#so there's a way to participate even for someone like me who sucks at Words and Conversations lol

[turtledotjpeg]

What hxh servers are you in!!

just this one! (invite link at the top of the page) https://greedislandchallenge.tumblr.com/

[cornerstoreclown]

Workshop Fun

Summary: This is a short one-shot (7021 words) where the Reader (female) has an established relationship with Art the Clown, and has been kiiiind of collaborating with him passively. Reader is wearing a dress for the sole purpose of easy access. Reader has a vulva and breasts. 

Contents: Biting, light spanking, ...phone... sex? Having an unknowing participant on the other line is the only way I can word it, light spanking, lots of making out, clothed sex, BDSM, Art being cruel, p in v penetration, finger sucking and light body worship

Author’s notes: Sorry what took me so long to do this, I’ve been sitting on this for years! Male version will be out in a few days. This is LIGHTLY proofread, so keep your expectations at a level where you won’t be surprised if there’s any mistakes. Also once again I am an Art the Clown front zipper truther for my clothed sex kink.

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You loved him.

Did he kill people? Yes. Did he sometimes allude to killing you as well? Absolutely. Has he acted on it yet? Not fully, but you could tell that sometimes he had that compulsion to go through with it, when he’d get that twinkle in his eye.

 Especially when you were up close and personal with him, your bodies merely inches apart, sometimes with him even holding a weapon in hand. He’s a wild animal. A force of evil locked away in the confines of a corporeal body made of flesh and bone.

And yet, all the same, you loved him. The way that his hands would travel across your flesh and explore the parts of you that you never let anyone else. Sometimes he’d leave bruises, other times scratches. Then there were the bite marks. Each intimate encounter would leave you in a different state of mess. He was the lover who was like a cat. One day he’d be here, gone the next. You couldn’t put a thumb on the patterns.

The waits were long, but you’re loyal, and you’re patient. You didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter. You’d wait until the ends of the earth for him. Sometimes during the months that he wasn’t here, you’d dream of him. All of these little fantasies you’d have in your head would sometimes come to visit you behind your closed lids, where reality had no limitations. It would make the ache feel less. Every time that he’d come back, you made sure to find him as quickly as possible the second you heard whisperings pertaining to sightings of him, or any kind of crime scene that felt like it had his signature on it. Sometimes he’d find you first.

Art wasn’t someone who was very materialistic. And money meant next to nothing to Art—the personification of evil had very little need for the vast kinds of desires that plagued man.

But he wasn’t necessarily immune to the pleasures of the flesh, you learned. Despite how for the most part, he remained heavily uninterested in intimacy, he had a few moments here and there, and you capitalized on them when you could. You had a feeling tonight would be one of those nights.

Or, well, you hoped.

Worst case scenario he’d turn you away or ignore any advances, and he has a few times. And that was okay.

You came into his hideout tonight with confidence instilled in you, but yet the excitement still makes your stomach do flips. It’s been too long, and the fire within your chest is reignited. You feel passion, you feel love so strong that it’s enough to keep you up at night, and it has happened plenty of times before. You wonder if he’s got some sort of spell over you, and you’d believe it if that were the case. You’ve never fallen so madly, deeply, for anyone before like you have him. It could be enough to make you physically ill if you thought about how much you loved him. Such a passion came with such a detriment to you.

Past the damaged doors of a since abandoned fairly abandoned warehouse, you have a smooth descent down the stairs, leading you to a type of basement setting. There’s plenty of water dripping. Rats squeaking as they chitter and skitter along. You catch glimpses of them in the dim lighting, but they don’t bother you. As long as you didn’t see a bunch of them with their tails tied together, you wager you’ll be pretty okay.

You dressed up nicely for him tonight.

You weren’t really a dress kind of person, but tonight you made it an exception. It wasn’t fancy or over the top, and by the love of god, it had pockets. You refused to wear heels however, whatever shoes you had that worked and didn’t give you the possibility of breaking your ankle down these flights of stairs was the option you went with. Art might have found it funny if you hurt yourself, but you aren’t too keen on getting yourself dinged up before he gets the chance to do it himself.

The dress was about one thing–accessibility. Easy to lift up, easy for him to slide in right where he belonged.

You loved when he was inside of you, when you’d feel the heat of his heavy breath against the back of your neck. You run your hands over the spot where you last remember feeling the warmth of his breath. You remember being beneath him and feeling as if the very heat that he quietly exhaled felt as if it were smoldering your skin, burning you like the way the flames of hell were supposed to. If being with this clown meant that you’d be burning in the afterlife, you’d gladly bathe yourself in the inferno.

Your stomach flutters.

You shouldn’t be this excited. He’s a murderer. A killer. A man with no morals, and you’re not even sure if he was a man sometimes at all. Yet, his darkness is what drew you in. He was your safe space, and no one would dare come into that space to try and harm you so long as you were in his arms.

