little harder, like you want to be impressive and you don’t care if people know that.” 

And then he takes a closer look at Jake. At the way his hair has been perfectly styled to look just the right amount of intentionally messy, at the outfit he’s wearing. 

“Hold on, what are you so worked up about?” Jay’s eyes narrow in on his shirt. “And is that Prada? It’s four in the afternoon on a Thursday. Where the hell are you going?”

“Nowhere,” Jake replies too quickly, already beginning to retreat to the safety of his bedroom before he can be questioned further. 

Jay turns in his seat, eyes following Jake accusingly the whole time. “You’re meeting ___, aren’t you? What’s going on between the two of you anyway? Why are you being so weird?”

Jake pretends not to hear his friend, closing the door behind him and he looks for his coat in the mess of his room. Finding it, he pulls his arms through the sleeves. Stopping at the mirror, he gives himself one final once-over before turning to leave again. Right before he does, he pauses, weighs his options as he weighs Jay’s advice. And then he reaches for the bottle of Giorgio Armani, sprays it twice for good measure. Before he can psych himself out again, he heads for the front door. 

He almost makes it, too, but before he can slip out, Jay asks him one last question. “Just answer this,” he bargains from his seat on the couch. “Are you meeting ___?”

“None of your business” is the only answer he gets as Jake leaves his apartment, quickly closing the door behind him to cut off any other opportunities for Jay to catch him in a white lie. 

And when Jake arrives at your apartment, he has seven minutes to spare. Sending you a message of his arrival, he makes his way to the lobby to greet you. 

“Mr. Sim,” your doorman nods coolly. 

“Elton,” Jake returns, equally as frigid as he reads the middle-aged man’s name tag. 

Thankfully, you don’t keep him waiting long. You make your way down to the lobby before Jake and your doorman have the chance to exchange a few more choice words.

Despite the initial turmoil and the current state of his bedroom, Jake is more than pleased with the clothing choices he landed on for the evening when he sees you. 

It would be hard to claim that the two of you are matching, exactly, considering how simple both of your outfits are. But as he watches you approach him in a black sweater and light jeans, Jake likes the way it almost looks as if the two of you did it by accident. Synced up so well that even your closets align without you meaning to. 

And he likes the way it looks like the two of you go together, two pieces of a matching set.

Giving your doorman one last parting wave, the walk to Jake’s car is short. He doesn’t offer to pull the car around this time, mostly because the white sneakers on your feet are a lot more conducive to walking that your heels for the fundraiser a couple of weeks ago.  

“I assume we’re heading to the Ice Sports Center,” Jake says, putting the car in reverse as he backs out of his parking spot. 

“Yeah,” you nod. Much to his relief, you’re not projecting any annoyance. At least not yet. “But we’re picking up Jungwon first.” 

“What?” Jake balks, suddenly reminded of the awful tightrope he’s about to be walking all evening. The way he’s somehow supposed to keep Jungwon thinking that the two of you are enamored with one another without you finding out that he divulged the nature of your fake relationship to your friend. 

Mistaking his apprehension for annoyance, you shake your head. “You’re so mean,” you accuse. “First you invade our evening and then you complain about picking him up? The poor guy already has to put up with you all night. The least you could do is spare him an Uber ride.”

Jake suddenly has another bone to pick. “First of all, why do the the two of you even need an evening–”

“Because I never get to see him!” A bit dejectedly, you add, “Between classes and tutoring and his internship, he never has any free time.”

Jake wonders, somewhat vindictively, if he could start requesting additional tutoring sessions. Burn up whatever remnants of time the kid has to dedicate to you. 

Instead, he relents. He’s not going to win any favor from you by doing anything to Jungwon. Not that he needs your favor, of course. Not that he even wants it. 

So Jake just asks you to give him Jungwon’s address and plots it into his phone’s GPS without another complaint. But as the estimated arrival time begins to dwindle, so does Jake’s confidence that he can pull this evening off. 

With just a few minutes to go, he decides that honestly might be his only way out of this mess. 

Turning to you slowly, he says, “So, I kind of have to tell you something.”

You groan. “I hate the way you just said that. Please tell me I’m not also going to hate whatever it is you’re about to tell me.”

Jake hesitates, “I mean, I can’t predict the future–”

You read his guilt like an open book. Flatly, you ask, “What did you do?”

Jake is quick to go on the defensive. “Why are you assuming it’s my fault–”

You’re not in the mood for his evasiveness. “What did you do?”

It comes out all in a rush, sounds like one long word as Jake lets the truth spill out. “I might have accidentally told Jungwon that you and I are dating.”

Somehow, you understand just as well as you would have if he enunciated clearly. Your voice is dangerously low. “How, pray tell, did you accidentally tell your econ tutor that you and I are dating?”

“It just came out, I swear!” Jake tries to dig himself out. “You came up somehow, and I mentioned the dinner at my parents house. One thing led to another, and now he thinks that we’re dating.”

You’re still livid, not accepting his threadbare explanation. “I could sue you, you know. You signed a legal document agreeing to not tell our friends and acquaintances anything about our agreement.”

Jake calls your bluff. “That thing is not legally binding, and you know it. Besides, the wording on that part is so vague, I’m sure there are a million loopholes. No judge would uphold that in court.”

“Oh, so now you’re a contract expert–”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Jake interrupts, deciding that neither defense or offense are likely to get him much of anywhere. Maybe an apology will do him one better. “I know we agreed to not get our friends involved, but it really wasn’t on purpose.” It kind of very much was, but he figures you don’t need to know that. “I just… Can we pretend, just for tonight?” It sounds reasonable enough to him. After all, “It’s no different than what we’ve done so far–”

“Yes it is,” you argue. Your fury has evaporated slightly, now just simmering in his passenger seat. But Jake still doesn't get it.  “Jungwon is my friend. He knows me, the real me. I’m not trying to keep up appearances around him. I don’t want to lie to him, and especially not about something like my relationships. Especially because he’s going to think that I’m the one that’s been lying to him about it.” The more you say, the worse Jake starts to feel. “I told him you were my friend.”

It wasn’t about you being embarrassed of Jake or not wanting Jungwon to think that you would ever consider dating him. It was because Jungwon is one of the few people that gets you, that really gets you. It’s because he’s one of your few real friends, someone you don’t have to lie to. Someone who accepts your truths as they come. 

“I know.” For the first time, Jake’s short-sighted solution to his jealousy doesn’t feel so satisfying. He hadn’t considered this, the potential fallout on your end. How you would feel about lying like this to someone that you’re genuinely close to. All he can say is, “I’m sorry. I know I fucked up.”

You just give him a long look, silence building between the two of you as you weigh a million responses on your tongue and let all of them die, one by one, before breathing life into any of them. 

“I…” you finally say. “It’s whatever.” It’s not. Jake can hear it in your tone of voice, can read it in the way your lips twist. “Let’s just do it,” you agree to his original request. Jake isn’t sure why he can’t find it in himself to feel good about it. “Let’s just pretend for tonight.” 

Jake doesn’t know what to say, can’t find the words to remedy the situation. Still, your name is a quiet whisper on his breath. He feels like he’s begging, pleading. For what, he’s not entirely sure. 

You just shake your head, looking out of the windshield. “We’re here.”

And you are. Jungwon, completely oblivious to your conversation, is all smiles where he waits outside his apartment building, sending you and Jake both a friendly wave before jogging over to the car and sliding into the back seat. 

“Hey Jake, ___,” he greets, unaware of the stifling tension he’s just walked into. “Thanks for picking me up, by the way. You have a really nice car.”

And Jungwon is so nice, Jake thinks. So nice and considerate and genuinely pleasant to be around. Things that he controls, things that Jungwon wakes up every day and decides to be. Things that make you like him, want to be his friend.

Things that Jake, as he glances to where you’re still nursing your wounds in his passenger seat, understands with a sickening realization that he has not been. At least not to you. 

And Jake could pin the blame on a million different excuses. His father or the tight constraints of his life or the way he feels like nothing has ever really belonged to him. But when he looks at you, at your hurt, he knows that his lack of consideration for your feelings is all of his own doing. 

Jakes turns back to Jungwon for a moment, tells him, “No problem. I’m glad we could all go together.” And then he puts his eyes back on the road ahead of him and makes the decision to take a little more ownership of the things he can control. To do his very best to be a little better. To try, really try, to put a little love into the things he builds.

So Jake doesn’t protest, when you arrive at the ice rink and slide down into the middle seat, next to both him and Jungwon. Doesn't let the unpleasant feeling that rises in his gut when you give Sunghoon a massive bouquet of flowers and a warm hug after his program do anything but simmer. Doesn’t make his feelings your problem, a fire for you to put out. 

When he excuses himself to the bathroom, he tries not to let the imagined possibilities of what you and Jungwon might be talking about in his absence make him do something stupid. 

Besides, everything he’s thinking of is far off the mark anyway. 

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Jungwon turns to you and smiles. “You and Jake, huh?” He nudges you with his elbow. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Actually,” he amends, “I can believe that. What I can believe is that you lied.” The accusation is light, teasing. It still hits you like a sucker punch. “You said you two were just friends.”

But your hurt feelings won’t help you here, and you have tracks to cover. Jake didn’t tell you what he told Jungwon, not exactly, so you’ll have to do your best not to unravel any of the lies he’s already spun. 

“It’s new,” you try to explain, thinking of something that would make sense, that would wound Jungwon the least. “I haven’t really told anyone.” You mean it when you say, “But I am sorry for lying.” You wish you weren’t doing it still. You wish you could tell him the truth.

“Fine.” It’s an apology Jungwon accepts easily, even if he pretends to hold onto it a little longer. “You’re forgiven. But only because his car is really nice.” And then, “He’s good to you?”

“Yeah,” you echo the same words you told his mother a handful of evenings ago. “The best.”

“Good.” Jungwon nods. If there’s wistfulness there, it’s overtaken by his genuine desire to see you happy. “You deserve that.”

You’re not sure why you feel like crying, why everything about this conversation, this situation, suddenly feels so wrong.

“Thanks, Wonie.” You melt a little at his earnestness, the childhood nickname slipping out with your fondness. This is what you were afraid of, what you wanted to avoid. It’s not fair for him, not okay with you that Jungwon is wasting his sincerity on a lie, a false relationship. It’s hollow when you say, “That means a lot.”

Whatever reply Jungwon has dies on his lips as Jake finds the two of you again, slides back into his seat. As the rest of the evening passes, your lingering hurt starts to make room for something else. You’re not sure what to make of how undeniably easy it all is. How natural it feels to be sat in between your childhood friend and your fake boyfriend, trading jokes and smiles and stories that take no effort and make the time fly by. 

When Jake finally drops you back off at your apartment a few hours later, your anger is mostly gone. And unlike him, you were never particularly good at physics, but you do remember the conservation of mass – how things can change and transform but are never truly destroyed. In the absence of anger, you’re not entirely sure what emotions are beginning to overflow in their stead. 

But when Jake whispers, “Goodnight” from the driver’s seat of his car, it’s a sentiment that’s easy to return. 

…

As the month just before the holidays tends to do, the rest of the semester passes in a blur of late night study sessions, half-finished assignments, and a concerning amount of caffeine. Both of you slammed with responsibilities of your own, Jake hardly even sees you in those last few weeks. Instead, the promise of the holidays and your family’s upcoming New Year’s Eve party are threats that loom on the rapidly approaching horizon. 

This, then, is a small time apart from each other before your fake-dating responsibilities kick into full gear. Before they eventually as soon as the clock strikes midnight on the last day of December and your contract dissolves just as the year does. 

And at this point, that’s a concern for the future. Right now, Jake is too busy trying to pass his classes to have any brainwidth left to worry about other things. Namely, his econ term paper. The hours that he spends alone with his laptop, forgetting to do much of anything else, veer towards a number that is more than a little concerning.

But thanks to his sessions with Jungwon, a report card without any Fs is looking like an actual possibility for him this semester. So Jake doubles down and presses onwards, goes hours and sometimes even days hardly talking to anyone, just to make sure that every last detail, every last word, is as impeccable as possible. 

And a few weeks later, just as the first half of December draws to a close, Jake finds himself back at his desk, lavender candle lit, pleading with invisible deities as he opens his laptop to check his final econ grade. 

He lets one breath pass. Another. 

Slowly, he opens one eye. 

And there it is, on the screen in front of him. His final econ grade. 

73. A solid C. A fucking C. 

He did it. He actually did it. On his third go around, Jake Sim passed econ. And that alone calls for celebration. 

It’s nearly the first time he’s seen you since Sunghoon’s competition when you and Jungwon show up at his apartment by surprise with a custom ordered cake the next day. 

Predict THIS trend, Wall Street, the royal blue icing reads. Jake Sim passed econ!!!!!!

And then it really is the end of the semester, and the three of you are parting ways for winter break. With nearly a month of rest from studies and schoolwork, you and Jake finalize the details of your last two public appearances as a couple. 

The first is set to be at Jake’s parents’ house. It’s not so much an event as it is the two of you exchanging gifts, making sure that there are witnesses around to corroborate your affection. And the second, of course, will be the New Year’s Eve party at your family's home. 

The timeline gives you about a week to finalize your gift to him, something that has proven to be much more difficult than you were hoping. Despite your suggestion that the two of you just pick out your own gifts in advance and say that they’re from each other, Jake has insisted on going the traditional route. On surprising you. 

So when you show up at his family's home a few days before Christmas, a small red gift bag in hand, it’s with a bit of trepidation that the present inside will fall flat of whatever expectations your fake boyfriend may have. 

Moments later, with the glow of the fireplace casting a cozy glow on his living room, Jake holds a self-warming coffee mug in his hands. 

You feel a bit foolish as you reach for your rehearsed explanation, cite the one time he’d complained about his coffee going cold before he had the chance to drink it. But Jake insists that he loves it, assures you that he’ll put it to good use. 

And when your turn comes to open his gift, you do your best to ignore the slight shake in your fingers as you untie the bow on the small jewelry box he hands you. 

Sliding the lid off, it’s all you can do for a moment to stare. 

“Oh.” The golden chain of the necklace is delicate, fragile. But it’s the charm at the center that has you suddenly breathless. It’s a tiny, intricate outline of a house, the same shimmery gold as the chain. The color he memorized as your favorite. And in the center of the miniature home is an impossibly smaller outline of a heart. “Oh.”

Your soft words ring in the air for a moment as your fingers hover over the gift, unmoving.

Mistaking your lack of feedback for distaste, Jake is quick to explain, somewhat sheepishly. “It’s, uh,” he scratches at the back of his neck. “It’s supposed to be like what your great aunt said. Y’know, ‘put a little love into everything you build.’ If you don’t like it, I can–”

You shake your head. “I love it.” It makes your gift to him pale in comparison. The truth rattles in your brain a little too harshly. You got him a coffee mug, and he got you this. Something so obviously wrapped up in thoughtfulness and care and affection. But comparison is the last thing on his mind. 

“I… You do?” His uncertainty is still written all over his face. “You don’t have to just say that. Really, it won’t offend me if–”

“Jake,” you look up at him, put your hand on his chest. Physical touch is the only way you can think to stop his rambling. “It’s perfect. I love it. I really, really do.” Glancing back down at his gift, you smile. His eyes are suddenly wide, from your sincerity or your touch, you’re not sure. “Help me put it on?

Jake nods, swallows audibly. You retract your hand from his chest, let it fall back to your side as you hand him the jewelry box. Carefully, delicately, intentionally,  he takes the necklace out, lets it dangle between long fingers. 

And then he’s moving to stand behind you. The sudden heat of his body is a lure for your senses, a focal point you can’t pull your thoughts away from. 

“I…” He breathes, words suddenly a little strained. You feel the warmth of his words along the length of your spine, deep in your bones. Settling somewhere in the pit of your stomach. “Could you move your hair?”

It makes you feel vulnerable, when you acquiesce to his request, exposing the bare skin of your neck as you pull your hair to the side. “Is that better?” It’s barely a whisper. He hears it regardless. 

“Yeah,” Jake returns, just as airy, just as flighty. “That’s perfect.” 

And then his fingertips are ghosting the edges of your collarbone, skimming the sensitive skin of your throat as he places his gift around your neck. You don’t think you imagine the tremble in his fingers while he fights with the clasp for a moment, drawing in a shaky breath as he finally snaps the mechanism into place. 

“There.” He exhales and it travels over your exposed nape. 

Letting your hair fall back into place, you take a steadying breath before turning to face him again. 

You mean it when you say, “Thank you.” 

Jake takes it in, all of it. The moment. The proximity. You. Warning bells are sounding in his mind as his gaze travels from your eyes to the bridge of your nose to the slight part between your lips. 

He wants it, he realizes. In this moment, there is no doubt in his mind. There’s nothing, in fact, but his desires, his wants. And what he wants is to feel your exhale against his own. To lean down and close the distance and let his fingers trace the skin of your throat again, for real this time. Without the excuse of a necklace. 

He could, he thinks. It’s a rule you both signed your agreement on, but what are rules, he reasons, if not things to be broken? And he thinks that if he kissed you, you might just let him. It’s a theory that he’s desperate to test, almost as desperate as he is to learn the exact taste of your mouth when it’s not trading insults with him. And he was never one to let hypotheses remain in limbo for long. 

There’s heat in his gaze and desire in his bones when he leans down, just a fraction of an inch. 

Your eyes widen. Your breath stutters. Under your skin, your heartbeat races. 

You say nothing. 

And then he’s inching closer. Slowly, steadily, until he’s right there, so much closer than he’s ever been. Invading your senses and mingling your exhales and clouding anything coherent left in your brain. 

His exhale ghosts across your lips. Your eyes flutter shut, and you’re nothing but a slave to sensation. 

It won’t be him that breaks the spell. Resolve slipping with every passing heartbeat, it won’t be you, either. 

In the end, it’s neither of those things. Instead, it’s the shrill ping of an incoming notification that has the two of you springing apart, cheeks flaming, heat of the moment settling in your chest like a shock from a live wire with nowhere to put all of its excess energy. 

“I…” Jake can barely breathe, much less form words. He still wears his desire in his eyes, his want across his lips. It’s a miracle he even manages to say, “I better check that.”

“Right,” you nod, as if he’s asking for permission, as if it’s in any way under your control. But you’re scrambling to fill the burning silence, to redirect whatever is still simmering in the air. “Yeah.”

Jake nearly stumbles over his own feet as he takes a step away from you, pulling his phone off the coffee table. You avert your eyes as he skims over the notification, hoping the heat in your cheeks will fade from sheer will alone. 

Glancing back at him, you notice the way he’s still reading the notification. Notice the way his brow is furrowed, 

Without really even meaning to, you ask, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Jake nods, but he still looks unsure. His eyes are still on his phone screen. “I think so.”

You raise an eyebrow at the vague qualifier, and he sighs before he continues, “Apparently someone submitted an anonymous plagiarism claim on my econ term paper. It went to the dean, and they’re running an investigation to make sure it’s my original work. That was just the department head letting me know that they’re proceeding with the investigation and will reach out again if any additional action is needed on my part.”

“What?” You balk, earlier tension replaced with one of an entirely different sort. You’re still stuck on his first sentence. “Plagiarism? How is that possible? You spent literal days working on that stupid paper. Even Jungwon said he couldn’t believe how much effort you put into it.”

“Yeah.” Jake shrugs. “I know. That’s why I’m not really that nervous.” His expression begs to differ. “I mean, I know that I didn’t plagiarize my paper, so I’m sure the investigation won’t be able to find anything.”

Still, it can’t feel good. Not when it took him so long, so much concentrated effort to finally pass. Not when the relief of it all is now stained with the accusation that looms over his head, no matter how much it lacks in credibility. 

“Is there anything I can do?” You offer.

“No.” Jake shakes his head, won’t make you bear the weight or the worry of his burdens. “I’m sure they’re just going to run some more in-depth comparisons to past papers. I really don’t think I have anything to worry about.”

“Okay,” you concede, a little hesitantly. But it’s a worry that lingers, even as the afternoon ticks by. Even when Jake’s mother arrives home and wraps you up in a big hug. Even when she slips you another box of homemade snickerdoodles, this time wrapped up with a bow. 

It’s a worry that lingers when you say your parting words, wishing the two of them a Merry Christmas and telling your fake boyfriend that you’ll look forward to seeing him on New Year’s Eve. 

It’s a worry that you have no distraction from until you’re on your way out, and your least favorite Sim sibling catches you at the door. 

“Merry Christmas, ___,” James smiles, all pretenses and no sincerity. Despite his words, it’s like he’s begging for a fight when he asks, “Are you enjoying the holidays?” 

If his mother weren’t in the next room over, you might just take it upon yourself to wipe the smug grin off his face. Preferably with an uppercut. 

“Oh, you know,” you shrug, forcing a cordiality you don’t feel. “It’s the same as every year. Good but busy.” It’s more than a little vindictive when you add, “Your brother did get me the most thoughtful gift, though.”

“Did he?” James muses. He doesn’t rise to the bait as much as you’d hoped. “Looks like little Jake is all grown up. Seems like it’s a good Christmas for him too. Miracles all around. He has a girlfriend to spend it with.” Pausing a moment, he tacks on, “And I heard he even passed econ, too. It was about time.”

“Well we can’t all be stuck in our ways forever.” You smile. It’s a polite, family friendly way of letting him know you still think he’s a raging asshole. 

But if James is miffed, he doesn’t show it. You don’t like the way his satisfied grin doesn’t falter either, not even once. “No,” he agrees as you turn your back to him, leaving him behind as you walk out the front door. “I suppose we can’t.”

…

Christmas morning is an uneventful affair at your house. There are gifts, of course, ones that your mother watches you open expectantly. 

The jewelry box that sits in your hands is reminiscent of just a few days prior. A fleeting touch that leaves your collarbone scalding. A similar gift that you wear around your neck now. 

But lifting the lid on the present from your mother, the differences are stark. 

A pair of silver hoop earrings, beautiful in their own regard and undoubtedly expensive, but silver has never been your color. It’s something you wish she’d remember, something you thought she might know, after twenty-one long years. 

You thank her, words echoing hollowly in the vast expanse of your living room. 

On the table next to you, your phone lights up with a notification. 

Jake [9:23 am]: Merry Christmas, ___

You think it might be your favorite gift yet.