When you reach the bottom of the steps, you see it–a single dangling light, and illuminating this dark space is a double door that is plainly rusted. You see a bloody handprint on it. It’s since dried.

You recognize the size of that hand, and feel slightly lighter, just in the moment.

Placing your own hand in the exact space over Art’s bloodied print, you push the door open. The door is a little on the heavy side, but with enough force, the door opens.

“Art?” You call out, making sure that your presence is acknowledged as friendly and not hostile. The room is a little darkly lit, very heavy on the minimum lighting that’s needed to navigate in the space. It most certainly added to the creepy ambiance. Straight ahead, there sat none other than Art. His back was given to you. He was sitting on a stool, hammering away at something on his workbench. He turns his head upon hearing his name, and you see that he gives you a smile, baring his rotted discolored teeth as his eyes are closed. You can see the wrinkles form a little in the corner of his eyes when he smiles.

You liked that. You liked the details etched into his face. It added character among those otherwise gaunt features of his.

“Hey, buddy.” You call out to him, and he gives you a little wave, before gesturing for you to come closer.

You approach him, and once you’re near the bench with him, you can see when you’re close enough that he gives you a once over, assessing you… Judging you, for what it is you’re wearing tonight.

“Like it?” You ask him, twirling from side to side so that your dress splays out a little. It’s simple. Gets the job done. And if it got ruined? No love loss.

Art’s gaze seems fixed on you, first on your dress, then up at you. For a man who doesn’t speak, his eyes seem to say all that needs to be said, as he reaches for the end of your dress and starts to lift it, until you gently smack the top of his hand. Art draws his hand back to his side immediately, glancing up at you, looking a little like a kid that was chided.

Naughty of him, trying to get a sneak peek beforehand.

“Not yet,” You tell him.

Art looks a little irritated, folding his arms across his chest and pouting. At least he seems interested tonight.

You clear your throat, and Art’s attention is still locked on you. He’s watching you expectantly.

“You’ve settled in quite nicely.” It was just yesterday you surveyed the area on his behalf, and helped him move in properly. Already on his workbench, he has got quite a few improvised weapons he’d been working on. Your eyes go to one weapon in particular, and you point at it.

“What’s that?”

Art turns to look at the weapon you’ve pointed out, and when he lifts it to proudly show it, it’s exactly what it looked like–an improvised flail. Attached to a long metal rod, is a long wire, and when your eyes follow to the end of the wire, you see wrapped around in such an intricate and meticulous way are a variety of knives, serving as what would be the ‘spikes’. You’re impressed. He even hands it to you, to which you take it. It’s got a decent weight to it, too. Not too heavy, but not too light.

“Woah.” You say, as Art watches you, quite proud of how dazzled you are. He’s an artist at heart, you knew this. The knives have some rust on them. One of them looks stained from a previous bloody encounter. He’s clearly working with whatever he’s got on him.

“If anyone survives this, they better pray they don’t get tetanus.” You muse, and Art’s face twists in amusement in a silent laugh. You hand the weapon back to him, and he takes it once he’s done getting in a few silent chuckles at your joke, gently placing it back down on the table.

No one escapes Art with their soul still in their body. Literal or figurative. You were either dead, or you were burdened with his encounter your entire life, both physically and mentally.

You weren’t any different. Your bruises and bites and scars have been out of love. One could argue that you got off easy, but you’d argue otherwise.

Being in love with the Miles County Clown is torture in and of itself. There were nonstop dreams that came with it. It seemed as if every other week he’d plague you in your sleep. Not to mention that you had to be extremely clever to not be caught under affiliation with him–which was even more stress. So far, though, so good.

He’s worth it, you tell yourself. Even if he wasn’t anymore, there’s no way you could leave. He’d kill you. And you have zero doubts that your death wouldn't be painless.

After a few seconds of silence, you sigh.

“I wish you didn’t have to leave all the time.” You begin to tell him. Art’s expression is neutral, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. His teeth are bared, as they often are. Your tone isn’t one of whining, but of yearning. You know that this came with the territory, and you readily accepted his lack of presence at any given time.

But it didn’t hurt to dream. Art tilts his head, watching you from where he sits curiously.

“Maybe one day we can find some place that… Is ours. Separate from… This.” You gesture towards the weapons he’s making. Every so often he hides somewhere different to prepare for the trouble he intends to cause. “A place that maybe once you’re done for the day, we both can be in to unwind. And a permanent place for you that isn’t just my apartment. But like. A place for you. For us.”

Taking him to your apartment kept getting riskier and riskier each time. Also, he made it quite clear he didn’t really care for your decor. Giving him his own place to make his own that he could express himself would be ideal, and it wouldn’t be like a place he’d have to abandon every year. He could actually have and keep stuff… If he wanted to even do that.