…

It’s three days after Christmas when you wake up to a series of texts from Jungwon.

Wonie [8:12 am]: Hey ___ did Jake ever work on his econ term paper with you? Like at your place or anything?

Wonie [8:12 am]: He asked me not to get you involved, but I’m getting really worried. This plagiarism claim isn’t going away, and he needs as much evidence as he can get that it was all his work

Despite the way your sleepiness usually lingers in the morning, your friend’s messages have you immediately feeling alert.  

Scanning the texts again, the whole thing really is such an awful twist of luck. Jake finally, finally passed econ and after turning down his brother’s proposal from months ago, he did it as a result of his own efforts. Jake might not have ever worked on his paper in your presence, but you know he didn’t plagiarize it. You can pay testament to the way he was practically a recluse the entire last three weeks of the semester, only ever taking breaks from that damn assignment to occasionally eat, sleep, or bathe. 

And it’s so bizarre, you think. Jake mentioned to you that everything blew up because of an anonymous accusation. It’s not like his paper was caught by some online plagiarism checker. No, someone intentionally went to his professor and claimed that the work was stolen. Someone who wanted to start this fire and watch Jake struggle with the flames. 

It makes no sense, none at all. Who on earth would–

Your train of thought cuts off abruptly. Alone in your childhood bedroom, you know exactly who would do that. 

And, one Google search later, you know exactly where to find him. 

…

You’re not exactly surprised that the Sim Corporation building is up and operational during the holidays. If anything, the employees’ end-of-the-year burnout works to your advantage as you sneak right by the secretary at the front desk, bypassing the appointment system that must surely be in place for the CEO-to-be. 

The elevator ride is slow. Agonizingly slow. And you should be using this time to think, just like you should have been doing on the drive here. You should be figuring out which cards you can play and how exactly you’re going to make Jake’s weasel of a brother admit to what he’s done and retract his idiotic, completely fake accusation against his younger sibling. 

But the only thing your brain has room for right now is rage. And as the elevator ascends, all your anger can do is heat further and further, releasing steam until it’s boiling over, clouding your judgment and making you see red. 

When the elevator finally lets you off on the thirty-sixth floor, your strides eat up the ground until you're standing in front of the door you’ve been looking for. 

You don't bother to knock. 

Unsurprisingly, James Sim’s office is as completely devoid of life and personality as its owner. Covered floor to ceiling with the stark furniture that wouldn’t look out of place in an upscale Ikea ad, there are little to no personal touches, no hints of anything that might make you think James has any kind of redeeming qualities. 

And the only acknowledgement your least favorite Sim brother gives you behind his desk are two slightly raised eyebrows. 

“___.” He jots something down on a notepad in front of him. Probably writing a reminder to fire the secretary that let you up without notifying him. “To what do I owe the pleasure”

You’re in no mood for games. “Cut the bullshit.”

James’ pen pauses. He glances up at you.“I’m afraid I don’t–”

You won’t hear it. “I said, cut the fucking bullshit, James. You and I both know exactly why I’m here.” Your chest is already heaving as you list your demands. “Back the fuck off from Jake, retract your stupid plagiarism claim, and let him enjoy the holidays in peace.”

James doesn’t give you the courtesy of acknowledging anything you just said. Instead, he demands firmly, “Break up with him.”

“What the fuck?” You’re not sure how it’s possible, but your annoyance multiplies tenfold. How dare he assume he has any say in your relationship, anything at all related to you or his brother. “Why would I listen to anything you tell me to do?”

“You want me to retract the claim,’ James echoes evenly, enunciating so slowly it’s patronizing. “Okay, fine.” He lays his hands out in front of him as if he’s offering some generous, benevolent deal. “Then end the relationship.”

You wonder how much damage it would do if you throw the chair sitting next to you at his head. “Are you actually threatening me right now?”

“Not a threat.” He shrugs, all too nonchalantly. “Just a deal.”

Your strides eat up the ground between the door of his office and his desk. Laying a palm down on the surface in front of you, you point an accusatory finger in his face. “Listen here, you little shit. You and I both know damn well he wrote every word of that term paper on his own, so I suggest you listen to me and back the fuck off while I’m still asking nicely, or–”

“Or what? Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but between my brother and I, there’s only one person Dr. Jeong is likely to believe.”

“What are you, a cartoon villain?” Even this angry, his stupidity is astounding. “You still need evidence. Which you don’t have. Because he didn’t plagiarize shit, and especially not from you.”

James doesn’t falter. “Interesting that you mention that, actually. You know, I asked Dr. Jeong about you as well, and he said you’re not a student in his class.” Despite yourself, your features slacken slightly. “I thought that was odd, considering that’s how the two of you said you met. There are a lot of things that don’t add up about the two of you, actually.”

There’s a threat there, when he meets your eye and says, “So it kind of seems like you know already, that evidence isn’t just found. It’s made. And Jake’s term paper is different from the one I submitted, yes, but I also have a copy of what he submitted on my personal computer. It’d be pretty easy to ask my secretary to adjust a few timestamps here and there. To make it look like it was written years ago. Stolen by the younger brother that’s always been horribly jealous of me.”

“What the fuck is it to you if he passes econ?” You still don’t understand why he’s doing this. “You graduated university three years ago. Your life is here now, in this office. You’re in the process of becoming CEO of a multi-billion dollar company. Seriously, don’t you have better things to waste your time on? I mean, this is what most people call ‘peaking in college’ and usually try to avoid–”

James reveals his motivation with two small words. “Why him?”

But you still don’t get it. “What?”

“Why him?” he repeats, and it sounds so, horribly, terribly jealous. “Like you said, I’m older, smarter, more successful. So why him?”

“Are you joking?” It’s all you can do to not drop your jaw. All of this because you never let him take you on a date? When it’s his fault he missed the first one? The sheer audacity of it all is astounding. “First of all,” you refute. “I did not say any of that. And second, if that’s actually all you have to say about yourself, then put that shit in your Tinder bio and see where it gets you. I have no interest in hearing it.”

James won’t let it go. “That’s not an answer.”

“Why do you even care–”

“Why him?” He won’t stop, not until he gets his answer. 

“Because I like him.” It’s spilling out before you can stop it, before you can give it permission. “Because he’s kind and funny and he listens to me and cares about what I have to say. Because I’m more than just a sum of my parts to him, and the last thing he cares about is my social status and how it stacks up against his. I’m not some tool to impress his parents or a topic of conversation to brag about with boys at Sunday morning golf.” All of the things you’re sure would be a part of any kind of relationship with James.  Because no matter what role he’s given in his father’s company or what grade he passed econ with, Jake is capable of something James never has been. “Because he treats me like a person.”

Across from you, James simmers with barely controlled rage. With the truth at his feet, he has nothing left to do but be angry with it. Destroy what he can in the wake of his fury, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Break up with him.”

“Wh–”

“Break up with him, or I swear to god I will submit plagiarism claims to every professor he’s had in the last three years.”

It’s a threat you know he’ll make good on. It’s a battle you’re afraid he’ll win, no matter how fake all of his so-called evidence is. And it will all be your fault. You will be the reason that Jake has to take econ again, and that’s only if he isn’t expelled on plagiarism claims. You will be the reason his father hands him another round of disappointment. You’ll be the reason Jake ends his day with a little more shame to tuck away and revisit on a sleepless night. 

And you were always on a timeline, anyway. This relationship was one that always came with an expiration date, even before it began. 

It should be easy to concede, given the stakes, given the alternative. You’ve known since the beginning that the rapidly approaching New Year would be the end of it all, that you and Jake would become entirely separate entities again in just a handful of days. Still, you have to force the words out through gritted teeth, “Give me until New Year’s.”

James scoffs. “I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands–”

“I’ll do it.” You double down, agreeing to take Jake’s fate into your own hands. “I’ll end things. Just… just give me until New Year’s.” You can do it, you think. It was inevitable anyway. “And retract the claim now,” you stipulate. “If I go back on my word, you can resubmit with all your evidence once next semester starts.”

Across from you, behind his desk, James weighs your offer. He must sense the finality in your tone, the determination in your gaze. “Fine,” he finally says. “You have yourself a deal.”

You don’t take his outstretched hand, don’t seal your agreement with a handshake. He’ll have to trust your word.

It makes no difference to him. His smile is smug when you turn to leave. You hope his satisfaction burns on the way down. 

Your drive home is slightly blurry. Partially because of the rain that has begun to fall. Mostly because of the tears that gather at the corners of your eyes and threaten to fall. You won’t let them, but they cloud your vision anyway, demand your attention. 

That night, a message from Jake lights up your phone just as you’re sitting down for dinner. 

Jake [6:57 pm]: Good news! The whole plagiarism thing turned out to be nothing. Just got an email from the dean that they’re dropping the investigation. I’m officially freeeeee from econ (again)

If nothing else, you have to give James credit for efficiency. And it should feel like a war won, a job well done. But staring at the message on your phone, the only thing you can think of is how soon New Years is. How little time you have before you’ll have to say goodbye. 

…

There’s never much to do, in that liminal space between Christmas and New Year’s. Minutes and hours and days blur together as the end of the year passes by, preparing to give way to a new one. 

Jake, giddy with the recent resolution of his econ grade and desperate to get away from the stifling atmosphere of his family home, tries to fill some of that time by spending it with someone he’s starting to realize he cares a lot about. Contract or not. 

First, he sends you a message asking if you’ve been ice skating this winter yet. He does his best to only be a little hurt when your rejection comes quickly, claiming in your response to have another obligation that day. Second, he invites you to drive around and look at holiday lights with him. When you tell him you already have other plans, he passes another lazy afternoon alone instead. Again, it’s a little hard not to dwell. A little hard not to let it sting. And by your third rejection – this time to take Layla on a walk with him – his hurt starts to give way to suspicion. 

But it’s not like you can avoid him forever, not with your family’s annual New Year’s Eve party quickly approaching. The last big event before the termination of your contract, you’ve been counting on him to spare you from your mother’s scathing comments and attendees’ hushed wonderings about when you’ll find yourself a boyfriend. 

And then it will be a new year, a new semester, a fresh start. As the clock strikes midnight, the end of your contract. 

Privately, Jake is a little relieved that it will be over so soon. That he won’t have to keep up pretenses any longer. That he won’t have to stick to your rules. 

He’s not sure when it happened, not exactly. Somewhere between all the bickering and arguing and fighting, but he’s come to enjoy the way you swept into his life like a hurricane and set up a home for yourself right where his heart is. 

He hopes you’ll stick around long after the ink on your contract has dried. He hopes that the two of you will get a chance to figure out what exactly those feelings between you are without worrying about how they look from the outside. How they’re perceived by James or your mother or his father. 

So Jake will be patient if he needs to be. He’ll accept your excuses, real or not, and look forward to seeing you on New Year’s Eve, relishing the fact that it’s the last time his presence at your side will be based on a lie. 

And when New Year’s Eve finally comes, he adjusts the tightness of his tie, looking at himself in the mirror. 

Midnight, he thinks. It will be here soon, quicker than he knows. And all the emotions that he’s been tucking away, all those little moments between the two of you that have fizzled and sparked and ultimately ended in nothing, will fade away with it. 

In their place, he thinks the two of you just might manage to find something solid, something real. 

…

Halfway across the city, in your childhood bedroom, you turn to Sunghoon. “What do you think?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon nods appreciatively from his seat on your bed. “Your fake boyfriend is gonna pee his pants.”

“Gross.” Your nose scrunches. “Why would you say it like that? And stop calling him my fake boyfriend.”

“Why?” Sunghoon ignores your first question. “That’s what he is, isn��t he?”

And that, you think, is another reason why you didn’t want your friends getting involved in this little scheme between you and Jake. But Sunghoon’s flight home was canceled due to inclement weather, and you weren’t about to make him spend New Year’s Eve alone. The only problem with him spending it at your family’s party is that he needs to be well-versed in the lies you and Jake have been spinning for the last couple of months to keep the last few hours of your fake relationship believable. So, a mimosa and an explanation of a contract later, Sunghoon is privy to all the gory details. But the last thing you need is reminders of that. 

Reminders of him. Reminders of what you’ll have to do in a few short hours. So you redirect the conversation. 

“Really?” You look at yourself in the mirror again. “Do you like this one better? Or should I wear the red dress?”

“No, definitely that one.” Sunghoon shakes his head. “It looks really good. And everyone knows that black is better for New Year’s anyway.”

As you give yourself another once over, Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. “Why are you so nervous, anyway? Trying to impress your faux beau?”

“Stop pretending to know French,” you threaten. “or you can actually be homeless for New Year’s for all I care.”

“C’mon,” Sunghoon sighs, ignoring the bluff. “You look great. I think so. You mom will think so. Jake’s definitely gonna think–”

“How many times do I h–”

“So stop worrying so much, and let’s head downstairs.” Sunghoon stands from your bed, nodding towards the door. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon, anyway. Do you really want to leave him to the mercy of your mother?”

Point taken. You absolutely do not. With one final swipe of lip gloss, you’re pulling on your heels. It’s just in time too. Barely is the second one strapped on before the message from Jake pings through. He’s here. 

“Is that him?” Sunghoon holds his arm out for you, jerks his chin towards your phone. “Shall we go save your man from the she-devil?”

You don’t even bother to correct him, to reiterate that Jake is most definitely not ‘your man,’ as you hook your hand around his elbow, letting him pull you out of your room and towards the stairs. 

At this point, Jake is not unused to the extravagance of your family’s events. But as he enters your childhood home, he can’t help but be a little floored. It’s a house that would be impressive in its own right. Spacious and luxurious down to every last detail, the place practically screams wealth. But tonight, it really outdoes itself. 

The black and gold decorations shimmer just the right amount – enough to catch the ambient light beautifully without being garish. Every available surface is impeccable, covered with drinks and food and decor so lavish it would be almost laughable if it weren’t so impeccably done. 

Jake strains his neck over the crowd of equally done-up party guests, tries to peer around all the gowns and evening wear until he finds the figure he has memorized. He thinks he might see your mom, over chatting with a group of attendees, but no matter where he looks,  he can’t seem to locate you. 

Not until he glances at the spiral staircase on the outskirts of the room, does a double take at where you make your way down the ornate steps in an evening gown. It’s the same inky, midnight black as his suit, hugging and flowing and cascading in all the right places. Letting his gaze linger, he would have a hard time keeping his jaw closed if it weren’t clenching so tightly. 

He doesn’t mean to let it happen, the flare of jealousy that starts deep in his gut and spreads the length of his spine like a disease. But he can’t help it. Not when you look like that, not when you’re making an entrance and you’re not alone. No, you’re walking down the stairs accompanied by, on the arm of, Park Sunghoon.

Jake decides then and there that he hates figure skating. The glass of champagne in his hand suddenly feels awfully breakable. 

But then you spot him too, and some of the tension simmers, brightens, turns to something else entirely. When your gaze lands on his, your wide, genuine smile is almost enough to set him at ease. Almost. 

Cutting through the crowd, you and your unwanted chaperone make your way over to Jake. 

“Hi,” you breathe. Your hand is still on Sunghoon’s arm. 

“Hi,” Jake returns. He can’t take his eyes off it. 

Gaze darting between the two of you, Sunghoon is the one to gently but firmly remove your grip from his elbow. If it’s any consolation, you hardly seem to notice. 

Still, Jake’s shoulders are unnaturally tense, something Sunghoon takes note of. He just rolls his eyes. It’s not like either of you are looking at him to see it, anyway. 

Finally, after the silence lingers a little too long, he says to Jake, “Yeah, you don’t have to do that around me.”

“Do what?” Jake spares him only a momentary glance before letting his gaze rest on you again. 

“The whole overprotective, jealous boyfriend thing.” Sunghoon calls his game in two seconds flat. “You’re pretty good at it, though. I’ll give you props for that.”

That grabs Jake’s full attention. “What are you–”

“I know about you and ___’s contract. Don’t worry,” he mimics pulling his lips shut like a zipper. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Jake looks to you again. “You told him?” He can’t decide if it makes him feel better or significantly worse. 

You shrug. “I wasn’t sure how else to make sure he didn’t blow our cover tonight.” Besides, you add silently, how much damage could it do? After all, it’s our last night. 

Sunghoon glances between the two of you again, decides he does not want to be a part of this particular interaction any longer. “I’ll see you two later. I’m gonna go check out the hors d'oeuvres.” Turning to leave, he claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Your girl could probably use a glass of champagne.”

Sunghoon makes a beeline for the kebabs, and then it’s just the two of you. And Jake might be hesitant to follow advice from your friend, but he grabs a glass from the next waiter that passes anyway, hands it to you seamlessly as you offer him a quiet, “Thanks.”

It’s easy, just like always, to fall into your routine. His hand finds the small of your back, and you lean into his embrace just the right amount. You can tell it’s working, that the guests you mingle with are charmed by how smitten the two of you seem, that everything you do makes them reminisce on their own long passed days of young love. 

Even the brief conversation with your mother is painless as she offers a stilted compliment for your dress and wishes you both a happy semester ahead. 

But you can’t quite get your smile to reach your eyes, can’t quell the anxiety swelling in your stomach as the night marches on and the clock ticks closer and closer to midnight. 

Jake can sense your unease, your trepidation, but he has no idea what’s causing it, can only guess at what has your eyes darting around the room like a mouse watching for a cat. 

Incorrectly, he wonders if it’s the crowd that’s getting to you, the chaos of so many bodies all in one space. Trying to offer a reprieve, he asks if there’s anywhere quieter the two of you could go. 

It’s not exactly what you’re looking for, not the solution you need, but you still lead him to the second floor, out onto the balcony that overlooks your backyard gardens. It’s similar to the place you and Jake ended your night at his family dinner a handful of weeks ago. 

Even away from the crowd, the lines in your bare shoulders are tense, fraught with unvoiced worries. The inevitability of the end. 

The music is fainter out here, but the rhythm is still easy to track. Jake thinks you just need a distraction. So he holds out a hand in invitation. “Dance with me?” He asks. 

You shouldn’t, not when it will only make all of this worse. Not when there are no eyes out here, no one to convince you that you’re still just pretending. 

But resistance has always been futile. And you can’t find it in you to say no. 

Under the glow of this year’s last bit of moonlight, you intertwine your fingers with his, let him draw you close as he wraps your hands around the nape of his neck, links his own across the small of your back. 

It’s not dancing, not really. Not as the two of you draw nearer under the pretense of staying warm. Not as your bodies barely move through space, just swaying slightly, in time with the harmonies that spin and twist and crescendo and fall below you. 

Jake knows better than to press his luck. But the day is dying, and so is your contract. What are a few minutes anyway, in the grand scheme of things? 

Leaning closer, he lets his forehead rest against your own, noses millimeters apart. “It’s almost midnight,” he whispers. The end of it all. The start, he hopes, of something entirely new. Something that belongs only to the two of you. In just a few moments, he’ll get to let his desires lead his actions, not the agreement he signed his name to.

“Mm,” you hum in agreement. He feels where it vibrates in his chest. 

“Ten,” he hears the crowd inside chant in unison. The countdown has begun. The New Year is nearly here. 

“Nine.” He pulls you a little closer, hands pressed a little tighter to the small of your back.

“Eight. Seven. Six.” You sigh, and it’s lost somewhere against the skin of his throat. 

“Five. Four.” One of his hands begins to move, traces the length of your spine, finds a new home against the curve of your jaw. 

“Three.” Using the gentle guidance of his thumb, he angles your face, just slightly.

“Two.” Around you, the world holds its breath. The two of you do the same. 

“One.” And then he’s closing the distance, lips against yours as exclaims of “Happy New Years” are lost somewhere in the wind. 

He may have brought you here, but you’re just as greedy, hands around his neck pulling him down further until the angle has you reeling. His mouth parts against yours, and you’re not quite sure if your eyes are open or closed. You’re seeing stars either way. 

Jake pulls you closer, and it’s not enough. He’s desperate for it, for something, for closer, for more. It’s everything that he imagined. Countless times in the darkness behind closed eyelids in the privacy of his own thoughts. It’s a million times better. 

He can’t focus on anything, can’t do anything but feel, give way to the shape of sensation. He wants to let his senses drown, wants to die and be reincarnated back into this moment just for the chance to live it again. Wants to wash away anything that isn’t tethered to sensation, to the urgency in his gut, to you. 

The first in a series of fireworks lights up the sky behind you. The booming echo has you jumping in your own skin, giggling against his lips at the irrational fear. Jake thinks this must be heaven. He must have died doing something wonderful, and this must be his eternal reward. 

Your amusement lasts moments longer before he’s doubling down, pulling you in again until you’re both well and truly breathless. Lip gloss a mess on both of your mouths, chests heaving as you finally break for air. The space between your bodies is miniscule, meaningless. In this moment, you’re a single entity with nothing but the desire for more. 

Fireworks continue to burst behind you as the sun sets on the contract that bound you together. His hands are still pressed against the small of your back, and you think the fabric of your dress must be nothing but a figment of your imagination. The only real thing is the heat of his skin on yours. 

The sound of your name whispered against your skin is something you’re afraid you’ll remember for a long, long time. He sounds desperate, where he repeats it. Pleading. Longing. 

But the fireworks are a symbol of a new year. An expiration date on an agreement. A deadline on a deal. 

Jake whispers your name once more, and you savor it for just a moment longer. Then, you carefully disentangle yourself from his grip. Most of it, at least. The hands against your back allow you space, but don’t stray from your spine. 

Still encircled in the arms of feelings that were never given the chance to take flight, you try to turn blows into kisses by whispering them softly, “I think we should end this.”

It’s presumptuous, on your part, to think that there is anything to end. You feel a little ridiculous saying it when you both signed your agreement long months ago. But your head is still spinning and your heart is still hurting. This is what it feels like, you realize. To mourn for the future. To grieve all of the what ifs and maybes and almosts. 

Across from you, Jake stokes your fears. “What? End what?”

“This.” You sigh. You can’t look him in the eye. “All of it. It’s officially the New Year now. We can stop going to things as each other’s plus-ones. The fake dating. Everything.” You’re rambling now, but you can’t help it. You’re afraid that if you stop to think, you’ll propose something else entirely. Something you know you can’t have. Something that will only ruin everything Jake has worked so hard for. “We can tell our families it was mutual – fizzled, like you said.”

Jake releases his grip on you, severs that last bit of connection. It takes every ounce of your willpower to bite back your tears. 

“Woah, slow down.” His brow creases in confusion. His words are still gentle; he still handles you with care. “Where is this coming from?”

“I just…” You trail off, doing your best to find steadiness in your voice. “This was our agreement. And it’s served its purpose. Besides, it’s a new year, you know? No point in starting it off with lies.” No matter how much he searches for it, you’re still avoiding his gaze.

Jake’s cheeks are flushed – a combination of things. The taste of champagne that’s fading on his tongue, replaced by something sweeter. The gentle midnight breeze. The aftermath of a kiss that he still wears on his lips. “I…” Suddenly, he finds it very difficult to breathe. “That’s all this is to you? A lie?”

And you wish he would just let this be a clean break, would stop pressing, stop making you say things you don’t mean. But you need him to believe it. That this is well and truly done. “I mean, we got what we wanted, didn’t we? You passed econ, and I got my mother off my back for a bit. This was the date we agreed to end things on. It doesn’t make sense to keep dragging things out.”

Jake is suddenly unsure of many things, and most immediately, himself. He’s not sure how to explain it to you, here on the balcony, with the bitter taste of something that stings all too much like rejection sitting heavy in his throat. That he’s pictured it a million times. You and him, together because it lets you both breathe a little easier, because it feels a little bit like coming home. Not because of a contract or your family or his brother. 

He doesn’t know how to tell you that every time he goes to a cafe, he marks a mental note to ask you what your favorite kind of coffee is. Doesn’t know how to tell you that every time he passes the corner table on the third floor of the library or the Student Union Building, the only thing he sees is your face. 

Doesn’t know how to thank you for helping him pass econ, for being the boost of confidence he needed to finally stand up to his brother for once, for making him think that he might not be as much of a failure as everyone else seems to think he is. For believing in him.

He doesn’t know how to thank you for being in his life, for making it a little better. For putting a little love in the parts of him that he thought would always be consumed by anger and bitterness and resentment. 

Doesn’t know how to tell you that it’s not just a contract to him. Not just a lie. That it hasn’t been for a long, long time. 

Instead, he listens, motionless while you whisper, “Thank you for tonight.”

He knows your voice is wavering. He knows your resolve is crumbling. But he doesn’t know why. 

So he watches, still unmoving, as you turn to walk away from him. Left alone on the balcony with no company but the stars, Jake Sim has nothing but a million regrets and the horrible, irrevocable feeling that he’s done something terribly wrong. 

…

“You look terrible.”

“Thanks, Sungoon.” Your voice is flat, no energy for any real malice. Sarcasm, though, you can muster. “You really know how to make a girl feel good.”

“I’m just saying.” He’s still looking at you like you’re a particularly unsightly piece of roadkill he narrowly avoided colliding with. “Would it kill you to do something about those dark circles? I don’t know, maybe, like – and I’m just throwing out ideas here – sleep?”

You’ve tried. You have. But no matter what you do, rest can’t seem to find you easily these days. And aside from that, it’s the moments just before sleep that you’ve started to fear the most. In the dark, with your eyes closed, the only thing you see is the confusion, the unmistakable hurt on Jake’s face as you walk away from him for the last time.

“Look,” Sunghoon sighs, suddenly serious. “It’s just… I’m a little worried about you, to be honest. Did something happen on New Year’s? With you and–”

“I’m fine.” You cut him off. The last thing you want to hear is the sound of his name, the reminder of what you’ve done for the sake of preserving his future. “I’m just tired, really.” You try to smile, and it’s far from convincing. “It’s been a long few days.”

Sunghoon wears his doubts as plain as day, but he won’t press the issue for now. “If you say so.” He does need you to take care of yourself, though, at least a little. “At least come eat something.” Suddenly grinning, he whispers, “I snuck in some instant ramen behind your mom’s back. C’mon, we can go make some. We can even get fancy with it, if you want. I’ll fry you an egg and everything.” He’s pulling out all the stops, a testament to how terrible you really do look. 

But it works. Or it’s enough to get you out of your room, at least. Stomach grumbling, you’re about to tell Sunghoon to make it two fried eggs when the two of you are intercepted by your mother on the way to the kitchen. 

“Oh,” she intones, taking in your appearance. Her eyes travel from your sweatpants to your t-shirt to your lack of makeup, disapproval apparent in every glance. “You look…”

“Save it,” you grumble, not in the mood to be ridiculed. 

Pushing past her, she stops you again. “Hold on a minute. I have a question for you.”

You take a deep breath before you turn back to face her. Might as well get it over with. “Yes?”

Smoothing her hair, she tells you, “Your father and I are hosting a banquet to celebrate the firm’s most recent acquisitions. It’ll be the last weekend in January. We’d love it if you could come.” 

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes, not seeing where the question was anywhere in there. To you, it sounds more like a demand. 

Sensing your reluctance, she adds, “You’d be welcome to bring Jake, of course–”

“We broke up,” you inform flatly. At your side, Sunghoon stiffens. 

“Oh,” your mother says again, not missing a beat. There’s very little sympathy when she adds, “Well, I suppose that’s probably for the best. Don’t you think so? I mean, you’ll be so busy with law school applications soon, it’s probably better to not have a boy around to distract you.”

You don’t bother to dignify that with a reply. Instead, you turn your back to her, fully this time. Altering your course, you set your footsteps on a path towards the garage instead of the kitchen. “I’m going for a drive,” is the explanation you throw over your shoulder. 

When Sunghoon tries to follow, you just shake your head. “I want to be alone.”

“But–”

“Please.” 

There must be something desperate in your features, because Sunghoon only nods, doesn’t argue further as he watches you climb in the driver’s seat of your car. He’s still standing there, concern apparent on his features as you open the garage door behind you and reverse your car out of it. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve done this, driven without a destination in mind. Your playlist blares through the stereo, loud enough to drown out any thoughts that threaten to cross your mind, to consume you, to send you spiraling. 

It’s not until long minutes later, when the first drop of rain hits your windshield, that you even notice the way storm clouds gather menacingly above you in the sky. 

Whatever, you think, turning on your wipers and increasing the volume another notch. You’ve navigated worse. If anything, it’s a perfect match for your temper, for the way emotions swell and churn in your stomach. 

Mindlessly, you let nothing but intuition guide your way, turning down streets you’ve never seen on nothing but a whim and the desire to escape, even if just for a little bit. The rain continues to pour, and the storm clouds darken in time with your mood. 

By the time you do start to recognize some of the scenery around you, it’s already too late. And you’re not sure where to place your blame. Fate, your subconscious, the way you can’t seem to let him go? No matter where fault lies, you’re suddenly perfectly aware of your location. 

Mostly because you’ve been here twice in the span of a month. Because you’re only a handful of blocks, at most, from Jake’s family’s home. 

The realization makes you quick to pull over. The best course of action, you decide, is to plot your course home in your phone’s GPS, since clearly you can’t be trusted to wander. It’s in the middle of searching for a better signal that you see it. A flash of movement outside your window.

It’s hard to be sure, through the thick sheets of rain that fall from the sky. But then you see it again, see her again, and you would know that dog anywhere. 

“Shit.” Turning to scan the backseat of your car, you find neither a jacket nor an umbrella. Nothing to shield you from the wrath of nature outside. But it’s not like you can leave Layla alone in a storm. Gritting your teeth, you set your resolve. And then you open the car door, stepping outside into the rain. 

It’s the kind of downpour that’s unforgiving, that soaks you to the bone as soon as you’re in it. Hair sticking to your face and already so cold you think you might start shaking, you start Layla’s name, hoping it carries over the wind. 

“Layla!” It’s all you can do to hope she hears you over the storm. You lose her for a minute. Bringing up your hand as a makeshift visor, you force your eyes to focus. When you finally see a flash of tan again, you know it’s her. The relief is short lived. Frustrated, you watch her turn to run in the opposite direction. 

“Layla!” you call again, this time louder, so much so you’re sure your voice will be hoarse tomorrow. From the way rain soaks your clothes, you’ll no doubt be nursing a nasty cold along with it.Thankfully, though, your beckoning does the trick this time. At the sound of your voice, Layla spins around, makes a beeline straight towards your familiar figure.

“Layla,” you chide once she’s at your feet, still grinning at you like the two of you aren’t absolutely soaked through and freezing. “C’mon,” you open the back door of your car to let her inside. “Hop in.”

She does so without an argument, and you slide back into the driver’s seat just as soon as you shut the door behind her. Putting your car back into drive, you set your wipers to full speed and drive straight until you see the turn a few roads down, the one that you know leads straight to his house. 

Still, you pull over again a few houses away, hesitating. 

“Sorry, Layla,” you turn to the dog in question. She just tilts her head at you quizzically. “I’ll get you home. I just…”

Don’t want to see him. Don’t want to look at him and face his anger, his resentment, his bitterness. Surely those are the only emotions he has left for you. Besides, it would be nothing but disastrous if his older brother were home. James would assume that your presence in his home means you’ve neglected to uphold your end of the deal and as such, has no reason to honor his. 

There’s a lot of damage to be done here, if you don’t go about it wisely. 

Turning back to the dog in your backseat, you point at her house in front of you. “You can make it home from here, right?” Again, Layla offers nothing but the slight perking of her ears. “Your house is right there,” you point again. “Just go up to the front porch and whine or scratch at the door and they’ll let you in, alright?” You give her a scratch behind the ears for good measure. 

You know Layla likes it, know that it’s her favorite place to be scratched. You know it because you watched him do it a few short weeks ago. Suddenly, you wonder if he’s noticed that she’s missing. If he’s frantic, going crazy trying to find her. 

A new sense of urgency motivating your actions, you turn back to Layla one last time. “Alright, girl. I’ll watch from here. I’m gonna open the door, and I want you to go straight home, okay?” 

She wags her tail at you, and that will have to be confirmation enough. 

Opening your door, you slide out of the car first. You hold your arm above your head as a makeshift shield from the rain, but it’s of little use. Reaching for the handle of your car’s back door, you’re about to send Layla home on a wing and a prayer when a voice behind you calls out your name. 

At least you think that’s what you hear. You can’t quite tell, over the sound of pouring rain, the whistling of the wind. Still, you turn with trepidation in your gut. Rightfully so, when you peer into the car that’s just pulled over next to you and lock eyes with no one other than Jake’s mother. 

She repeats your name, this time a little more frantic. “Oh my god,” She exlaims, taking in your appearance. “You’re soaking wet. Quick, follow me home and we’ll get you warm and dry.”

“That’s okay,” you try to explain over the story, “I have Layla, actually. I saw her wandering a few blocks over, and I–”

“Layla? Oh my goodness.” Concern and gratitude color every word. “Thank you, ___. I’m sure Jake is going crazy. C’mon,” she reiterates. “Follow me, and let’s get you both inside.”

Not bothering to wait for a response, she rolls her window back up, driving away with the clear expectation that you follow. And it’s not like you have any other choice, not really. You can hardly drive away with her dog. And it’s not like you can let Layla out now, not when she’s seen you.  

So, hoping against all odds neither Sim brother is home, you climb back into your car and follow her command. 

“Oh my god,” she repeats when you pull into the driveway behind her, letting yourself and Layla out of your car. “You two are absolutely soaked. C’mon, quickly,” she ushers you towards the front door. 

Opening it, she steps inside first. 

And of course luck is not on your side. You hear him before you see him. “Mom,” he sounds panicked, horribly on edge. “Have you seen Layla? She’s been missing for almost an hour and I can’t find her anywhere. I called James, but he left on a business trip this morning.” He doesn’t leave room to breathe. “I’m worried she might have gotten outside–” 

Your rescue doesn’t remain a mystery for long. Layla bounds through the front door, jumping on her favorite sibling, wet paw prints staining his jeans as her sudden movement forces the door open wider. Reveals you. 

Relief washes over Jake’s features as he greets his dog just as affectionately, and then he glances upwards. He takes one look at you, soaked to the bone and shaking from the cold. Any other words he had die on his lips. 

“___ found her, actually,” his mom explains, reching behind you to usher you in fully and shut the door behind you. “A few blocks over, you said?” She clarifies, turning to you. 

Eyes not leaving Jake’s, you just nod. 

His mother glances between the two of you, your frozen, shocked stares. The tension is palpable, and she senses it as well. 

“I’m going to go get Layla dried off,” she offers. “Jake, why don’t you help ___ find a dry set of clothes.” Shuffling past the two of you, she brings Layla along with her. 

And then it’s just you and him. 

Both of you stand there a moment longer, neither of you saying anything.

When you do break the silence, it’s at the same time. “Are you okay?” Jake tries, just as you say, “I’m sorry.”

Another beat of silence passes between you. 

Jake nods towards you. “You go first.”

“I’m sorry,” you try to explain, words feeling jumbled as you give them life. “I was driving and I saw Layla all alone, and I didn’t know…” That you’d be here. That I would run into your mom. That it would hurt so much to see you again. You don’t know what exactly you’re apologizing for, but your presence feels like an intrusion. 

Jake begs to differ. “Don’t apologize.” He shakes his head. “I should be thanking you. I was worried out of my mind thinking I might never see her again.” He’s talking about Layla. You know he’s talking about Layla. But his eyes don’t leave you once. 

It feels like a moment that could stretch into forever, you and him. Masking your hurt, hiding wounded prides. Standing inches apart and the distance has never felt greater. 

The spell is only broken when you sneeze, an immediate reminder of the circumstances that brought you here. Of the fact that you’re trembling like a leaf in his entry way, soaked to the bone. 

It's enough to spur him to action. “Come on.” He jerks his head towards the staircase behind him, voice and features still carefully guarded. “ I’ll get you some dry clothes.”

You could argue, but you don’t see a point. Not now. Silently, you follow him, all the way up the stairs and down the hallway to the last door on the left. When he opens it, there is no doubt in your mind as to what this room is. 

It’s his. It has to be. You know it, from all the little pieces of himself he has on display. Pictures of him in his youth with friends that smile just as big and brightly as he does. Soccer trophies, a drawing of Layla done before he had well-developed fine-motor skills, a picture of him and his mother at the beach. 

All at once, you wonder what it would have been like to discover him naturally. How long it would have taken you to uncover all these little parts of him, one by one, if any part of your relationship had been given the chance to be real. 

And then you notice the mug sitting on his nightstand. The self-heating one you gave him for Christmas. There’s nothing special about it, and it’s not particularly attractive, design-wise. It’s practical. Almost impersonal. He has no reason to keep it displayed like this. Part of you wants to swell with unshed tears. The other wants to run and hide and face your shame alone. 

But Jake is already rummaging through a drawer, and a moment later, he turns to face you with a pair of gray sweatpants and a matching hoodie. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes preemptively, and you hate the uncertainty that lingers between you. The awkwardness. All the stilted pauses and unsure silences that were never there before. You hate that it’s your fault, that you have no clue how to fix it. “I’m not sure how they’ll fit.”

“That’s okay,” you shake your head, ignoring the way your heart stutters suddenly at the thought of wearing his clothes. “They’ll be dry. I appreciate it.”

“The bathroom is through there.” He nods towards the adjoining room. “There are clean towels under the sink, too, if you want to dry your hair or anything.” Pausing, he adds, “Take as long as you need.”

Nodding, you walk into his bathroom, shutting the door behind you. You know he meant it, when he told you to take your time, but part of you is hesitant to linger. Somehow, this space feels even more private, even more intimate than his bedroom. Again, you feel like an intruder. An unwanted presence in a place that’s entirely his. A place you lost the right to be when you struck a deal behind his back and took his future into your own hands.  

Sighs mingling with regrets you can’t voice, you trade your rain-soaked clothes for his dry ones. You look at yourself in the mirror, and then you tuck the necklace he gave you out of sight, underneath the collar of his gray hoodie. 

A minute later, you emerge from his bathroom slightly self-conscious and significantly drier. Across the room, Jake looks up at you. You watch as he swallows audibly, eyes tracing the planes of your body swallowed by his borrowed clothes. His throat bobs before he tears his eyes away. 

“I should…” Again, you hate this tension between you, this uncertainty. “I should go. Thank you for the clothes. I’ll wash them and give them back once the semester starts–”

“What happened?” Jake couldn’t care less about your upcoming laundry plans. You can keep his sweatshirt and sweatpants and whatever else you want from him forever, as far as he’s concerned. Instead he’s still stuck on–

“New Year’s Eve. I thought…” He shakes his head. “I thought things were… good between us.”

And you could continue to be evasive. For his sake, you probably should. 

You could continue to make his decisions for him and decide to preserve his econ grade instead of whatever unnamed feelings might still linger between the two of you. But, the quieter parts of you whisper, that would make you no different from anyone else in his life, from the people you’ve encouraged him to break free from. The people that have molded his decisions and guided his path with a heavy hand all in the name of doing what’s best for him. All because they think they know him better than he knows himself. 

You don’t want to do that. What you want, here in the privacy of his bedroom, in the comfort of his borrowed clothes and the legacy of his youth, is to tell him the truth. You want to let him do with it as he sees fit. Taking a deep breath, you make your decision. 

And then you brace yourself for his anger, the outrage he’ll surely have at your explanation. “Your brother–”

“My brother?” Jake’s face falls, misreading things entirely as he jumps to premature conclusions. But it’s not like he’s grasping at straws. Jake isn’t blind to the way James has been gloating more than usual as of late. To the way his mood started improving right around New Year’s Eve. And he assumes the worst. “Oh. Okay.” Jake is trying to smile, but his features are completely wilted when he says, “I guess he got that second chance after all, huh?” 

“What?” Your lips twist in disgust as the implication sinks in. “No.”

“No?” Now, Jake just looks confused. 

“No,” you reiterate. “Look,” you sigh, “I figured out that those plagiarism claims about your econ paper came from him.”

Across from you, Jake’s jaw drops as it sinks in. “James was the one who…”

You nod, lips tight. You still can’t believe it either. “I went to his office to confront him about it, and he told me he’d retract the accusation, but only if..”

Jake’s eyes are imploring. You have the feeling he already knows the answer. “Only if what?”

“Only if I promised to end things between us.” And there it is. The truth. Cold, hard, ugly, and Jake’s to interpret as he will. You brace for impact. 

Jake is silent for a moment, shocked into stillness. And then, “He what?”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “I can see why you have such a hard time getting along with him. He’s kind of the worst.”

“Wait,” the wheels in Jake’s mind start to spin. “Did you tell him, then? About our contract and everything?”

“No,” you shake your head. “He never realized our relationship wasn't real. I just asked him to give me until New Year’s. I told him I would break up with you then, as long as he retracted the accusation.”

Jake takes a step closer to you. “And he agreed?”

You nod. 

Jake pauses.Takes another step. “Why did you ask him to wait until then?”

There are a million things you could say, a million ways you could answer.

Because I couldn’t stand the thought of another New Year’s alone. Because the thought of being at a party hosted by my mother without you at my side made me want to crawl out of my own skin. Because I’m selfish. Because those butterflies in my stomach have a habit of making me do stupid things. Because everything I told your brother in his office that day was true.  

You can’t give him all of it, but you can at least offer scraps of your honesty. “Because I wanted to spend my New Year’s with you.”

Jake says nothing, but his feet are moving. Each step brings him closer and closer to you. It feels a bit like it’s playing out in slow motion, delaying the inevitable. You move backwards until you run out of places to go, until he’s crowding you against the door of his bathroom, invading your space and demanding all of your attention, your focus, you. 

There’s no hesitation this time around, not when he leans down, cupping your chin in one hand to adjust the angle to his liking.

“Wait,” you breathe, lips a hair's breadth from his own. “What about your brother–”

“Fuck my brother.”

And then his lips are on yours. In the sanctity of his bedroom, in the aftermath of revelations. It’s the second time in the span of a week, and it already feels familiar. A little bit like coming home. 

His palm finds a place to land against the sliver of skin exposed just about the waistband of your borrowed sweatpants. A shiver traces the length of your spine, this time not from the cold but from the unbearable, unmistakable heat that threatens to boil over with every touch of a fingertip, every ghost of a caress. 

When you pull back for air this time, you don’t use the moment to shatter what’s just beginning to build between you. For real this time. Instead you say, “You’re really good at that, you know.”

“Thanks,” Jake grins, still a little breathless. “I could use some more practice, though.”

And who are you to deny him an opportunity for improvement?

…

epilogue – one year later. 

“This looks pretty cute on you, you know.”

“Do not touch it,” you hiss, swatting Jake’s hand away from your graduation cap. “Do you know how long it took me to bobby pin it into place? You’ll rip out half my hair if you try to move it around.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” Jake raises his hands in mock surrender, puts them as far as he can from your immaculately done headwear. 

Unlike you, he’s dressed in jeans and a button-down. But it makes sense. After all, the only person celebrating a milestone today is you. Jake doesn’t find that he minds so much. He just submitted his final project for Advanced Typography a few days ago, and he received stellar marks on it. The best in his section, actually. Not to mention that the class has been one of his absolute favorites so far. 

Besides, his time will come soon enough. In another year or two, it’ll be his turn to have a graduation cap bobby pinned to his hair. And he thinks a Graphic Design diploma will lead him to much happier places than a Business one ever would have. Even if it does come a year or two behind the schedule he once cared a lot more about. 

For starters, it won’t let him or you fall into any more ridiculous traps set by his brother ever again. Turns out, things like photoshop and other image-altering softwares leave traces. Ones that Jake is now excellent at detecting and could use to easily work his way out of false plagiarism accusations the future may throw his way. 

Straightening your graduation gown, your eyes land on something behind Jake’s shoulder. There’s a crowd today, as to be expected at a graduation ceremony, but you’ve always been good at finding what you’re looking for. And even better at finding what you’re avoiding. 

“I think I see your family,” you nudge Jake. Even his father is here. Mostly, you suspect, because you never bothered to correct his assumption that you’re heading to law school after this. Next to him stands James, lips twisted in permanent disdain, no doubt dragged here against his will. 

Still, you propose, “Should we go say hi?” The only reason you suggest it is because you also see your second favorite Sim (and first favorite on the days that Jake is particularly annoying). Hand blocking the sun and eyes wandering, you can tell that his mother is looking for the two of you. 

Jake keeps his back to them, steps in front of you to block you both from their sight. “No,” he denies flatly. “My brother is still weirdly obsessed with you.”

You wink, nudge him as you tease, “Must run in the family.” It’s an echo of a past conversion and rings even more true this time around. 

“C’mon,” you grab his hand, tugging him along. “I promised your mom a picture. I’ll ignore him. Trust me, I’m good at it.” Glancing down at your feet, you reconsider. “Actually, I’ll step on his foot. These heels weren’t just made to look good, you know. They’re actually a pretty decent weapon if yielded properly.” 

So Jake relents, lets you pull him along. Towards an interaction he doesn't really want to have but knows he will come out of just fine. Towards a future that’s full of uncertainties and doubts, but is his alone to forge. 

He doesn’t know what life will look like in ten years or five years or even just one, but he knows that he likes the way it feels when he does his best to put a little love into everything he builds. To let it swell and overflow until it touches the world around him and smoothes over lingering remnants of the bitterness and resentment and anger that never did anything but make him miserable. 

And Jake likes the way it feels when you smile at him. He likes the way it feels when your hand is wrapped up in his own. 

And for now, he thinks that might just be all he needs. 

outtake – sixteen years ago. 

At the age of six, there is a lot you don’t know about the world around you yet. 

For starters, you don’t understand why it’s only grown-ups that get to drive. It seems awfully unfair that you’re always relegated to your car seat in the back when the front seems much more exciting, especially considering the way your mom is always yelling at the other cars. 

You’re also not sure why she always makes you wear itchy dresses whenever you go to places with a lot of other people. After all, your princess nightgown is way more comfortable, and you like the way it feels against your skin. But no matter how many times you begged, your mom still put you in one of those awful, scratchy dresses tonight. And by the time she finally finishes her first round of mingling at your family firm’s annual charity fundraiser and lets you sit down in the seat next to her for a brief break, you’ve already been poked and prodded by people you don’t know more times than you can count. 

Which is saying a lot, since you just learned your numbers up to one hundred last week.

And you’re really not sure what your mom means when she leans over to your father and whispers, “I think this could be the start of something extremely profitable. A contract with the Sims, exclusive rights to represent them legally, I mean, that’s huge.” 

You scratch at your shoulder. That’s the itchiest part of your dress. Your mom leans a little closer to your father. “I know you don’t like to, but suck up to him a little tonight, if you have to. And if he invites you to golf, you must say yes. We absolutely cannot blow this opportunity.”

At six, your interest is still a flighty thing, and grown-up conversations you can’t understand are usually quick to lose it. It’s not long before your eyes are wandering for something to entertain them, something to hold your focus. 

Finally, it settles on a boy halfway across the room from you. He’s small, just like you. You wonder if he’s six, too. If he can also count to one hundred now. 

Head tilting, you watch as he reaches for one of the delicately balanced centerpiece bouquets sitting on a table in the middle of the room.

“Jake,” you hear someone call, that edge of worry only mothers can manage clouding her voice. “Don’t touch that, sweetheart. It’s fragile.”

“Fragile?” The boy repeats.

“It could break easily,” she explains patiently, pulling his hand into hers as she guides him away from the fragile centerpiece. If he is six, you’re definitely smarter than him. After all, you already knew what fragile means. 

But watching his retreating back, you wonder some more. Wonder if he was made to wear an itchy outfit tonight too, wonder if he’s ever gotten to drive a car or if all mothers are thieves of fun, just like yours. Wonder if he also hates coming to these things, if people pinch and prod at him too. 

“Jake.” You try out his name, just to see how it feels in your mouth. 

Momentarily distracted by the reminder from your mother to keep your voice at a whisper level, you lose him in the crowd.

Jake, you think to yourself. Most of all, you wonder if he would be your friend. 

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

note: thank you for reading!! I know that this one is quite the commitment with the word count, so I really do appreciate it. as always, I love to hear thoughts, comments, screaming, etc. in the comments, reblogs, or my inbox! also, like part one, this is the latest version I had saved in my docs, and I didn't reread before posting. if there's anything glaringly off, please let me know. other than that, please excuse any minor grammatical stuff.

[sukirichi]

[ DUSK ‘TILL DAWN : 012 ]

“we who bear the burden of the crown do not need to love. you only need to stay here, with me, in power, in greed, in lust – in victory.”

cw. 18+.modern royal au. infidelity. minimal angst. reader is confused with her feelings. toxic characters. toxic relationships. explicit smut. unedited. implied dub-con. smoking. physical violence. sex tapes. reader has a gun and almost uses it.

notes. i wanted the kiyoomi and suna girlies (/gn) to win so here it is! feedbacks / reblogs/ comments are appreciated <3

wc. 12.9k

series masterlist 

[ TWELVE ] for you, i would cross the line. i would waste my time, i would lose my mind. they say “she’s gone too far this time.”

You prided yourself in being logical.

There was little to no room for measly emotions when it came to royal affairs. Granted, you had no proper training, but you were raised as a noble, and the rules were clear. Set aside your emotions, always look towards the most plausible solution, and cry about it later – where no one could see. Those were your mother’s words. You held onto them for as long as you remembered, with the exception of making only one grand mistake: proceeding with the marriage after catching your fiancé cheating on you.

But now? Now, you were about to make your next worst decision – letting Kiyoomi walk away.

It wasn’t love, of course. It couldn’t be. The odds simply weren’t in your favor, but couldn’t a Princess hope? You met him first, had him as your last dance on your debut ball. He was the first Prince who ever held your hand, the first Prince to dance with you, and the first – possibly last – who reminded what love could feel like. What love should feel like. It was explosive and angry like fire licking up at your skin, begging, pleading at you to chase after him. Every nerve in your body protested as you watched him take one more step away from you. It’s a mistake, one I’ll regret – Don’t let him go. It screamed at you, its cries desperate to be heard. You didn’t want to be here in the Palace. You didn’t want to return to your shared quarters with Rintaro.

You wanted to go back to Itachiyama – his farmhouse, the castle ruins, riding aimlessly with Astra and Lucy, picking fruits from his garden, and spending hours in his library. You hadn’t even held your end of the promise yet to learn everything about him.

What did Kiyoomi love? What did he look like in his slumber? Does he talk in sleep? Does he steal the blankets? What about his favorite song?

You moved before you could think.

Closing the distance in hurried strides, you grasped the Prince’s elbow. He stiffened under your touch, his eyes unreadable through the dimly-lit hallways. “Your Highness. Wait,” you panted, “Listen… back at Itachiyama–”

“Do you want me?”

Your grip on him faltered. Briefly, you took a step back, but the Prince was having none of it. He easily closed whatever distance you attempted to put between you two, his face hard and eyes burning with passion. With yearning. You never thought a man could look so determined yet hopeless as he did, the picture-perfect image of ardor. His brows pinched together, his lower lip trembling as he sighed. “Do you want me?”

You shook your head.

If only it could be as simple as that.

“It’s wrong, my Prince. We couldn’t… We wouldn’t work out. I only meant to say that I do adore you, and I do not want whatever complicated feelings we have to ruin our friendship,” Lies. Every word uttered from your lips were nothing but measly lies. Kiyoomi could tell too – the hesitation written all over your face said otherwise. “I hope you understand. You and I – we’re impossible.”

You couldn’t tell which one you needed more: for him to deny your worries, or for him to agree that you were right. You figured both would be just as painful.

Kiyoomi’s nostrils flared as you looked away from him, feet shuffling in the other direction already. “Stop. Do not take another step. Don’t you dare,” with a low growl, you were suddenly pulled back against his warm chest. You gasped at the hardness of his body, the warmth of his skin, the tenderness of his touch. His lips were everywhere but the one place you needed it to be – lingering at the curve of your neck, his breaths fanning over your exposed collarbones. It was like he had set you on fire with one touch alone, his firm grip around your waist both eerily intimidating and lustrous. And he must’ve laughed – you weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you were completely under Kiyoomi’s mercy, and quite frankly, he could have his way with you as he pleased.

“If you do not choose me…” murmuring, your breath hitched as his lips briefly grazed your skin, making your pulse jump. “You will regret it. You will be unhappy with him.”

I’m already unhappy with him, you wanted to say, but the words died in your mouth.

You’d lost all forms of coherence under Kiyoomi’s spell. Especially in this compromising position, this scandalous way his hand now slowly trailed its way from your abdomen and up to the swells on your chest – Gods, what would any witnesses say? This wasn’t how a Prince held a woman that wasn’t his.

“Your Highness,” you tried to fighting from his grasp, only to fall momentarily back against him when finally, finally, his lips were now leaving marks on your neck. It took all of your willpower to not give in right there, to not sink your fingers in his delicious curls. You had to say no. “I-I think we’ve both had a long night. We should retire to our quarters.”

“I will allow it if it’s my quarters you’ll be sharing.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck – your gaze darted around the empty hallway, paranoid.

The lights had been dimmed hours ago, the staff retiring to their rooms, but it was so quiet your breathy moans could echo. Anyone could walk in and see you like this, pleading but not quite begging for the Prince to not stop holding you.

And it was wrong, so deliciously wrong.

“Please,” you closed your eyes, unable to stop yourself from craning your neck to give him access. Above you, Kiyoomi chuckled, the rumbling of his chest deliciously low.

“You should stop lying to yourself, Princess. You do not want him. Whatever attachment you still have for my brother, it is nothing but a pitiful excuse of familiarity. You keep him around because there is no other choice, but you cannot keep lying to yourself. You cannot keep lying to me that you do not feel as I do when I see the way you look at me,” grasping your chin with his much larger hand, Kiyoomi forced you to look into his eyes. Pools of inky depths stared back at you with part frustration, part lust – his skin already flushed with sweat. You couldn’t look away even if the world ended. There was only you and Kiyoomi, with his hand resting on top of your breasts and gently caressing, so light you might’ve thought he wasn’t there.

And you, breathless and reckless, clung to him like he was your last lifeline.

Kiyoomi dipped down. His nose brushed against yours, your breaths mingled before he breathed you in greedily. “I was never a man who had many desires, but you are the greatest of them all. You run through my mind even in my sleep, and you are the first thing I search for when I wake. So do not tell me you do not want me when I know it’s my name you cry out in your sleep.”

Your knees felt impossibly weak.

“What do you want me to do? I’m married. You’re married. Are you forgetting divorce is impossible?” you snapped back, shoving him until his back hit the wall. The painting above him clattered, yet the Prince seemed uncaring, his arms crossed against his chest as you breathed hard. This was preposterous – this could not go any longer. “This would never work. The people would never understand.”

“I do not care what they think.”

“I care what they think! My husband is already cheating on me, and his own people detest him for it. What more if they find out I have taken you as my lover?”

“Then tell me to go,” he whispered, tilting his head back as he stared at you almost defiantly, mockingly. Like he knew you wouldn’t have the courage to actually say it. “Tell me, and I will walk away.”

When Kiyoomi is met with silence, he scoffed. A smirk graced his handsome face before he’s grabbing you by the arm and twisting you, the positions reversed until your back hit the wall. There’s a slight ache pounding at the back of your head, but nothing – absolutely nothing – could tear your attention away from his lips crashing into yours. The kiss is nothing short of avidity. Kiyoomi devoured you like a man starved, molding the shape of his lips into yours while his large hand encompassed the entirety of your face. Thumbs running over your cheek, his imposing frame completely dominated you. Your bodies were now pressed into each other that it became difficult to tell where you began and the Prince ended.

All you knew was Kiyoomi kissed you like he spent most of his nights dreaming about it, sighing and groaning all at once before his tongue fought for dominance.

Pushing his tongue inside your willing lips, he tasted all of you. He spoke the words he struggled to say, the firm grasp on your hip keeping you in place beneath him a clear sign he didn’t want you anywhere but here. But you weren’t leaving. You’d be a fool to walk away now that you finally had a taste of him, and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

You wanted more, needed more.

Kissing him back harder, your palms flattened on his chest before you balled his shirt into your fists, uncaring if he’d walk back home flustered and wild. You simply needed him there; you wanted to breathe him in, to have nothing but him as your entire world.

“Stay,” you pleaded in between kisses, letting the Prince maneuver you until your bum landed flat on a table. Uncaring, the Prince swept aside all knick-knacks placed above it when his lips found yours again. And oh, a greedy man he was. Even after kissing you until you were breathless, he still hadn’t had his fill. His tongue danced with yours in this gentle melody only you two could sing, your bodies moving in sync like a choreographed dance. Your hand would wound up to tangle itself in his dark locks, his hands would scramble to undo his breeches, and willingly – wantonly – you would welcome him with all your being. It’s a dance between lovers, a forbidden tune you sang wholeheartedly, accompanied by your high-pitched moans once the Prince had himself buried in you – “Oh. Oh.”

“Who makes you feel good?”

“You, my Prince, it’s you,”

Biting down on your lip to muffle the noises you made, you heard the crescendo of the music. Rising and rising with overwhelming intensity at each note hit, each perfect thrust and drive into you. He hadn’t felt like anyone else. He was thicker and spread you open, impaled on his stiffness while you sat there helplessly to take it all. You felt empowered and weak at the same time, with your legs locking behind his chest as tears rolled down your face from the pleasure of it all, but Kiyoomi showed no signs of stopping.

Heavens, he might not even stop tonight, not when you sucked him in tight and made his breath stutter, his thrusts staggered.

“Kiyoomi,” you cried out, unable to keep quiet any longer. He simply held you carefully, a great contrast to his hips pistoning in and out of you – no, he held you like you were a porcelain doll he feared would break, someone he had to protect and cherish. And his eyes – droopy yet adoring – gazed upon you like you were worth more than any crown. “Oh, you are so…”

His forehead landed on top of yours, his lips minutely brushing against yours for a quick kiss. It’s rushed, frantic, yet intimate in ways you’d never experienced before. For once, sharing bodies with someone didn’t feel like just like sex.

For once, you finally made love with someone.

“Choose me, Princess,” he gritted his teeth, “It was always meant to be me.”

You awoke with a gasp.

Sitting up, your heart pounded in your chest, your skin clammy and drenched with sweat. A scan of your surroundings told you that you were in your room, the empty side of your bed a sign Rintaro kept to his word and left you alone. Closing your eyes, your head dropped down to your palms.

So it had been a dream, after all.

You really allowed Kiyoomi to walk away from you. And one mistake leading into another, you let Rintaro do the same.

Regret churned at your stomach. You could see it perfectly now – the drooping of the Prince’s shoulders, his gaze cast downwards when you bid him farewell. There were still traces of the happiness you felt in Itachiyama lingering on him just as he finally left, ones you were compelled to reach out to before it was too late. But it couldn’t be – you refused to give into your desires when it meant committing a sin. Rintaro didn’t deserve your loyalty, but he was still your husband, and you wouldn’t be able to sleep at night knowing you’d been exactly like him.

In fact, you might be becoming like him with each passing day, and although you would never say it out loud, you understood him better now.

To find someone who could’ve been yours, someone who would’ve made you so happy against all odds, and to not have them at all – it felt like a cruel joke was being played by the Universe.

Is this what Rintaro felt like? Did he feel as if the world was being unusually cruel to him? Did he wonder what he could’ve done to deserve all this? Because those thoughts ran into your head long enough that you gave up on sleep, and rolled out of bed with a heavy heart and – shamefully – aching with need. Snatching your robe from the closet, you tiptoed out of the room. Rintaro was fast asleep in the sofa, his arm shielding his eyes from the lit candles. When he didn’t budge from his spot at you poking around him, you let out a sigh of relief and left the room. Clicking the door shut, you spun around, coming face to face with a wide eyed maid.

“Heavens!” you placed a hand on your chest, and then chuckled as the maid stepped back and bowed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone would still be around.”

The maid frantically shook her head. She scratched the back of her head as her gaze darted around, seemingly determined to not look you in the eye. “No, Your Highness, it was my fault for startling you. I was reassigned to you just now, you see, and… Uhm, I’m Airi. Prince Shinsuke sent me here.”

Airi… You’d heard that name before.

“Oh! Airi. Yes, of course, I remember you,” you nodded, tying the robe around your waist tighter. “Why are you up this late?” At your question, Airi’s cheeks flushed a deep red before turning away.  You smiled to yourself, chuckling under your breath as you gently squeezed her arm. “I understand. You needn’t say anymore.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Would you like to accompany me for a walk?” you gestured to the empty hall. Airi nodded, a little too enthusiastic in picking up her skirts. You figured neither of you wanted to stay here any longer where anyone could easily see you.

Turning to the other direction, you headed for the gardens at the outer wing. It was the closest to your shared room with Rintaro, and coincidentally, an infamous shortcut to Belleview’s surrounding gardens. There had been rumors that Belleview was added in the palace grounds as an afterthought years ago – how a sudden need arose to have a separate place for a married couple. It was bizarre, in your opinion, how this long, seemingly endless path would certainly end up right at Kiyoomi’s doorstep if you were patient enough to brave the half hour walk.

Could you?

Would you?

Absentmindedly, you gnawed at your nails. Your Mother would chastise you for the unladylike gesture if she were here, but it was only you and Airi. She wasn’t going to judge, although you didn’t miss the way she glanced at you so often. Curiosity, maybe, but a question imposed her eyes. Deciding to break the silence, you smiled at the dark-haired maid.

“You’re very pretty. I can see why the Prince fell for you.”

Airi stuttered in her steps. “Oh! Thank you, you’re too kind for that, but I doubt it’s because of the way I look. The Prince and I have known each other since we were kids, that’s all. My mother was a maid too before she died. She was the one who helped raise His Highness,” she babbled, grimacing when she realized your patient smile held little to conceal your amusement. “Uhm… If I may be so bold, my Princess, I think you look rather great for someone who has been cheated on.”

Your brows rose. That you hadn’t expected.

“I do?”

“Yes. You look unbothered by it, or at least, you seem to be doing a great job at it,” she offered a polite smile, “Being a royal must come naturally to you as a noblewoman.”

Unable to help it, you chuckled. Oh, how wrong she was.

“Not at all. I haven’t always been this way,” you told her, watching as your surroundings changed from the marble pillars and into the night sky, where the fresh, cold breeze bit at your skin. You were thankful for it – the cold atmosphere was a great contrast to the blooming, colorful flowers.

It somehow reminded you of Kiyoomi’s gardens, and how you probably wouldn’t see it anymore.

The smile on your face disappeared. The ring on your finger grew heavier, and unbeknownst to you, you started spinning it with your thumb. It was curious, truly, how a week was all it took before you completely lost yourself. You couldn’t remember who you were even like before Itachiyama, before Kiyoomi. Or could it be that the past you had never been fulfilled to begin with? What if you were merely a work in progress, and the you in this moment was the real one?

If that was true, then that could only mean two things you would never want to admit out loud.

One: that you weren’t as in love with your husband as you thought if you couldn’t get Kiyoomi out of your mind, or Two: that the traditional saying and belief was right – your last dance would be your fated lover.

And it would make sense, too. Of course, you were happy with Rintaro. Were. You fell in love with him simply because there was no other appropriate reaction. He was the Crown Prince, a man who called on you every single day and learned about your passions until night came. He charmed your parents, loved them as his own, and proudly presented you to his regal family. It was the kind of love little girls were taught to dream about. The kind of love everyone wanted. You couldn’t blame yourself for craving the Prince’s touch, for giving him all your firsts. It seemed only the right thing to do. He courted you, committed to you, loved you as much as he could – it was logical and methodical.

It was one plus one equals two.

But Kiyoomi? It didn’t feel natural, or a step by step process.

It felt all kinds of wrong because you shouldn’t, and all kinds of right because it’s him. It’s the way he smiles at you when he thinks you’re not looking, or how his head is always turned in the other direction to act like he isn’t listening. He isn’t like Rintaro who never takes his gaze off of you – not because he can’t get enough of your beauty, but because he was watching. Rintaro was always watching, analyzing everything you did, crafting his actions and words perfectly to elicit the response he wanted from you.

His brother was the exact opposite.

Kiyoomi always stayed at the walls and blended in with the background. He never attracted any attention to himself, but would devote his entire focus on you simply because he’s entranced. Or you hoped he might. Surely it couldn’t be one-sided.

You felt it too – the frustration ebbing off of him each time you slipped away. You saw with your own eyes the way his face fell when news of your husband’s affair spread.

He didn’t hate his brother for sleeping with his mistress behind your back. He hated Rintaro for ruining a night that should’ve been yours. A night where his touch could linger on yours for a moment longer as you smiled for the cameras. A night where it’d be appropriate for him to look at you like you’re the star of the show – it’s camaraderie, you’d play off – and a night where he might’ve drove you back at the farmhouse and slowly, tenderly, begin with tugging your gloves off before he moved on to your dress.

Gods. You exhaled. You shouldn’t be doing this.

You shouldn’t be thinking about Kiyoomi, his plump lips that looked inviting, his dark eyes hungrily roaming over you and hoping, praying, that it’d been him instead. These were all wrong – so why were you walking towards Belleview?

“Your Highness?”

Airi’s voice snapped you out of your trance. Blinking, you smiled back at her in apology and continued. “Sorry, I must have been lost in my thoughts. As I was saying, though, I spent most of my life hiding behind my parents’ shadows because I struggled talking to people. And then the Crown Prince came and swept me off my feet, which changed everything. When he came into my life, I figured I had to become someone worthy enough to stay by his side, someone he could be proud to be with. It took a lot of years and effort before I could be confident enough to say I was good enough for him,” you mumbled, stopping in your tracks to look up into the dark horizon before you.

Huh. Why hadn’t you realized that before?

You’d been trying so hard to impress Rintaro all along. Isn’t that why you were so frustrated? You’d spent years molding yourself to become who he wanted, only to be slapped in the face that it was impossible because you could never be her.

You let out a dry laugh. “But apparently not. He already had someone else.”

“I’m really sorry you were dragged into this. From the stories Prince Shinsuke tells me, you’re a kind woman who deserved better.”

“I don’t know about that,” you said, “Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t mad upon reading the tabloids about his affair? If anything, I was just furious he couldn’t stay out of trouble and ruined my trip to Itachiyama.”

“Did you like it there?”

“I loved it. I wanted to stay.”

Admitting it out loud felt… liberating. You were beginning to feel more like yourself, even if it meant being less of a Princess and more of this unorthodox woman who simply wanted to be. It must be the side effect of spending time with Kiyoomi. You would soon care less about the rules imposed on you, and unapologetically be yourself.

“But the world sure has a cruel way of bringing you back to reality.”

“Your Highness?”

Both yours and Airi’s head snapped at the sound. Amongst the rustling of the bushes, a tall figure suddenly appeared – all mighty and regal even in his creased blouse and loosely tied breeches. His hair, dark and tousled like he’d run his fingers through it, did little to hide the surprise on his face.

“My Prince,” you breathed out, “What are you doing out here so late?”

“I couldn’t sleep. And you?”

You fought back a smile at his raspy voice. You could almost picture it – Kiyoomi tossing and turning all night in a bed separate from Iris. The sanguine voice in your head fibbed, too, wondering if the Prince thought about you as well. “It’s a restless night,” was all you let on, and gestured to the shock-still maid beside you. “Airi, do you mind giving us some privacy?”

Vehemently, she shook her head. “Not at all, Princess. Please, call for me if you need anything. I won’t be far.”

You waited as Airi disappeared from sight before you stepped closer to the Prince, compelled by an invisible force to be closer to him. “Kiyoomi–”

“Are you well?”

“Me? Why do you ask?”

He tipped his head to the side, causing a lone curl to fall in front of his eye. You fought back the urge to brush it away, beguiled by his long fingers sweeping it away “You’re in a very difficult position right now, whatnot with the article spreading,” he gestured back to the castle, “Has he spoken to you?”

You shook your head. “He’s kept to himself the past few days. I think this is a lot harder on him than it looks. As for me, well… I’ve had better days.”

True to your word, Rintaro almost secluded himself from the world. He shut off his phone, chucked it at another corner of the room, and never touched it again. It was painful seeing your husband that way when you know of his hobby of endless scrolling. But now, he couldn’t stomach the social media wishing him ill, seeing so blatantly with his own eyes his people’s deference to him. It hurt – more so for him than you – but still, a small part of you wished he’d say something. You were there, were you not?

You cut off your trip short because your husband needed you, and he barely uttered a word since you arrived. It got at your nerves. Nevertheless, you’d give him the time he needed. You planned to keep to your word that you would fix this all for him, regardless of what that might take.

You weren’t so cruel to let your husband be dragged into the pits of hell. Because quite frankly, that wasn’t the media’s right to begin with. If anyone would unleash hell upon Rintaro and Iris, it had to be you.

Kiyoomi scanned your face. “You don’t seem upset about all of this.”

You shrugged. “Their secret would’ve gone out one way or another. It was only a matter of time. Besides, I have far, bigger things to worry about, like you,” you leveled your gaze with his, watching as the Prince sucked in a breath.

Your last conversation with him the past night still played in your mind. It ate away at you to have to say goodbye when you didn’t want to, but he was here now. You woldn’t waste the opportunity to make things right.

Steeling yourself, you shut your eyes tight to gather courage. “Kiyoomi… Your Highness. I… I do not wish to stop talking to you. I know I sound absurd because I haven’t known you that long, but everything we shared in Itachiyama, I cherish it. I won’t forget a single memory I shared with you. So please allow me to take back what I said. I didn’t mean it when I said I would stop talking to you.”

“You should, though.” Opening your eyes, your heart dropped into your stomach when the Prince took a step back. “I don’t think we can be friends, Princess.”

Your hands grew cold and clammy.

“W-Why not? Have I done something to offend you? Tell me, and I will correct it–”

“We cannot be friends because I do not wish to be just your friend.”

Whatever distance he created between you disappeared. In the blink of an eye, Kiyoomi had closed the gap in one smooth stride, leaning down close enough his nose nearly brushed yours.

You inhaled sharply at the proximity. Kiyoomi’s heat blanketed you, making you realize you’d been shivering from the cold prior to his arrival. Now, he was here, and your senses were filled to the brim with him – his scent, his warmth, his frame looming over yours making you feel protected instead of small. You couldn’t help it; your fingers twitched to pull him by his collar and finally have his lips pressed to yours. It’d been eating away at you for several nights.

A peck couldn’t hurt.

But you made no move, greedily sharing in the same breaths instead. Because if it was all you could have, then it was all you could get.

“You’re right. It does sound absurd. We have barely spoken to one another, yet I’m already tired  of this stupid game my brother is playing – his foolish plans to become King, make my wife his concubine, all with the intention of keeping you around like a pet. It makes my blood boil,” Kiyoomi grinned, though it was more sinister than genuine. “He cannot have everything for himself. I will not let him.”

“My Prince. I–”

“–Don’t get me wrong. I’m not in love with you, nor do I have any intentions of stooping down to Rintaro’s level and stealing what isn’t mine,” cruel, you think, as the Prince effectively cut you off with a brush of his thumb to your lips. You were now putty at his hands; melting and knees weakened with nothing but his touch holding you up. “But I am tired of seeing you this distraught over a man who cannot see your worth. I have had enough. So whatever plans you may have to retaliate, tell me, and I will gladly be a pawn in your game. Make your move. You may command me as you please.”

It took a moment before his words dawned on you. When it did, your palms flattened on his chest, absorbing its warmth and feeling the flutter of his heart underneath your fingertips. He felt so alive, whole, and well – you couldn’t possibly drag him into your mess.

“I could never use you like that. You know this.”

“So you do have a plan in mind,” he noted with a smirk, fingers crawling up to circle your wrist. “My brother really underestimated you, hasn’t he? You’re already proving to be far more dangerous than any sword.”

You flushed warm at his compliment. Pretty, yes, Rintaro has called you that multiple times. Beautiful, gorgeous, even, but dangerous? It made you feel powerful, like the crown was already on your head, and the kingdom was all yours for the taking. But greed often started out as a small flicker of fire, and you stomped on it as quickly as it breathed into life. You were no thrill seeker – you would not dabble or tread in dangerous, unknown, forbidden paths. Such paths like Kiyoomi, but it was there. The temptation. The calling to just reach out to the hand he’s offered.

Its voice beckoned you. Come, it whispered oh-so-sweetly at your ear, he is your puppet.

You bit the inside of your cheek in contemplation. “It isn’t a good plan at all, and the Queen has summoned us – all of us – to inform us of her decisions on how we will proceed with this scandal. There’s a good chance Her Majesty might get in the way, but I’m determined. I need this plan to work.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“I plan on turning the tables around and pinning it on Iris. I know it’s dangerous – she’s your wife, and you might get caught in the crossfire–”

“Do as you please.”

“Are you serious?”

Kiyoomi nodded with resolve. “When I said I do not wish to be just your friend, I meant it. I want you to use me. I want to be your weapon,” nudging his nose with yours, he brought up your hand to his lips, kissing the glimmering diamond on your ring. A kiss of rebellion, a war cry, or a silent plea to be dominated – it said everything and too little all at once. “If there is anything I can do to help you escape this royal hell, I will do it.”

You closed your fist around his lips, and basked in the ghostly flutters it will leave upon your skin hours after he has gone. Then, you questioned it all: how could something so poignant evoke a raging will within you?

“It will be hard for you, Your Highness,” you warned him, “My plan is not a kind one.”

“I do not have very kind thoughts myself,” he chuckled, the sound dark and ominous. “But you should be careful, Princess. Iris is not who you think she is. If you are to proceed with your plan, you need to watch out for yourself, and Maiko especially.”

Maiko? What could Maiko’s involvement with Iris be?

“She won’t hurt Maiko, will she?”

“She wouldn’t dare, but I can’t guarantee she won’t try doing something to you,” with a wary gaze, Kiyoomi immediately masked it with that of indifference. Scanning the surroundings, and hearing nothing but the crickets of insects and the rustling of bushes from the wind, Kiyoomi wrapped a protective arm around your waist. “It’s getting late. Let me walk you back. Iris is probably somewhere close.”

You were never one to feel much fear, but in that moment, a sense of numbing chill settled in your bones. Goosebumps arose on your skin. It was almost like you could feel it – her sharp gaze, her wicked and deceivingly innocent smile. You shivered despite yourself and huddled closer to the Prince, letting him guide you through the garden’s maze when his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“Do you wish to know what would make Iris tick?”

“What?”

“It may be Rintaro who she wants,” his breathy voice caressed you, sending a different set of shivers down your spine. “But it is I whom she would kill to keep. Present yourself as a threat, make her believe you can steal me from her, and you will find her willingly offering Rintaro to you.”

You scoffed. “And if I don’t want him?”

“Then you shall always have me.”

Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi…

The Prince’s last words haunted you. Moreover, the way he looked with the moonlight illuminated upon him… he felt surreal. He came to you in your dreams more than once, caressing you in places he shouldn’t be touching, filling you in ways you never thought possible. A part of you wondered if it was merely your brain coping with the fact you’d mistakenly lain in bed with Rintaro. How you’ve felt disgusted with yourself ever since, and found it hard to look in the mirror. Perhaps it was simply a trick of the brain – replacing the man who left marks on you with the man that could’ve made you feel better. And you knew Prince Kiyoomi would – with those large, calloused hands, and luscious lips you spent countless hours gazing upon… would it be such a sin to wish they hadn’t been dreams only?

Picking up the nearby body wash, you scrubbed yourself clean of Rintaro. Your body still ached from last night’s events, but your heart clenched for an entirely different reason. Seriously. You couldn’t believe it. First, he’d let himself get caught in the action, and you let him sleep with you? You could’ve pushed him away. You could’ve said no.

It didn’t have to lead to whatever happened last night.

But then again, laughing to yourself, why did you chastise yourself so much? He was your husband. You were both married – sleeping with him wasn’t a mistake. Yet why did it feel like it? It felt as if… you kept on letting him take and take from you. How long until you’ve had enough? How much more could you give before there was nothing left of you?

You sighed, sinking deeper under the water. It’d been hours since your previous encounter with the older prince, and he hadn’t left your mind since. His offer for you to make use of him like he was a weapon, or worse, a tool, wasn’t an opportunity you could let pass by.

You could make use of him. He had more access to Iris than you ever could, and planting spies in Belleview Manor sounded terrible. She’d probably won over their loyalty judging by the way they kept their mouths shut that first night you arrived there to give her tea for her ‘headache.’ She had secrets, that you were sure of, but did Kiyoomi know them too? What was her connection with Maiko? Surely… Maiko wasn’t involved in whatever schemes they had in mind. The Princess was too sweet and innocent for that, but then again, so was Iris. The so called ‘dear friend’ of your boyfriend before he’d asked for your hand in marriage.

This was proving to be nearly impossible.

It was hard to tell who to trust within the Palace. Kita would be at your side, but you couldn’t possibly involve him in your plan. He might not even approve of it. It would be against the law, and it wasn’t the kindest thing one could think of. Kita would call it ‘the opposite of justice.’

“I hope the meeting went well, Princess?”

Popping your head from the water, you watched as Airi entered the room, folded towels in her arms. She’d prepared a bath for you long before you arrived, the water warm and filled with bubbles – just how you liked it. The room smelled faintly of roses, too, and you made a mental note to thank Airi for her efforts.

“It was great. His Highness and I discussed a lot,” he almost kissed me, too, but she didn’t need to know that, or the fact you wished he did. “Oh, and Airi.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

You pondered over it, you really did it. It was out of your character to abuse the power you had, yet you couldn’t stop the heat flaring in your veins. The pettiness that begged to be revealed. “Could you have someone call L’Essenxe Royale? Tell them I want them to discontinue their Vanilla Candy line because I’m allergic to it, and it would be a shame if I had to stop purchasing their perfumes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Airi nodded, stopping in her tracks after a beat. “I wasn’t informed you were allergic to vanilla. I’m sorry, I’ll do better in catering to your needs more.”

“I’m not allergic. I just don’t want to smell Iris ever again.”

Just before Airi could respond, the doors swung open. Suna sauntered in like he owned the place, the top three buttons of his white shirt undone and loose. His collarbones and the top of his chest shone with sweat, his skin flushed and his dark hair messily swept to the sides. He must’ve gone for his early training – and damned him for looking good.

You snorted inwardly. But Prince Kiyoomi probably looked better.

“There you are. I didn’t get to see you before I left.”

“Airi, please give us a moment,” you requested from where you sat, arms lazily resting on the sides of the tub. Airi scurried out of the room with reddened cheeks – no doubt picturing what events could transpire between a naked wife and her insatiable husband. And speaking of said husband, he’d leant against the pristine white walls, arms crossed against his chest as he let those dark, hooded eyes roam over your exposed skin.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I think the real pleasure here is this view.”

You rolled your eyes. “Is that what you told your mistress too when you fucked her in my bed?”

Suna paused. It was a bait; he was sure of it. Choosing not to bite at your provocation, he pushed his weight off the wall and gestured to the doors. “You redecorated the room,” he announced, “Without my permission.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission. I thought we made it clear – under your suggestion – that I was to sleep in that bed, and you take the couch outside. Technically, that would make it my room, no?”

“You made Airi burn the sheets.”

“Sue me.”

“You threw away Iris’ clothes.”

“They barely counted as clothes, Your Highness. They were just thongs.”

“If this is about last night–”

“Last night was a mistake. Never speak of it again,” you warned, and just the mere reminder that you’d let him have his way with you, and you were too weak to refuse, again, no longer made the relaxing bath enjoyable. All of Airi’s efforts poured down the drain because having Suna around had your muscles stiffening with tension again. Rising from the bath, you wiped off the bubbles and suds off your body before stepping out. “What did you truly come here for? You never bother me when I’m bathing.”

Suna’s hungry gaze followed your every movement. The perverted bastard wasn’t even trying to hide it – his poor attempts of adjusting his breeches a failure once you’d put on your robe. “Her Majesty has summoned us for breakfast. She has an important announcement to make. I suggest you make haste so she won’t be anymore upset with us.”

“With you, you mean,” you waved around your lip balm, “What? Don’t look so offended. I am not the one who caused a scandal here.”

“I’m tired of arguing with you.”

You couldn’t agree more. Smacking your lips together, you walked past him, making sure to sashay your hips as you did. But before you could leave the room, Suna’s hand shot out to wrap it around your wrist. Gently, he pulled you back into him until your breasts brushed with his chest, the dampness of your robe making his shirt stick even harder on his skin.

 “Wait,” he breathed out, not once taking his eyes off you as he blindly swiped for a towel. “Let me dry you off properly. It would be a shame if you made a mess on your newly decorated room.”

Your husband fell down on his knees before you could say a word.

You almost asked him what he was doing when his hands tugged at the ties of your robes, his tender touch pushing them past your shoulders until the robe pooled at your feet. You inhaled sharply. Suna was kneeling before you, caressing your leg and urging you to place at his thigh. You don’t know what compelled you to obey, but you did. Resting it on his leg, you felt too exposed – his nose was right at your stomach, his hands touching everywhere but that one place near your heat.

It was torture.

The entire act was done with slow, purposeful motions. Like an artist taking great care with his sculptures, he pressed hard on your hips to keep you in place when you shivered. His strength, his silent gestures that he wouldn’t let you slip and fall – it broke your heart.

Why couldn’t he love you?

Why couldn’t he touch you this way and mean it?

Why did he have to remove his ring?

The glint of the golden material caught your attention from the vanity. You picked it up where he left it last night, unconsciously hugging it to your chest until you fell asleep. Until now, you’d brought it with you, and stared at it hard enough it might’ve melted. It never did, just as he would never belong to you. And then – his finger swiped over your nipple, the cloth on his hands now damp and his breath staggering as he moved to kiss your bare stomach.

You pushed his head away.

Suna stumbled back, barely. He sat there with a dazed expression, the towel he used to dry you with now forgotten. His hands shook in his lap, his eyes blown wide with something you couldn’t quite name – longing, regret, frustration. Whatever it was, it matched yours.

“I’m dry enough,” you told him, snatching off his ring from the counter and flicking it his way. The two of you watched as it stumbled along the ground with a loud clink, clink, clink, before it rolled right at his feet. When you finally found the courage to speak, your voice was so quiet – you couldn’t hear yourself at all. “Wear it. I don’t care that it no longer means anything to you. I won’t have you causing anymore problems for me when your mother asks about it.”

When you and Suna sat next to each other at the dining hall, neither of you spoke a word.

In fact, not a single person present dared to. Her Majesty sat at the head of the table, the clink of her utensil the only thing audible as she furiously cut into her steak. She was furious, that much was obvious. Even Crown Prince Ushijima hadn’t touched his meal, and his young son, barely a boy of eight, had his lips shut the entire time.

Finally, she takes a bite, takes a huge drink of her wine, and slams the glass down. All of you jump at the sound.

“It is not every day we can all be gathered here, but as you are all aware, it is a trifling time for the Crown. We as the royal family need to be united now more than ever,” she announced, her back straight as she looked everyone in the eye. “Which is why I am here to inform everyone of some minor changes we will implement from now on, and some events we have planned for the next season. First of all, Princess–” she pointed her knife your way, “-I need you to hold your mother back. She’s getting on my nerves with all her incessant calling.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she lifted her chin, “Your Mother hasn’t stopped bugging me ever since that article was released. She demands I return her to you, but I think she forgets her place and yours. You are a Princess now; you are the Crown’s property. You are to stay here and see to your duties until you take your last breath.”

Forcing a smile, you willed yourself to calm down. “My mother was merely concerned, Your Majesty. I’m sure she doesn’t mean any harm.”

“Which is exactly why I’m telling you to tell her to stand down. I have already spoken with my advisors our next course of action and have all decided that we will deny Rintaro and Iris’ affair by all means. We are to pretend as if the article never existed. We need to show we are the Crown, the monarchs and rulers of this grand kingdom. We will not be swayed by measly gossip and defaming rumors.”

“But it wasn’t a rumor. The Crown Prince did sleep with the Princess.”

Her Majesty sighed, the sound dramatically drawn out. “Do you have any complaints, my dear? Because if you did, then you should have attended the meeting this morning.”

You gritted your teeth. “I wasn’t informed there was one.”

“That’s a shame – I thought Rintaro would tell you. It seems he likes to keep his secrets, then,” she jabbed, and your husband nervously sipped his wine as you glared at the sides of his head. “Now, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, we planned a few events for this season. For this month, the four of you will be showing up to public events and you are to appear united in marriage. Laugh, kiss, hold hands – I do not care. Just make sure the cameras get it, and if anyone dares ask on any clarifications about the affair, simply tell them that it is very easy to fabricate photographs nowadays. You will deny everything. Understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” agreed Suna, and you scoffed. Snaking his hands under the table, he squeezed yours in assurance and whispered, “Don’t cause a scene in front of the Queen. We will talk later about this.”

“I was hoping we would.”

“Next, Iris and Y/N will be having weekend dates to show they are friends. We have already contacted an orphanage you will pay a visit to. Play with the kids, read storybooks with them, and get as many pictures as possible. Not only will it show that there’s camaraderie between you two, but hanging out with children will also imply that we can expect a next line of heirs soon.”

“A splendid idea!” Atsumu beamed, the first to dig into his meal. Rather, the Prince was halfway finished stuffing his mouth, happily rubbing his hands together at the thought. “This will all be good for the Crown, and to win the people’s trust back.”

“You really don’t know how to shut up, huh?” muttered Osamu.

“Your Majesty. Don’t you think this is going too far?” Tobio spoke up, slamming his hands on the table as he stood up. Beside him, Prince Shinsuke was pleading for him to sit back down. The youngest Prince merely slapped his hands away, looking betrayed by his brother’s words. “Why is no one speaking up? Is this how the royal family really is? You would all lie to your people, deceive them we are all in one heart and mind when we are not. Is that the kind of rulers we aspire to be? Are we really the rulers they look up to?”

Prince Shinsuke pinched the bridge of his nose. “I understand you’re upset, but the throne wouldn’t have lasted this long if none of us pulled some strings and kept up deceiving acts. Trust me, I also do not wish to take a part in this, but Her Majesty is right. The people are already growing restless that we have been without a King for years – having Crown Prince Rintaro’s reputation tarnished will not make this better. And as far as I know, there are still many protests against having an illegitimate child on the throne,” he reminded, causing Prince Ushijima to clear his throat awkwardly. Still, Shinsuke pushed on. “Rintaro is the King the Cabinet wants. We must follow the law. Ushijima can only be crowned King until we have ran out of options.”

Your jaw dropped.

“And what of me?”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, the future of the Kingdom is a heavier matter at hand than your broken heart,” Iris quipped, “Besides, if you knew about our relationship prior to the marriage, then you cannot blame anyone but yourself. You’re in this predicament because you were too cowardly to let go when given the chance.”

“That’s enough!” Tobio yelled. “You all need to stop talking about her like that. You’re all right – the Crown is more important. We need a stable ruler and for the people to not lose their trust in us. But the Princess is still a human. She was lied to, manipulated, and constantly looked down on. The least you can do right now is let her acknowledge her pain, seeing as it is clearly too much for each and every one of you to be decent human beings!”

Her Majesty paid him no mind. Waving her hand in the air dismissively, she sighed. “He is young. He will understand someday.”

At her nonchalance, Tobio’s nostrils flared. It was the last you saw of him before he kicked his chair back, storming out of the hall before everyone erupted into protests. Keiji slunk back into his seat, Shinsuke was immediately making efforts to appease the Queen by apologizing on everyone’s behalf, and Maiko was crying. And you? You glowered at the Queen before following after Tobio, the three other Princes right at your heels.

The doors slammed shut behind you.

You could hear the Princes running after you. Two pairs were rushing, but one pair of footfalls sounded more like stomping. Before you could turn down the hall where Tobio went, you were dragged by, Suna firmly gripping your elbow as he halted you in your tracks.

“Her Majesty was speaking,” he hissed, fingers digging harder to your skin. “Don’t be rude.”

“Oh, fuck off, Rintaro. I can’t believe you right now. Letting me be friends with your mistress? Really? And you didn’t even tell me there was a meeting this morning!”

His free hand ran through his hair. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you would act like this. You would’ve embarrassed me in front of the advisors. Besides, you left before I could–”

“I embarrass you? Do you even hear yourself? You’re the embarrassing one for going behind my back and sleeping with your mistress–”

“She’s not my mistress!”

“Isn’t she? I wasn’t aware there was another word to describe a woman frolicking with a married man!”

His grip grew tighter as he spoke, and you squeaked out in pain. You tried to pry his fingers off of you, but Suna wasn’t having any of it. “You’re one to talk, leaving me here in this country to go around dancing with my brother–” Your husband’s face disappeared before you. In the blink of an eye, he was shoved nearly across the room and falling right at his ass.

Kiyoomi stood protectively over you, his chest rising and falling as he shook with anger.

“Stay away from my wife!”

Meanwhile, Tooru dodged between Suna and Kiyoomi, the former rising on his feet and reeling his arm back in a punch. Tooru effortlessly caught his brother’s arm, but holding him back was a different struggle of itself. “Rin, that’s enough!”

“Are you okay?”

You blinked back from the scene. Kiyoomi was now holding your arm where Suna grabbed you, checking for any injuries. Aside from a little aching, and a possible bruise that would show up tomorrow, you were unharmed. Still, the Prince wasn’t assured. His thick brows pinched together in concern, turning your arm over and over as he muttered to himself the violent things he wished to do to his brother. “Did he hurt you?”

“Not really, but I want to go after Tobio.”

Kiyoomi nodded in understanding. “Go. I’ll handle this.”

You shared a knowing look with him. I’m on your side, his eyes said, and that was enough to reassure you. Giving him a nod, you quickly turned on your heels and ran. You ran and ran until you were out of breath, your corset digging into you uncomfortably. The youngest Prince sure was a fast one – he’d already reached his own study in such a short time.

Peeking through the partially closed door, your heart broke at the sight.

Prince Tobio sat on his painter’s stool, an unfinished portrait of you – smiling in your wedding dress – lay before him. He was crying, sniffling to himself and wiping his tears with the collar of his blouse. Even the sounds of his cries were too painful to hear.

Shutting the door behind you, you took your place behind him, gently squeezing his shoulders to make him look up. When he did, his bloodshot eyes greeted you.

“I’m sorry you had to witness all of that,” you tell him softly, “I didn’t mean to ruin breakfast for you.”

Tobio shook his head. He pulled out a handkerchief before blowing on it, and you smiled despite yourself – he’d grown so much, yet he was still that sweet, naïve boy in your eyes. It felt like a lifetime ago when he had his debut, and now he was flourishing into such a great, young man. Your little brother, the sweetest Prince – you would do anything for him.

“You don’t need to apologize for anything, sis. You’re the victim here.”

You laughed a little. Victim sounded too poor of a word choice. Turning to the canvas before you, you gestured to it. “What are you painting?”

“You,” he admitted with red cheeks, “I started on this when Rintaro announced he’d be marrying you so I could give it as a wedding gift. But Her Majesty wanted me to focus on my studies, so I didn’t have enough time to finish. I mean, it’s not even the same dress you wore on your wedding so it’s inaccurate–”

“-It looks beautiful.”

“It’s still unfinished,” his shoulders slumped in your flattery before he lightened up, already moving to pick up the brushes as he wiped his snot with his hanky. “Since you’re here, would you like me to paint you as you are now? I’ll get a new canvas.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to lose all your efforts on your previous painting.”

“It’s fine,” he reassured, and per his instruction, you sat stiffly to ‘pose’ for him. It’s a little awkward, and Tobio struggled to sketch you each time you fidgeted, but at least he wasn’t crying anymore. Midway through his sketch, though, he placed his pencil down, his eyes brimming with tears again. “I still can’t believe Rintaro was capable of being so cruel. I’ll never forgive him for what he did,” he said, his lower lip quivering. “Are they really like this? Is everyone in the Palace truly so heartless? Will I… never find love of my own, too?”

“Oh, Tobio,” you reached your arms out, crushing him to your chest. The Prince’s tears dampened your dress, though you paid it no mind. He was too young for all this hurt – this war over the crown. He was too good for a cruel place like this. “It will get easier someday.”

Fisting your skirt, he buried his face to your neck, his whole body shivering under you. “I never wanted to be a Prince. I-I wanted to keep playing sports and go pro someday. There’s a whole world out there for me to see, and I’m so afraid I’ll never become the person I want to be. I’m afraid I might turn out like my brothers.”

You pulled back to make him look at you. Cupping his face with your hands, you shook your head firmly. “That’s not true, Tobio. You’re already a thousand times better than your brothers. Look, you’re sweet, kind, and passionate. Who says you don’t deserve to achieve your dreams? You can be who you want to be. You can see the world. I promise you that I’ll support you in anything you want to do. Anything.”

“Really?” grinning, he wiped his cheeks free from his tears. “Then… will you come to my game? There’s a match and the Coach just added me to the team. It… Well, it might be a good opportunity for you and everyone else to show you’re unaffected by the scandal, too.”

“Oh, forget the scandal. I only want to see you play,” you tell him, and the Prince’s innocent smile is so big and bright it soothed all the aches in your heart. You promised to yourself, then and there, that you would do what it takes to protect that smile. “Now, should we get to this painting?”

That talk with Tobio filled you with unwavering resolve.

The poor boy didn’t deserve to spend a minute longer in the Palace. It simply wasn’t a place for him. He needed to be out there, living his life to the fullest, and to be surrounded by good people who were healthy for him. Not his greedy, cheating brothers, and most especially not with the heartless Queen as his only mother figure.

You had to do something for him. You had to weaken the throne even further, exploit their weakness and make the monarchy crumble. If not for you, then you would do it for Tobio.

It was the reason you’d gained enough courage to dial the number weighing heavily in your pockets long before Itachiyama. That piece of paper Kiyoomi slipped into your coat just before you parted ways. You should’ve known it back then – Kiyoomi was somehow always one step ahead of you. It’s like he knew what you wanted to happen before you said out loud. What you needed before you told him what it was. And you’d done it – scheduled the meeting, hired a private chauffer, and rented out a restaurant in the middle of nowhere at the dead time of the night before you could change your mind.

Do it For Tobio. For Kiyoomi. For you.

He arrived not a minute later than the designated time. He stood tall and confident – seemingly unbothered by the mass of hate he’d accumulated. Sauntering in through the doors with a smirk, he let out a low whistle, impressed with the lack of people. You had promised him privacy, after all, and if you wanted to succeed in your plans, you couldn’t be shy in splurging a little bit of money.

“Kuroo Tetsurou, was it?”

“Your Highness,” he greeted with a bow, his smile growing wider as he pulled out his chair. He’s handsome, with a smile you wouldn’t deem trustworthy, and he held an aura to him that warned you to tread carefully. He was, after all, the man who singlehandedly exposed your husband’s affair. “I am flattered by your efforts, though I must admit. I did not expect you would reach out to me of all people. I assumed you wanted my head.”

You offer him a polite smile. “You have it all wrong. In fact, I’m thankful for the opportunity you’ve presented to me,” leaning forward, you slid a thin envelope his way. Inside it contained a document of your own words, one you trusted Kuroo would twist to sound more convincing. “I want you to publish another article.”

Kuroo’s eyes widened. He waited for a beat, a moment or two, for you to say you didn’t mean it. You could’ve been joking. But you hold his gaze, your smile just as firm, refusing to waver from his intense gaze. “With all due respect, Ma’am, I think I’m already in enough trouble for that last one.”

Fair enough. You didn’t think he’d be that easy to convince.

Reaching beside you, you pulled out a case and clicked open the locks for him. If Kuroo was surprised before, he was most definitely flabbergasted by now. Wads of cash piled against each other stared back at him – temping him to reach out and take it. Smiling to yourself, you gently nudged the case in his direction.

“This is half of what I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you twice as much once you’ve done your part,” you promised, “You don’t need to fear, Mr. Kuroo. I’ll guarantee your protection if you do this for me.”

Kuroo chuckled to himself. Shutting the case back shut, he was quick to slide it to his side – deal done and closed. “If a lovely Princess is asking so nicely, I can’t possibly turn it down, can I?” pulling out a small notebook from his coat, Kuroo uncaps his pen with a twist of his teeth. “So let’s get into it. What story do you want, Ma’am? Do you want the truth or… something more scandalous than your husband’s affair?”

“I want you to ruin Iris,” you declared, “Inside that envelope is a list of people the Princess frequently interacts with, as well as records from her history dating back from when she moved here with mother. I want you to look into everything and pick apart whatever could destroy her reputation. There are secrets that she keeps, and I want them out in the public.”

Kuroo doesn’t bother writing that down. “Her reputation is well ruined already, Ma’am. I doubt much could make it worse.”

Your brow shoots up. “Are you doubting my abilities or questioning my demands?”

“Neither,” he reassured with a mischievous grin, “I shall write something about her, then, but what about the Crown Prince? Do I still have the assurance of your protection if he comes after me for messing with his precious little thing?”

Oh, please. His ‘precious little thing’ doesn’t even want him.

Spinning your wedding finger with your thumb, you stared at it. “Tell me, Kuroo. You’re a journalist, one that wasn’t invited at that private party my husband was in. So why were you there that night? Most importantly, how did you get their photos?” you brought your gaze back up to him, “You’re not secretly planning for the downfall of the crown, are you?”

Kuroo scratched the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Your Highness. But to answer your question, then no, I wasn’t invited. I wouldn’t even know a single thing about their affair if it wasn’t for one of you.”

“One of us?” you echoed, “Are you saying someone in the royal family hired you as well?”

“Indeed. Though I must say, I never expected working with just one of you could have me set for life. What more if I teamed up with you too?”

So your theories were right. That article didn’t appear out of nowhere – someone wanted it to happen. “It was Iris, wasn’t it? She asked you to publish that because she knew I was with her husband… but that wouldn’t make any sense. That article puts her in a bad light. It couldn’t be her, right?”

“You’ll be surprised, Ma’am, but it was not the Princess,” he clarified.

Kuroo’s face pinched in contemplation, and then suddenly, pulls out a different phone from his pockets. It’s a beat-up iPhone with its battery nearly dead, but with a few clicks here and there, the video played loud and clear. The camera is shaky, the angles all wrong. Whoever recorded it clearly seemed to be inebriated. Yet there it was – the unmistakable masculine voice groaning, the slapping of skin against each other, and a high-pitched womanly moan. The camera caught nothing but long, blond hair flowing on top of her bouncing breasts before the camera was flipped, finally showing the culprit –

“Atsumu?”

Atsumu gripped Yuki’s hips, shoving the phone between their bodies to show the pistoning of his cock in and out of her. There was no point denying it now. Both their faces were clear from the video, and if this got out…

Kuroo paused the video. “I’m not supposed to be showing you this, but the Prince hasn’t kept up to his end of the bargain, so I might as well ask for your help, too,” shutting the phone off, Kuroo rested his chin on his hands. “That night, he slept with an intoxicated actress and accidentally filmed themselves in the act. The Prince was drunk himself, made the mistake of posting that video online, and merely eighteen minutes later, any traces of their sex tape disappeared. Curious?”

The pieces of the puzzle finally fit.

“He called you to write about Iris and Rintaro to cover up his scandal.”

He snapped his fingers. “Bingo! And he succeeded, even if it was an impulsive decision on his side. Still, the Prince paid me handsomely because he was desperate, but he hasn’t offered me protection like he promised. I’m being hunted down by the Queen’s goons as we speak. Isn’t that why you offered to have me chauffeured here?”

You knew Kuroo prioritized his safety over money due to his current predicament. It was the reason why you risked sneaking out of the Palace and meeting him alone. His terms were clear – no witnesses, no guards, just you and him. You would keep to your word if it meant cornering Iris, but with Atsumu and that poor actress thrown into the mix… things just got more complicated.

Reaching out for Kuroo, you squeezed his hand. “You will be safe with me. I promise you this.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

You glanced at the iPhone between you two. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Kuroo, but now that you know he’d do pretty much anything for money, you couldn’t risk it. It wasn’t just Atsumu’s reputation you were worried about – firstly, Rintaro would kill him if he found out it was all his doing. Second, that poor actress. She rose to fame in her career recently; this would ruin her image. If things took the wrong turn, who was to stop the Queen from forcing the two to get married if that tape was leaked? You couldn’t risk any cracks in your plan.

“Kuroo, may I have that phone?”

“It’s all yours if you throw in another five grand, Princess.”

“Consider it mine then.”

You and Kuroo left immediately after everything was settled. Just as promised, you would cover all his travel expenses. He would stay overseas to ensure his protection while he reached out to his connections to get all the information he needed, and once the article was ready, he’d publish it and disappear from the media. You covered that too – he was paid enough to live comfortably while in hiding. Now, you only needed to wait for everything to go according to plan.

First, the downfall of Iris. Next, her separation with Kiyoomi without having to let Rin ascend to the throne. And once she’s finally out of the picture, you’ll move on to your beloved husband. You’ll seduce him, have him fall completely to your whim, make him realize he could never have anyone like you again – and once he’s wrapped around your finger, you’ll plea for divorce.

A heart for a heart. A marriage for a marriage.

And if the odds play into your favor at the end of it all, there’s only one destination in mind: Kiyoomi’s farmhouse in Itachiyama.

You smiled to yourself – it would work out. You had a good feeling about it. Kiyoomi is supporting you and acting as your spy, Kita is backing you up on the grounds for divorce, and the nation has unwaveringly showed their support for you in these trying times. After all, you were just the poor, neglected wife. They expected you to spend your days crying and chasing after your deceitful husband, or to simply take it all – be silent and smile for the cameras.

Fuck what the Queen said. You won’t let her win.

Driving back to the Palace, you glanced at the time. It’s almost four in the morning, and soon, Her Majesty would be beginning her routine and expecting her daily calls from the Princes. Pressing harder on the gas, you sped up until a glint catches your eye. You glance at the rearview mirror, eyes widening at the fast approaching car from behind – a sleek, black car with the royal family’s crest on it. Shit. But – it couldn’t be the royal guards. You’d made sure no one would see you, and Airi had gotten your note to slip some sleeping pills into Rintaro’s tea so you could sneak out. Kiyoomi was informed of your plans, too, and he’d reassured he’d hold the fort down while you dealt with Kuroo.

Unless Iris had snooped through his phone and found everything out, then –

You wasted no time. You drove faster, reaching for the gun in your glove compartment as the roaring of the car behind you moved in closer and closer. Heart pounding in your chest, you speed-dialed Kiyoomi, praying to any God who was listening that he would pick up. It couldn’t be Iris, it shouldn’t be her. God forbid she does anything to provoke you into pulling the trigger.

Infidelity was one thing, but the murder of a royal family member was not something one could merely frown at. You didn’t want to be thrown into jail.

The call did not push through.

“Fuck!” you slammed your feet on the gas, watching as the car sped up even more until it was now next to you. You were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but the mammoth of trees and a never ending road with darkness clouding the path. Just then, the windows rolled down, and you waited with bated breath as the face finally came into view.

Dark hair was the first thing you saw. The windows rolled down, down, down, until you were staring deep into your husband’s eyes. Brow cocked, he smirked, raising the phone to show he’d been calling you – that’s why you couldn’t call Kiyoomi. Suna was interrupting the line. Shit, how was he even awake right now?

Moreover, how did he find you?

You scowled to yourself. There was no outrunning him now. Suna was a ridiculously good driver, and there was no way you would ever use a gun on him. Steeling yourself, you forced yourself to regulate your breathing – your efforts boon when Suna suddenly pressed on forward until he was a feet away from you, maneuvered his car with the hood facing your direction, and then just – stopped.

Bracing your hands on the wheel, you forced all your energy to release its power on the slamming of your brakes. The skidding of your car squeaked for what seemed like minutes until finally – finally – your came to a halt. You were breathing hard, the back of your head aching from the impact of it crashing to the headrest. Meanwhile, Suna opened his car doors in slow, languid movements, the ends of his leather black trench coat hitting the pavement. With nothing but the headlights of his car illuminating him, he looked more like an omen of death than a Prince – dressed in a white turtleneck, black pants, and a long coat that highlighted his tall figure. He looked ominous, like he carried sorrow and pain with him – pain that he was about to make you feel.

Because you knew – of course you knew; you knew him better than anyone – that the placid smile he wore was anything but.

He slammed the car doors shut. Leaning against the hood, Suna’s gloved hands reached for a lighter in his pocket as he lit his cigarette, the stick hanging from between his lips. As soon as it flickered, he pocketed the lighter back, using two of his fingers to make a ‘come hither’ gesture at you.

Clearly, you spoke too early. The odds were not in your favor.

You exited your vehicle, hands gripping the edges of the door as you gathered to courage to take one more step towards him. It wasn’t that you were afraid – he wouldn’t hurt you, not really. But too much could be taken away from you in such little time – Kuroo couldn’t have gone far, and Atsumu’s sex tape was still in the backseat. You didn’t trust Rintaro to not ruin your plans. And you wouldn’t let him, not now when you were so close to victory.

One step, two steps, three steps – your heels clicked against the road as you walked, making sure to keep your chin pointed north. Hips swaying to the side, you finally ended up before him – right between his spread legs – your husband leaning back at the hood of his car whilst he sized you up, his free hand resting behind him.

“Funny seeing you here,” he drawled out, his voice thick with barely-held back rage. “They told me you were sleeping, but last time I checked, driving while falling asleep was illegal.”

“Cheating is also illegal.”

“Your comebacks are getting old, my love.”

Your head snapped to his direction. He hadn’t called you that in forever, not since you’d returned from your honeymoon. To have him call you that now, with such a deeply rich, smooth voice and sounding like he’d just woken up, all breathy and rasp – could it be possible to fuck someone to death?

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” tipping his head to the side, Suna’s lips slowly formed into a smirk. He took a drag of his cigarette, keeping his eyes on yours as he wrapped those lips around the stick – delicately and tantalizingly slow – just like how he did when he worshipped you in bed. You breathed out hard and attempted to take a step back, but he was having none of it. Swiftly, he’d tugged on your shirt to pull you close to him, causing you to stumble and fall into his lap. Above you, your husband’s chest rumbled with amusement.

“Look at you. Always so weak for me.”

He leaned in close, his scent of smoke and expensive woodsy perfume enveloping you. It’s addicting, just as he is, and your knees grew weak. Your legs slid down just as Suna wraps a strong arm around your waist to hitch you back in place, your core resting above his thigh. There, he spreads you open with just his knees, his warm lips suddenly attaching themselves to your neck. You gasped out, hands falling to his shoulders in a measly attempt to pull him away – and oh.

Suna had different plans in mind.

“You,” he breathed in your ear, his gloved fingers popping the button of your blouse one by one. “cannot get rid of me that easily, Your Highness. You can slip in as many drugs you want in my drinks, you can kill me a hundred times and fuck me over again and again, but don’t you dare forget,” growling lowly in your ear, your husband took your chin in his hands and forced you to gaze deep into his eyes – pools of hazel swirling with need and wrath – “Not even death can do us part. I’ll keep on looking for you even if you try to hide at the ends of the earth.”

[bb-eilish]

I NEED taboo anakin somno shit NOWWW. The worse, the better. The more fucked up and taboo, the better

yes!!

—somnophilia with dilf!anakin who’s your fiancés older brother

-might make something similar but with boyfriend’s dad anakin. This was kinda tame tbh.

She was already pushing it with her fiancé, he was 10 years older than her. Now she was really pushing it since his older brother was around 20 years older than her. Who could blame her though? He was tall, classy, so charming, and unbelievably sexy.

“Not sure golfing is for me after all .” Her fiancé laughed, he finished telling a golf story to the table, which consisted of his mother, father, and older brother. Her fingers mindlessly played with his own as he spoke, she wasn’t there mentally. Not with the way his older brother’s eyes would catch hers every few minutes.

They’ve all had a few drinks and she blamed the incessant lustful thoughts on it. Why else would she be imagining Anakin’s strong hands? Maybe they’d pull her hair, force themselves into her mouth, inside of her. Even just the thought of how well they could grip her skin made her head dizzy. But the way her eyelids began to droop and become heavy wasn’t something she could ignore any longer. With a soft, sleepy yawn, she tapped her soon-to-be husband’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go to sleep, okay?” He nodded, barely registering what she was saying before going back to speaking.

“Goodnight guys, I’ll see you in the morning.” The smile that graced her face faltered slightly as she made eye contact with Anakin again, her skin felt as though it was going to catch fire as it warmed. He rubbed a hand over his chin as he said goodnight, the small act seemingly very loud. The tension between them, unknown to everybody else, steadily rose and it had her walking a bit quicker up the stairs to the guest room.

It was wrong, obviously. No matter how much her body craved whatever skills he possessed, it was wrong. With a huff, she got ready for bed, soon crawling under the covers almost half asleep.

The dreams conjured up in her unconscious mind weren’t any better than the day dreaming she’s been doing. In her dreams Anakin had a sinful way of talking, a sinful way of touching her.

“That’s it, god I want my cum leaking out of your nose” He’d say, gripping her hair tightly as he forced her further down his cock. He shivered at the tightness of her throat as he slid into it. “Would you like that?” His deep voice was velvety, painfully smooth as he spoke. All she could do was moan around him, spit bubbling from the sides of her mouth.

Back at the table Anakin excused himself, saying he was going to the bathroom. His tall figure stalked up the stairs, stopping in front of the guest bedroom’s door. He leaned closer, slowing his breathing to check if he could hear her. It was silent, proving that she was probably asleep.

With a gentle turn of the doorknob, he pushed the door open, his eyes landing on her sleeping figure almost immediately.

His heart beat faster in his chest as he shut the door behind him, stepping closer to gaze at her sleeping face, the only light came from the tv that softly played in the background. From what he could tell, she was perfect. Perfect face, perfect lips, perfect body.

Oh, he loved her body. The way she’d wear low cut tops, her cleavage almost spilling from the fabric. The pants she’d wear were tight, sometimes too tight and he’d have to excuse himself to jerk off in the bathroom. All he wanted was to get his hands, his mouth on her and do as he pleased. He knew he could treat her better, fuck her better than his brother. She needed a man like him, someone who could handle her, fuck her tired when she couldn’t sleep, when she was bratty, he’d do it all with a smile.

He’d teach her how to be the perfect whore, he knew she’d be eager to please him, to learn how to take it.

His pants tightened at the thought and he couldn’t stop himself from hooking his fingers in the comforter and dragging it down to her ankles. She was wearing a tank top and shorts, shorts that would have killed him if she wore them around him. The globes of her ass strained the material and he thanked whatever god was listening to his prayers and brought her into his life.

“So pretty.” He mumbled, his voice thick with need. The shorts were cute but had to go so he softly yanked them down and off, leaving them discarded on the floor. He bit down a smile at the panties she adorned, white lace, it was almost like she was doing this on purpose.

His gaze flicked upward, checking if she was stirring awake at all. When he knew it was safe to keep going he spread her legs, almost moaning at her panty-clad mound. It took every ounce of self restraint to not tear the lacy material off and force his aching cock inside of her.

She laid on her stomach, shielding her breasts from him which he didn’t really appreciate. He thought about flipping her over but that was too risky and he was on a time crunch. So he pushed down his pants and boxers just enough to free his cock, his hand lazily stroking as he positioned himself behind her. She had such an effect on him, his tip already leaking pearls of pre cum as he pushed her panties to the side.

The gentle musk of her had his eyes rolling to the back of his head, oh what he wouldn’t give to press his face against her pussy and live out the rest of his days there. Another shaky breath left him as he leaned on his hands over her, guiding himself to her core.

The first touch had goosebumps spreading over his clothed skin, and this time he couldn’t stop himself from fully pushing forward and filling her up. His mouth parted and his hips stuttered at the heavenly feel of her tight walls enveloping him. It took a few soft thrusts to fully get inside her but he didn’t care, the house could be burning down at that moment and he still wouldn’t have cared.

She made a few sounds in her sleep, moving a little but didn’t wake up. His gaze was fierce as he stared at the side of her face as his thrusts picked up, her eyebrows knit together a moment later. Lowering himself to her back, his chest pressed against it and he nudged his hands under her to get to her breasts, harshly groping when he made contact. Anakin lets out a strained groan into her neck, feeling like he was on cloud nine.

He fucked her like they’ve been married for years, like this wasn’t the first time, like she wasn’t engaged to his little brother. Her body lunged forward every thrust and soon her eyes were creaking open.

He didnt care, his hand made quick work of leaving her breast and pressing tightly against her mouth. His cock twitched when she fully came to and tried to push him off, her feeble attempts made this so much hotter.

“‘uh-uh, baby, you’re not going anywhere. Be a good girl and take it.” He panted into her ear, his forehead pressed against the side of her head.

She was beyond confused, but the one thing she knew is that he felt amazing in her. Anakin’s tip kissed her cervix every thrust, her fiancé had never done that before.

Anakin was big, she could feel the veins on his shaft, she could feel how he split her in half to accommodate his size. It was mind numbing as he picked up the pace, even just the way his broad frame shadowed her own. He could break her in half if he wanted and it had a muffled whimper leaving her throat.

The man above her smirked, it was lewd and predatory. He was right, she was a whore, a slut for good dick. He hummed against her ear, pressing harder against her mouth so her head was pushed back further. He slowed his hips, opting for pushing deeper in her.

She groaned into his hand, pushing back into his hips as best she could, trying to signal for him to speed up again. He chuckled darkly, digging his teeth into his bottom lip, the action threatened to draw blood but he didnt pay any mind to it.

Most people would’ve been distraught by now, but not her. She wanted this and he knew it. She stuffed her hand down and into her panties, toying with her puffy clit in fast circles.

“You want more? You’re fucking pathetic, begging your fiancé’s brother to fuck you faster. What would he say if he saw you dripping all over my dick? Hm? If he saw you being fucked stupid.” He taunted cruelly, he decided to drive into her again, fast enough to make her brain stop working but not fast enough to have the bed make any noise.

The realness of his words caused her stomach to tighten in worry, but the idea that his brother could walk in any moment and catch them had her squeezing Anakin’s cock and coming around him hard. A broken moan leaves her, still muffled by his hand thankfully. Humiliation nips at her because of how fast she came, but she couldn’t help it. She’s touched herself to this exact scenario multiple times, being taken roughly and without choice by him.

The euphoric feeling had her toes curling, her fingers digging into the sheets below, and her eyes rolling.

“That’s a good girl, pussy so fucking tight.” The feeling of her orgasm had his balls tightening, he was getting close. Her gummy, wet walls almost suctioning around him was lethal, and he would happily die right then and there. Lodged in the most perfect pussy he’s ever fucked.

“Gonna cum inside you, fill you up. Kay, baby?” She nodded quickly, sweat dripping down the sides of her face. Anakin wasn’t any better, drops of sweat dripped onto her hair and the back of her neck.

A muffled “please” came from her and he groaned, probably a bit too loud before his hips stuttered once more. He pressed himself as far as he could inside her and pressed his face into the junction of her neck and shoulder, painting her walls white.

“That’s it, taking it so well.” He murmured, gently thrusting before coming to a stop. The pair panted, catching their breaths before he gripped her hips and pulled out. White leaked from her abused hole, making it almost impossible for Anakin to get up.

But he did, pulling his pants and boxers back up. She thought he was going to leave just like that, but he leaned over to firmly grasp her hair, tugging her head backwards so he could duck down and sloppily connect their lips. It’s all teeth and tongue but has a familiar feeling stirring in her gut again.

“Don’t waste what I gave you, I’ll check tomorrow.” His gaze bores into hers and she dumbly nods. Tapping her cheek meanly, he stood back up straight, stretching his arms to get rid of the stiffness in his joints before he cast one last glance at her debauched form and left. She tried to call out to him softly but he didn’t turn back, only shutting the door silently.

[bbsworld1]

—————————————————————————————————————

“Master?”

————————————————————————

tags: kissing, smut, making out, friends to lovers, dry humping, oral sex, vaginal fingering, riding

summary: After finishing a task your master had given you, you complain to Qimir. Considering you should be your masters acolyte, he’s refusing… with Mae around it seems like he's almost replacing you. Qimir reassures you that everything is alright… but how does he know how your master feels?

————————————————————————

After a long errand run you stop by Qimir, your best friend to boast about your tiring and annoying day. “I should just give up, it’s not like he needs me anymore.” you groan, walking into Qimirs shop. “I’m sick of Mae stealing the spotlight, I mean… I was the original for christ sake.” sounding like a child throwing a fuss. “I know I sound stupid but he should acknowledge my loyalty for once.”

“How are you so sure?” Qimir lifted his head from the machinery he was inspecting.

“All I do is basically finish his grocery list like i’m his mother or something while Mae is out doing my work.” You drop your gear and head over to the seat beside Qimir. “Seems like you’re just giving him a helping hand, I mean look at the bright side, atleast you don’t have to do the dirty work.” Qimir puts down what he was working on to give his attention to you. “Yeah yeah I get it but the whole point was that I wanted to be by his side and help him, I don’t mind doing the dirty work.” You say feeling hurt by how committed you’ve always been to your master. You flash Qimir a look of hopelessness.

Tears slowly begin to form, you close your eyes and take a deep breath to hide it but Qimir catches it. “Hey, hey listen… you are one of the most highly skilled assassin’s don’t talk yourself down like that.” He rested a hand on your thigh for a moment, you didn’t catch the faint blush on his cheeks. “You don’t need to end it now.” Qimir says. “What if he wants me to? It’s obvious enough he has better help. If he keeps training Mae and sending me off, sooner or later i’ll be done for good.” You say, hopeless.

“Trust me, he needs you now more than ever.” Qimir says breathlessly.

“How would you know?” I say leaning closer to him, remembering how Qimir had lightly brushed your thigh just a few moments ago. You had always had a thing for Qimir but you couldn’t ruin your friendship, not in the middle of training to become your masters acolyte.

“because…” Qimir trailed off nervously. “you’re an amazing woman… strongest one I know, gentle and kind and I know he sees your potential to become even better.”

Qimir always knew what to say to make you blush. “Yeah?” You say, out of breath from the close proximity as your bodies grew closer and closer. “Yeah, I always know what someone is thinking.”

“Then what am I thinking about right now?” Tilting your head and flicking between Qimirs lips and eyes. “I think… you want to kiss me.” was the last words whispered from Qimir as he closes the gap. You both slowly ease into the kiss, you slowly move to straddle Qimir in the chair, pressing your bodies against each other. You place one hand on the side of his neck and another dragging through his hair. Qimir lets out a slight whimper as you tug lightly on his hair. You feel Qimir swipe his tongue swipe across your lip, pleading for entrance. You open your mouth allowing him to explore deeper. Qimir breaks the kiss to lift you and carry you onto the random sofa in the back of the shop.

He sets you on top of him, straddling him with his hands on your hips. You bend to place your head in the crook of his neck giving light sucks and nibbling right below his ear. “shit sunshine…” he breathes, eyes filled with lust. Just as you were about to continue you sensed a familiarity with the nickname… until it hit you… “master?” You say.

He smiles with his forehead rested against yours.

“So you finally figured it out,” he grins.

I just kissed my master. The Qimir i’ve known forever was my master. I smack him on the arm. “Hey!” Qimir says, “It was going so well.” “Why are you giving me these tasks? I’m supposes to be your acolyte and you’ve listened to me complain about you this whole time?” I say, ashamed of how I had been acting earlier. “Y/n, I can’t have you as my acolyte because i’m afraid of loosing you and I don’t know what I would do with myself if you were ever hurt.” He admits.

I let a sly smile pass me hearing his words. “Come here.” He says, “why don’t we finish what we started hmm?” He says as his hand wraps around the back of my neck. “mhm, i’d like that.” You say. This kiss is more passionate, filled with deep feelings and meaning.

You slowly begin to rock your hips against Qimirs growing erection protruding beneath the thing pieces of clothing he had on. He threw his head back and let out a strained groan, giving you a clear shot to attack his neck.

You slowly slide your hands beneath his shirt feeling his soft skin as his breathing quickened and his chest rose up and down quickly. “Just hurry up, please, I can’t take much of it longer.” Qimir breathes out. You lift his shirt over his head to reveal his sculpted body, running your hands through his body, “What do you need baby?” You say, out of breath. “Please..” He says. “Please what?” You say. “Touch me.” He says.

You place your hand over his erection. He winces and bucks his hips to get some friction, you palm him through his pants. “Come on, don’t tease me like that..” he says, sucking in a breath. “Patience.” You say.

He reaches to lift your shirt and you pull it over and throw it to the side. Qimir slowly analyzes your body, “beautiful.” He says, at a loss of words. Your blush becomes more prominent. Qimir reaches up to unclip your bra from the back in one swift movement. One hand reaches up to your breast to fondle the skin, attaching his mouth to the other and sucking and nibbling on your nipple. You hiss, tightly grabbing at his hair. He hums leaving vibrations on your chest.

Qimir swiftly flips you onto your back with him looming over you. He leans in, trailing kisses down from your neck to the lining of your pants. He looks up with pleading eyes. “Please, I’ve been needing to taste you for so long sunshine.” He asks, practically begging. You couldn’t say no. “Of course.” You say.

He immediately pulls down your pants to reveal your panties, soaked from his previous actions. “So wet already, just for me.” he whispers, nudging his nose between your thighs.

He slowly kisses between each thigh, worshiping your body. He finally reaches your heat, slowly licking through the fabric. You moan in frustration. “Stop teasing.” You say. He ignores your moans as he slowly pulls down your panties agonizingly. Once they’re fully off he wastes no time wrapping his arms around your thighs to hold you down, he began licking and sucking like you were his last meal. Your hand gripped his hair sending vibrations from his moans directly to your pussy.

His head was pressed between your shaking thighs as his hands held you firm against the edge of the couch. One hand held his head against you, nearly nose deep in your cunt. The other gripped the couch cushion so tight your knuckles went white.

“Qi…” Your moaning kept him going. He wanted to taste every bit of you left.

He slowly placed one finger into you, and you reacted instantly. Arching your back off the couch as he was fingering you and sucking on your clit. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you came.

He let you ride out your high on his tongue as your juices spilled out. “Fuck, you’re really good” You say in shock. “Looks like we have a problem, mind if i take care of that?” You say, pointing to the obvious bulge leaking precum from the fabric of his underwear.

“I need you.” Qimir says in a faint whisper, crawling up towards you. “You have me.” You say, flipping Qimir over and propping your hips right over his clothed cock. You move over to pull his underwear revealing his erect penis. You begin playing with the tip, tracing your finger around the slit. Your hand then makes its way along the shaft, stroking it. He lets out a breath. You continue like that for a bit. All you can see is the back of his head but you can tell his mouth is slightly opened, whining and whimpering.

“Please I need it.” He says, begging. “Want me to ride you?” You say. He leans in to kiss you, taking that as a yes. You grab his erect cock teasing it along your entrance. He lets out a low moan. “Stop teasing please…” He says, breathing heavy. You finally slide the tip in, adjusting to his size.

Qimir closes his eyes with his mouth hanging open.You begin swaying up and down, small gasps leaving your mouth each time you go down. Qimirs hands move to your thighs squeezing them, they then make their way up. He watches your breast bounce as you move up and down. You kiss him every now and again.

Knowing you can't last long on top you begin to speed up your pace before your legs give out due to exhaustion. The slaps of sounds your body makes when it comes in contact with his, combined with your moans and his gasps sound like a bizarre orchestra. Your legs ache and beads of sweat fall from your head onto his abdomen.

You keep that pace until you slowly start to feel your body and Qimirs tighten. You feel a sudden wave about to crash over you. As you begin to loose your pace, Qimir grabs your hips and bucks his hips into you, reaching the deepest parts of you. You gasp, tugging his hair one last time before you feel his throbbing cock before finally finishing in you. You continue the ride, finally finishing a few seconds after him. You clench as you milk his cock. Clutching each others sweaty bodies.

Your legs finally give out as you rest beside Qimir.

After catching your breaths, Qimir turns to face you, kissing your forehead and engulfing you in a hug. A way of saying 'I love you' without having to say it. It is moments like these where you wish you could freeze time.

“You know… I don’t really mind those little errands you put me up to after all.” You say with a smirk.

Qimir laughs, wrapping his arms around you, kissing you on your forehead. You slowly fall into a deep sleep.

“Sweet dreams, sunshine.”

[agendabymooner]

SOMETHING JEALOUS !!! DANIEL R. X FEM!READER feat. lando norris (18+)

summary: jealous danny = generous danny. (part two-ish to something watchful)

content warning: use of explicit language, smut under the cut (minors dni!), not proofread, dubcon, pwp, voyeurism (danny makes lando watch, consensual) + masturbation (m), filthy filthy content, dom!daniel x sub!reader (and dom!lando), based on a request from my inbox

note: the max verstappen smut reached 1,000+ notes 😗 enjoy xx

something sinful (smut) masterlist

a - n masterlist

o - z masterlist

lando furrowed his brows at the sight of her, watching as she pouted. her gaze was going to burn a hole into the booth table, lando thought as he looked around the headache inducing and strobe light flickering room. where the fuck was her boyfriend, daniel?

“he’s with some chick over there,” the british man must’ve spoken aloud because of how she answered the question without any amusement in her tone. she gestured at the bar area, where lando found daniel ricciardo chatting up with some lady with his typical grin. 

what the fuck was danny doing making someone laugh that wasn’t his girlfriend? 

“fucking beats me, lando,” she huffed out.

“shit did i say that out loud?” lando asked as she nodded with a begrudging expression. “never mind that— why are you pouting and sulking, girl?” 

“it happens whenever your boyfriend would come chatting with people that aren’t you,” she said grimly.

“cheer up,” lando grinned, slinging his arm around her. in a drunken haze, he hadn’t minded his actions but if he was sober he knew how poor this would be for his friendship with daniel. 

daniel was possessive. everyone knew that.

every driver in the grid knew that no matter how much they'd drooled over his girlfriend. everyone’s mothers knew not to get too close whenever she was around.

lando was playing with fire but he couldn’t help it; his buzzed self wanted to comfort his friend— his friend’s girlfriend. 

and daniel had immediately seen it. the aussie’s sight darkened when he found his girlfriend laughing with lando while they chatted amongst themselves. 

she seemed to be having fun, which was good for certain reasons but daniel only wished he could cut lando’s arms off as he watched the british man get a little too comfortable and close to her. 

it was almost as if the woman that daniel was chatting with had disappeared. his gaze burned holes through his girlfriend’s demeanour and figure as he tried to contain his frustration and jealousy. 

and by the time she looked at him, she knew that she was done for. that the lust and jealousy in daniel ricciardo’s eyes would come with a price.

what she didn’t expect, however, was that the price would come along with a company in a form of a british driver. the one that slung his arm over her shoulder. lando.

the pout on her face, alongside the smudge of her mascara, was what daniel paused to see for a brief moment.

his jealousy was the result of his girlfriend’s unintentional close contact with lando norris, and he could admit that. and the messy features of her face was a result of daniel’s jealousy— admiring her silently as she whined about his cock. 

when he circled around her and reached behind her, he tutted and murmured, “so wet for me, sweetheart.”

she laid flat on her stomach, her cheeks spreading thanks to daniel’s observant hands before he let go and smacked her right cheek. she moaned pitifully, eyes closing as her cunt throbbed around nothing. “danny, please…”

“nuh uh, don’t ‘danny please’ me now, doll,” daniel grinned darkly. “you have to tell me what you wan’, pretty girl. you can’ whine and expect me to give it to you.” 

“i- ah,” she cried out as she felt a sharp pain from her roots, being pulled up by him as she whimpered, “wan’ you to fuck me, danny. wanna feel full.”

“yeah? you want my cock?” 

“hm- mhm~” she nodded eagerly, his hand restraining her movement.

“d’ya want to be fucked full?” he asked again, making her nod. his maniacal smile faltered for a brief moment as he pointed her head towards in front of them. “by who? me or him?”

“open your eyes, pretty girl. tell me who’d you want to fuck you,” and she did, her glistening eyes sharing contacts with lando’s lust blown pupils as he sat on the chair across the bed, his cock hardening as he continued rubbing the tip of it.

this was filthy, the three of them could admit— but they could also admit that they were getting immense pleasure from this.

if daniel was going to make someone watch them as they fuck, she might as well make him jealous all the time. it was just a surprise that, of all the people who would be up for this, lando would be the one to watch and get pleasure out of his best friend’s filthy fantasy. 

she stammered, “y- you, danny- i want you to fuck me- hah~ fuck! yes, like that!”

lando incoherently sighed at the sight of her being filled to the brim by daniel’s cock, watching her tits bounce while daniel fucked her roughly. lando continued to stroke his length as he watched the couple.

“fuck, fuck- shit~” she cursed, drool falling down her lips as she sucked on daniel’s fingers to keep herself silent.

“tell ‘im how you feel, baby,” daniel pulled his fingers away from her mouth and smacked her ass.

“so good,” she moaned.

“that’s it, baby?”

“‘m so full and it’s so good, lan,” she babbled coherently. “‘is cock is so good, fuuuuuck~”

“yeah? is that right, girl?” lando taunted, stroking his cock as she cried in pleasure, tears falling down her eyes as daniel continued to spear her insides with his cock. “gettin’ too dumb now, princess? is it because it’s so good?”

she nodded eagerly as sounds of hips snapping echoed around the room, her cunt making squelching noises as daniel fucked her from behind. 

“answer him, doll,” daniel demanded firmly. “use your words or ‘m not gonna fuck you.”

“yes!” she managed to get it out of her mouth as she cried and babbled, “fills me so good, hah— and he- fuck! shit, danny please want more!” 

“had i known that you were into this kind of bullshit, i would've made you jealous way before this,” lando teased.

“don’t push your fucking luck,” daniel growled lowly. “be grateful we even let you watch. stop talking and watch her fall apart— you’re gonna miss the good part.”

[konigsblog]

toxic dadbod stepdad price who baby traps reader, saying it’s not her path to go to college and she’s to take her mothers place n do housewife stuff :3

tw/cw: stepcest, non-con, forced impregnation, forced breeding, intoxication, toxic!dadbod!price, stepfather!price, dark content, age gap/age difference.

dead dove: do not eat. MDNI 18+

it's his duty as your stepfather to make sure you're a respectful, young woman. it's his job to shape you into the best you can be, and perhaps he's abusing his role as a father figure, but john has bigger worries than what his pathetic, whiney stepdaughter wants. :(

as you're his stepdaughter, it's your duty to obey him without question, or at least he tells you. price can smell the alcohol from your breath, the faint essence of your perfume on your neck when he licks a stripe up your face drunkenly. bottles of beer lay around, along the coffee table, whilst your thighs are forced open by his large and calloused hands, warm hands wandering between your legs and into your lace panties.

he doesn't enjoy seeing you with so much independence, and you have been giving him so much attitude lately. you never liked price, you thought he was a sickening, selfish, greedy bastard that didn't think about anyone but himself. but, your mother was happy and that was all that mattered. you just wished she paid more attention to the sexual glares he'd give you, the way his words were lustful and dirty, and how you'd have hickeys on your neck when she returned from work.

it's his duty to shape you into an obedient woman, and it seemed that the only way to do this was to show his dominance, to show you your place and where you belonged by his side. the thickness of his girthy cock was agonizing as he sunk lower, deeper into your puffy pussy. your eyes were wet and your back arched with pleasure, too drunk to realise how horrible this was — how you were being taken advantage of.

john's hung balls pressed against your ass, and the impact from them smacking against your rear with each thrust was painful. your breathing quickened as his pace became relentless, tugging at your hardened nipples while slobbering all over you drunkenly — attempting to make out with you to stifle your cries.

he felt no remorse. after all, your mother was away on a work trip, and he had nothing to use as a fleshlight. you were the next best thing, or maybe even better — being so scared causing your cunt to tighten and pulse.

he fucked his hot, potent load deeper into you. rolling over, he laid on his back, breathing heavily. he didn't have the stamina of his younger self — the stamina of someone your age. he bucked his broad hips, bouncing you up and down, the tip pressed against your cervix and bruising it. pained and dumbfounded weeps left your lips as you passed out against him, heaving and whining out.

although, the next morning, you had no recollection of the night before. you didn't notice price's perverse gaze, you didn't understand his cruel and brutal smirk, the way your body felt violated and burned whenever you touched the cigarette burns and bruises along your thighs. it didn't take very long before symptoms became obvious, and you were sobbing your eyes out, completely lost and confused.

but, you connected the dots when you saw how adamant price was for you to keep the baby... this was his plan to keep you beside him, underneath him, so you'd understand your place beside a man like him.

[muzanswaifu]

Fated Pair

Alpha! Tomioka x Omega! Fem! Reader

18+

Your entire life, you lived as a beta, not having to worry about such tedious things like glands, heats, and instincts. But that all changed when a certain slayer came to town, altering everything as you knew it. It seemed fate had finally brought you together.

Since fated pair won my omegaverse poll, here ya go 👀 Might make a second part in the future just to clarify some things in their relationship...

Big thank you to my beta readers @mistymuichiro & @thosestarry-nights & @astrasolitaris !!!

Warnings: Omegaverse, Smut, Yandere Tendencies, Dub-con, Rut, Heat, Kidnapping, Scenting, Mating Bites, Sex, Vaginal Sex, Face Riding, Cunnilingus, Doggy Style, Rough Sex, Creampie, Knotting, Breeding, Pregnancy Kink, Impregnation, Dirty Talk, Praise

5k Words

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“Go get more water… towels too!”

“Guard the entrance to the block as well - make sure no one comes through-”

“Close the door!”

You could still hear the commotion outside, your family scrambling with commands and precautions like busy bees in a hive. Although if you were in their place, you supposed you would be too.

This was all your fault. None of this would be happening if it weren’t for you. Why did it all have to change?

You were a beta. You were supposed to be a beta. In your family lineage for as long as anyone could remember, everyone either grew to be a beta or an alpha, and even the ladder was quite rare. Your siblings and yourself were always warned to keep your distance from omegas. They were needy, weak, and always brought trouble along with them. Even your father, who was an alpha, biologically programmed to desire an omega, despised them, citing them as nothing but lustful rodents who relied on others to care for them.

At the time, you neither held resentment nor admiration for the secondary gender. If anything, you were grateful. Even when your age of puberty came, you hadn’t needed to deal with the struggles of a heat or rut or anything of the matter. You were simply normal, experiencing the usual growing pains and figure development. You hadn’t worried when your cycle never came, plenty of people blossomed later in life. Life was easier, nobody shamed you, you fit in with the general population, too well. You never could bring yourself to date or fuss over anyone. It wasn’t that you didn’t have crushes, you did, but they never seemed worth any hassle. You couldn’t imagine a future with anyone, nor did you hold any attraction except superficial. They weren’t the one.

But that all seemed to change overnight, your world quite literally flipping over the next morning as a strange feeling overcame you. Your parents warned you all that morning to be careful as there were reports of a monster near the village, so you assumed the feeling of uneasiness was a result of your body’s natural apprehension. But you fell terribly ill within a few hours, hellish cramps overcoming your body and bile spilling out of you to no end. Mother chalked it up to some surge of influenza and the others joined her theory, and you kept your own thoughts to yourself. You’d still never admitted that you’d never gotten your period, and now seemed too late as you’d become an adult already. It was far too late to worry them.

Thankfully the illness had come and gone within a few days, leaving as quickly as it had come. But just when you’d given in to the assumption that it was just a sickness, it’d returned again, far stronger and more potent. You couldn’t even walk then, your body in so much pain that you couldn’t stop throwing up and trembling. You’d genuinely thought you’d been dying, but, yet again, it left you after only a few days. As did the company that had returned to the village. You family was becoming concerned, and you felt far too afraid to admit to them of your fears. Moreover, you didn’t want to speak them into existence.

The third bout of sickness was when a doctor was called in, the worst of your suspicions confirmed. You were an omega, later developed, but developed nonetheless. You worried Father wouldn’t speak to you ever again when he disappeared for several weeks, not a whisper of where he was going, until he’d returned late one night with the reason for his departure - the strongest heat suppressant available in the country. You took it without a second thought, uncaring of the symptoms as you prayed they would free you from this curse of misery. And it seemed to work for some time. You weren’t plagued with crippling pains and aches, you didn't have as many thoughts of depression and anxiety. You thought you were cured.

But it was only a temporary reprieve.

As only weeks later you were burdened yet again with an explosion of suffering, the worst one yet. You spent most hours weeping and crying, begging the gods to let you experience even a moment of peace. Your father seemed to change strategies as he instructed your siblings to go into town and fetch articles of clothing to bring back to you, to find the source of these forcefully induced dry heats. One by one you smelled them, scrunching your nose and cringing at all of them. They smelt disgusting, horrid enough to make you spit up all over again. It’d gotten to the point where you’d sob in Father’s arms and beg him not to make you smell another one, begging for his forgiveness for ruining everything. He just held you tight and pushed another piece of cloth to your nose, asking you if this was the one. You threw up again.

Finally, your youngest brother stumbled in one evening, the color drained from his face and his eyes wide. You wept when you saw him, another test clutched in his quivering fist, knuckles whitening. Slowly he handed it to you, a hand to your neck to force you to take it in. With tears in your eyes you did so, preparing to gag, but the feeling never came.

With a single breath your eyes rolled to the back of your skull, drool collecting on your tongue and threatening to drip down your lip. It smelt magnificent. A delicious combination of sweet rain and fresh moss. Purrs of pleasure came rippling from your throat and you nuzzled against the fabric, the tip of your tongue gently tracing the fibers. All the pain slowly melted away, your brain becoming fuzzy and clean like swabs of cotton. For the first time in forever, you felt truly safe.

Your mother gasped

“Where - who did you get this from?” she croaked.

Your brother gulped. “The - the guy who came ‘c-cause of the monsters…,” he mumbled, “The slayer…”

Everyone stopped and looked at him, their eyes dark and grave.

“H-he came up to me in the square… asking for my scarf - or actually… (y/n)’s scarf…”

Father glared at him. “You idio-”

“Let him finish!” Mother interrupted as she held him back. Your brother just looked down and fiddled with his hands.

“So I gave it to h-him, a-and he seemed to like it, so I took his handkerchief, b-b-but,” he paused to look up at them, “h-he said it didn’t matter… that he’d… pay for her.”

Your father took in breath and sighed, carefully walking over to him, towering over the small boy.

“Were you followed?”

“I-I don’t think s-so…”

“Good. Lock the doors.”

Everyone took shifts to stay up that night, guarding the doors and peeking out the windows for any sign of visitors. You could sense their troubles, but for the most part you kept to yourself, cuddled up against the handkerchief and resting. Despite the brief ease of pain, you still felt the discomfort of your heat, still missing something but not quite sure what yet. 

There were no signs of any trouble for several days, until the night you woke to hushed voices and sounds of scurrying. Listening in, you quickly gathered what was happening.

The man - no - the alpha was here. Father went outside to talk to him. Although you were pretty sure there was no talking involved… more likely there was yelling… maybe some threatening.

After a few painful minutes, he came back in, a deep scowl painting his face. He also carried with him a multicolored robe, half red, half tessellated. He threw it to you before walking to the main room where the rest of your family was. You quickly huddled over it and started cuddling. It smelled perfect.

“... What did he say?” Mother hesitantly questioned.

“Bastard is stubborn. Says he’s not leaving without her. Told him ‘tough luck’. Nobody is leaving until he does.”

Your siblings all groaned, resuming their posts of either guarding the door or taking their turn of sleep. Despite not being yourself, you still felt the guilt of it eat at you. As soon as they left, your mother leaned closer to him.

“Dear… are you sure this is what’s best? Look at her - she’s miserable… we all are.”

He just shook his head at her.

“He’s not taking her. Not my daughter.”

-

The following days were gruesome. For everyone. No one was allowed to leave other than the occasional grocery run. No one could go out to their individual jobs. Even hobbies were off the table as every hour of the day was spent protecting the house. Protecting you.

This was the longest heat you’d had yet. It was as if your body knew your alpha was nearby, waiting for him to come claim you before you were allowed to calm down. The dry spell was wearing off, the sharp pains being transformed into uncomfortable cramps that made you desperate to wrap your legs around something. Your every entrance ached for company, feeling empty and barren without the presence of your alpha’s taste and essence. But regardless of your buzzed mind, you were still you enough to be too embarrassed to complain about that discomfort.

But even that part of your dignity was wearing thin. Every day without your carnal needs being tended to was just multiplying them. They all tried to give you privacy to take care of yourself, but it was simply impossible to leave you alone for too long. You needed to have eyes on you at all times in case the worst happened. In case he found you. So you settled for wrapping yourself up in his clothing. How was it possible for a single man to smell so edible? You found yourself wondering on the quiet days what he looked like, where he lived, how many pups he wanted. The primal part of you was oh so desperate to please him, regardless of how much you knew about each other. The omega part of your mind assured you every hour of the day that this was fate. That you were meant for each other. That you needed each other. 

But some part of you was still skeptical. No one else had felt right, so why would he? 

Everything would be fine… within a few days, surely the standoff would break. The man had to leave sometime. Regardless of the heartbreak such a thought brought you, it was what was best for everyone. 

-

You were awoken one night to a sudden crash of noise outside your room, followed by voices bickering. Vaguely you could make out the voices of your parents, followed by one you didn’t recognize. One that sent warmth right to the core of you. Within moments there seemed to be an altercation, two thuds hitting the ground. The sound was short lived as silence followed soon after. Your heart raced with the footsteps that slowly crept to your door, your arms hugging your scented jacket to your chest. The steps were ceased with more conflict, another bout of harsh words spoken before several more thumps followed. Like they were nothing.

Frantically, you crawled into your closet, quietly shutting the door and shaking as you curled into yourself. You tried your best not to cry, not to make a sound, but you were scared, horrified. Every conscious cell in your brain was screaming at you to run while the other half were begging you to get pupped. Your breathing stopped as soon as the door slid open.

His footsteps treaded carefully across the wooden floor, taking their sweet time to take in the scenery of your room. To find you. A subtle trill of growls could be heard along with the creaking of the floorboards, adding to your horror. He seemed to stand still for a few moments, taking in long drawls of your scent before heading straight to your hiding place. You froze.

You braced yourself as the closet door was carefully, slowly pushed open, your eyes shut tight and pouring with tears. A sob escaped you as the moonlight poured in to shower you. You were done for, you were sure of it. 

A gentle hand whispered along your hairline, tucking the hair out of your eyes.

“It’s okay kit, I’ve got you… I’ve got you.”

The sound of his voice was like that of an angel, soft and pleasant to the ear. Shyly you looked up from your lap, curious to find the owner of such a song, and you were not at all disappointed. Velvety, fluffy dark hair, a large muscular build, deep azul eyes. You could get lost in those eyes. You so desperately wanted to.

You were confident then that you had died and standing right in front of you was an angel ready to take you to heaven. No other explanation would suffice. He was simply too beautiful to truly exist. A rush of slick pooled down your thighs and you whined. Your hands were reaching up toward him before you could stop them, his own sinewy arms coming down to wrap under your arms to hike you up. You whimpered as you were lifted to his chest, looking back sadly toward your abandoned coat. He promptly leaned over and snatched it up. “I know, omega, I see,” he mumbled into your ear, sending a thrill up your spine.

He draped your haori, his haori really, over your shoulders so it would cover your nude back before he headed back out the door. You didn’t know where he was taking you, nor did you care. All you cared about was getting more of his scent into your body as you smelled and licked at the gland in his neck that he had so gracefully exposed for you when he tore aside his uniform.

As he carried you out, you could see the unconscious bodies of your family lying on the ground, not one of them with a single scratch. He must’ve knocked them out somehow. All except your father, who still seemed to be attempting to get up. He rambled angrily at your alpha, words no one could understand as they slurred from his mouth. Your alpha stopped in the doorway to your home, turning to face your struggling father who glared from his place on the floor. You looked down at him sadly and tears welled in your eyes.

“I left my payment on the table. We’ll see you again… sometime," Alpha spoke, not a hint of sympathy in his eyes. Not even when he turned you around did he seem to be riddled with guilt, a mewl falling from your lips as shape canines pricked at the nape of your neck, sinking deeper and deeper until you were howling from the pain, your vision going stark white as you were claimed. You passed out not a moment after, your alpha licking his lips of your sweet blood.

When you awoke you were in a house you didn’t recognize, in a bed that wasn’t yours, but you had a hard time caring as everything smelt purely of him. His scent fermented in the air you breathed like a fine wine, getting you drunk off the mere smell. Perhaps it was because he sat only a few feet away at the foot of the bed, as if guarding you from the outside. It made you feel that much safer. As soon as he saw you rise from your slumber, his pupils grew, the cautionary slits becoming dilated orbs. You pouted when he backed off the mattress, his hand pointing toward you, as if commanding you to stay in place.

“Nest, omega.”

The command rang in your ears like an alarm, your mind quickly working overtime to complete the task. Your alpha must’ve prepared as there were several piles on the floor composed of blankets, pillows, and clothing, all perfect for your nest. You set about collecting the one that you deemed fit, weaving them together over the bed like a second layer. It was like your body instinctively knew what to do as you not once had to overthink how to craft your nest, your hands doing all the work while your mind wondered. When you were finally finished, you sat at the center of it like an obedient dog, looking to your owner for your next order.

Your heart soared when he softly smiled at you, briskly walking over and cupping your cheek, running his nose along your jawline. His skin touching yours felt like fireworks were going off inside of you. Heat rose to your face as you then realized he was completely naked as well.

“You’re such a good girl… good omega. It’s time for you to complete the bond,” he murmured as he joined you in your nest, setting himself in front of you and moving his fluffy, long hair to the side, exposing his nape. Your own mating bite throbbed like a reminder on your neck as you eagerly latched your little teeth to his skin, biting as hard as you could until blood filled your mouth. It tasted sweet. You licked your lips as you pulled away, blushing at the indent it left in his skin, showing your marking of him. The throbbing eventually faded away into nothingness, paving the way for a heady pleasure that reached from your head to your toes. You felt complete, like a part of you was missing this entire time and you just hadn’t realized it. Every sense of struggle and rebellion inside you vanished, and you collapsed back onto the bed.

“Alphaaa…” you moaned, writhing in your nest with a newly awakened pleasure, one that made the emptiness in your womb all the more noticeable. Pups. You needed pups.

“Get up, omega. You’re going to sit on my face,” he leisurely commanded, staring down at you with possession and licking his lips. Your body moved on its own, shifting to the side so alpha could lay in your place while you straddled his head. Embarrassment still managed to weasel its way inside of you. What if he didn’t like the color? The smell? The taste? For once, your brain and your omega were both anxious about the same thing.

He seemed to notice your apprehension as took a deep breath of scent, growling lowly and dragging you down to properly seat yourself in his mouth. You cried out as he dragged his tongue between your slick folds, settling the tip on your clit and bringing it into his mouth to suck. Your legs trembled on either side of his head, your hands falling to clutch at his locks to brace yourself. His own paw wrapped around your ass, guiding you to properly grind yourself against his tongue while he enjoyed you. Sounds of rapture tore from you, falling upon his eager ear like music from the gods. Slick poured down his throat like an elixir, coating his tongues and messily dripping down the sides of his mouth. He ate from you like you were a ripened fruit, abundant with juice and teeming with nectar ready to be plucked and devoured. 

Your grief of emptiness quickly fell to the back of your mind as you focused on the divine ecstasy of being eaten, your sex swollen and sensitive as alpha relentlessly took what he needed from you. He shamelessly groaned into your heat, openly expressing how pleased he was with what you had to offer. He cursed every so often, spreading your lips open with two fingers and pressing his nose close to smell your feminine scent. Those same two fingers were quick to sneak into you, spearing you open on his thick digits, all to prepare you for something much bigger. It didn’t take you long to come, juices leaking out of you generously as you clenched on his thrusting fingers and cried out. He still rocked you upon his face as you came down from your high, licking up every messy drop from you regardless of your sensitivity. You bit back your tears and let him do as he pleased, so very eager to please your alpha. You’d be in agony without him so the least you could do was feed him.

You turned back after a moment to distract yourself from the overstimulation, desperate for something to cling to. Your gaze instantly landed on the cure for all your agony.

His cock stood tall and proud between his strong thighs, the tip flushed with color and large veins popping all over it. It was so thick… so long… it was going to tear you apart so easily… you’d never wanted anything more in your life. You drooled as you looked back at it, a renewed vigor alighting in your cunt. Especially when your eyes lingered down to the base of it, the beginnings of a bulbous knot taking root there, preparing to plug you up so you can keep all his little babies warm. You salivated at the thought.

Finally, alpha had his fill, pressing several soft kisses to your pussy before unraveling you from his face and setting you aside. Your belly stirred as you watched his cock bob between his legs as he rose up, his muscles straining beautifully like strings on a harp as he moved. You wanted nothing more than to crawl in his lap and lavish him with attention, worship your alpha like he so deserved for taking care of you so well. But your body refused to move, clinging to his every word and awaiting his command. You watched hungrily as he stood and stretched his arms and neck, likely sore from lying about for so long. He laughed softly as he caught you staring, your eyes staring lovingly between his thighs as you panted like bitch in heat. After all, you were one.

“Down,” he told, his voice imposing and husky, “Spread your legs.”

You didn’t even have to think as your body did what it was told, lying on your back obediently in the center of your nest and opening your legs. He grinned meanly.

“Not that way. Present for me.”

You whined as you rolled to your front, planting your face in the sheets and raising your ass high in the air, presenting your little hole for breeding. 

He chuckled and climbed in the nest behind you, running a warm hand along your spine.

“That’s a good girl. So obedient for me… You want my kits don’t you?” he crooned. 

You cried out into the bedding, raising your hips higher and wagging your ass at him. He tutted at you and kept you still with hand, leering down at you with predatory eyes like a fox to a rabbit.

“Puh-please alpha… it hurts…,” you sobbed, sniffling weakly and trying to press your thighs together to ease the ache inside of you. He easily pried them open again, slipping his swollen cock between your legs and dragging it across your cunt and belly.

“I asked you a question, omega. Answer me.”

“Y-yes, alpha!,” you cried, biting your fist with frustration, “I-I want your kits… s-so bad…”

He chuckled again with approval and playfully rocked his member against you. “You do, don’t you… I’d bet this is your first time wanting anything like this, isn’t it?” You furrowed at his question, plagued by its accuracy. He seemed to take enjoyment with your confusion.

“I was in a similar situation myself,“ he muttered, taking his cock away from your legs and pressing the leaking tip between your folds, making you shiver. “I didn’t want anyone, didn’t need anyone, I thought it just wasn’t meant to be.”

He slowly pitched his hips forth into your tightness, stealing your breath away as he split you open. Despite the abundance of slick, the stretch hurt more than anything, tears dripping down your cheeks as you whimpered. He only stopped when he was balls deep, every inch of his cock swaddled by your plush insides. You swore you could feel him all the way to your brain.

“Didn’t - didn’t think I’d ever meet anyone I’d wanna mate with,” he grunted, nearly whining from how tight you were, “But then I was called to that small, little village, could smell you a mile away… took me weeks to find you…”

“Please d-don’t move yet alpha,” you begged feebly.

“I know kit, I know… ‘s your first knot, I’ll be gentle,” he promises, easing your worries as you went limp into the bedding.

He waited patiently for your pain to ease, running his hands along your sides and petting your thighs. Regardless of the hurt, slick gushed from you due to such nurturing.

“Asked your father to give you up… even offered him money, but he refused. So, I had to take you. Alpha knows what’s best, don’t I?”

“Y-yes, alpha,” you faintly murmured, your body heating up as you were molded around him like clay.

He softly smiled at you and rolled his hips, churning his cock into your guts. You shook with the sensation, so sure you would burst any moment with how full you were. Every second he moved, the wetter you became, slick sticking to his thatch of pubic hair and coating his heavy balls. The ache of penetration melted away with every second, pleasure filling the gaps it left.

His hand reached under you and pressed at your belly, rubbing the bulge he’d left in you.

“Gonna leave my pups right here, right where you need them… need you to keep them warm until they make it to your belly.”

You hardly even heard him as you drooled into the nest, moaning and mewling like a little whore. The pain was hardly there anymore, euphoria overwhelming you as you eagerly ground back into him, desperate for more of what your alpha could give you. Taking the hint, he began truly thrusting into you, pulling out several inches before shoving it all back into you, bullying your cervix into submission. Your cries of pleasure only increased in volume and frequency, filling the room along with the sloppy noises of your union. You wanted his cubs. You needed his cubs.

His knot, you realized. His knot was the answer to everything, the solution to all your problems. Without it you were just a hollow shell of an omega. You came from just the epiphany, squeezing tight around him and squirting slick into his lap.

“Kn-n-not,” you whined, “kn-not… knot… knot!” You were going to die if you didn’t get it, you could feel it!

He laughed cruelly behind you, “You want my knot, omega?” His hips moved faster, pounding you into the bed and ruining the nest you worked so hard to make. You didn’t care. There were more important things at stake.

“Yes!” you pleaded, sniffling pathetically and digging your nails into the many blankets surrounding you. He growled darkly and loomed over you, threading his hand around the back of your skull and shoving you into the mattress, limiting your air intake. He violently pistoned into you, using you as nothing but a hole to breed his cum into, precisely what you wanted. You squealed for him, happily gave him free use of your form to use for his benefit, anything was worth it if you got his babies. 

You could feel his knot grow as it pressed in and out of your hole, thickening furiously and stretching you beyond repair, ensuring that not a drop of his precious essence would exceed it. A dopey smile was plastered on your face as you let him use you, your hair messy and tousled as you were buried into the bed.

Finally his knot threatened full capacity, popping in and out of you painfully before locking inside, swelling to its full size and keeping you in place. You wailed with bliss, your climax a mere hair's breadth away as you awaited for a single push to make you tumble over the edge.

Your alpha panted viciously behind you, grunting and groaning as your cunt milked him unforgivably, The moment the first wave of cum filled you, you saw stars. Fireworks of scorching white lit up behind your eyes, blinding you and making you bawl. You’d never felt such bliss, such elation, it was bordering on the edge of painful as one high bled into another and another and another. Wave after wave of piping hot sperm was emptied inside you, filling out your belly and gushing into your womb. His large knot promised not a drop would go to waste as every ounce was kept in your pussy, filling you to brim so much so that you could nearly taste it.

You weakly tried to crawl away as it became too much for you, you couldn’t take it anymore. But even without his unrelenting hold on you, his knot wouldn’t allow you to go anywhere.

“No, omega,” he growled harshly, “Warm my kits that you begged for. You aren’t going to leave here without my litter growing inside you.”

He leaned over and pinched his teeth around your scruff, rendering you useless as you went limp underneath him. It was too much, you couldn’t take it all. But what choice did you have as he kept you in place, taking load after load of his potent seed into your womb, exactly what you had asked for. You pathetically wept against your arms as your belly was filled.

As was an omega’s fate, regardless of what was planned for. 

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