The more you think about it, the more you’re starting to think it sounds silly. You see the way that he’s looking at you, and he appears very stern. Sharp.

Your confidence begins to drop, and as you’re about to speak again, you stammer, before laughing nervously.

“Yeah. You’re right. Sorry, that was a silly idea–any long term space we made for you would probably get found out eventually, too. I–”

The stool screams as it’s slid across the ground, back towards the bench when he stands up. It sounded like one of his many victims. You go quiet as he’s hovering over you, and you swallow any words that you might have wanted to tell him.

The silence is heavy. His shoulders are rising and falling, and you feel your heartbeat in your ears.

Seconds tick by and they feel more like minutes, and you can’t stand it any longer. You open your mouth to speak, but you’re swiftly cut off.

Art yanks you by the collar of your dress, and forces his lips against yours.

Your eyes are wide briefly in surprise, but they close as soon as you register what’s happening, and you moan in the kiss. Art’s a bit of a sloppy kisser, but you’ve come to love it. His taste was acrid as well, but you craved the bitterness at this point, no longer gagging like you used to. As he leans forward to kiss you harder, you put more of yourself in it as well, mixing his intensity with your passion and desire that’s been left simmering for months.

Now it’s boiling over.

Art places both of his hands on either side of your face, and it’s like he’s trying to suffocate you with his kisses, barely giving you much time to breathe in between them. You’re getting a little lightheaded.

He pulls away from your lips to kiss you a few times on the cheek, then nuzzling his face against yours. Almost like a cat.

It gives you the chance to catch your breath. His hands reach for yours, and you let him, feeling the way that his fingers interlace with your own. You look down at the way that your fingers intertwined with his dirtied and calloused ones. He was a man who worked with his hands–in more ways than one. Those same fingers belonged to the same hands that would worship you, tear and pull at you without ever breaking you completely in half. Sometimes it’d be close, but never fully. They would sometimes draw blood when the nails would sink into your flesh and leave behind crescent marks. Other times, those hands would strangle you, smack you–slap you, and bring a sting across your body that reminded you just how alive you were. Then those same hands would caress you. Cradle you.

He’d cut you on a few occasions, but they were never lethal. And with every cut, his tongue followed.

You feel reverence. Especially as you press a kiss to the tip of his fingers–you kiss each one, tenderly, making eye contact with him as you do so.

Art watches knowingly. He raises his head a little so that when he watches you, he’s looking down at you, all too aware of how you worship him. And he accepts it. But only from you. Just you. No one else.

After kissing each finger, from pinkie to thumb, you stop back at his index, soft lips pressed against the pad of it. His fingers were stained. Caked in whatever gore and dirt and grime he’d touched earlier.

Not that you cared, nor would you let it stop you. You’re a freak. Not well in the head. You’d lick any and all of his love off of the world's sharpest blade if that’s the only way he gave it. If he wanted you to cut your tongue on it, you would.

Bringing his index finger to your mouth, you wrap your lips around it, and watch him. He tastes exactly how you’d expect—foul and wretched. You catch the faintest hint of iron. A taste that you’ve come to associate pleasantly with him. That part feels right.

Art’s gaze is fixed on you. You can’t read his thoughts, and though he doesn’t speak, you recognize what that look means. Even as he observes you, teeth bared subtly, head still held high, which he inclines just slightly as you take another finger in your mouth–his middle one.

You suck his fingers lewdly, and close your eyes. You imagine it’s his cock, even though you know that his fingers can’t compare to the real deal. You push your tongue through his index and middle as you take more of him in your mouth. Art watches your tongue work around him, until he decides to press down on the muscle, effectively stopping you.

You stare at him.

Seconds linger in silence, and he relinquishes pressure off of your tongue, letting you move it freely again.

And you do. You hold his hand and go back to kissing his fingers before fellating them. Index first. Then the middle. And finally the ring finger–all three at once. The taste of iron is stronger. You sigh a gentle moan as you pull your head back and give him back his hand. You kiss at the tips of his fingers again. As you’re about to take his fingers a third time, he leans forward instead, his lips taking yours. You feel the way that he seizes both of your wrists as he floods your senses all over again, and you let him.

You try to say his name in between the kisses, but each time you get a breath between the barrage of affection that seems to practically swallow you whole, Art steals your voice with another passionate kiss. Again, his taste is bitter, his teeth are damn near rotten, but you’ve gotten so accustomed to the flavor that it doesn’t make you gag. It makes you feel only slightly sickly. But the arousal overrides any lingering discomfort.

It’s disorienting. It’s all so much at once. You feel your body temperature rise. Art gives you back one of your wrists, but in doing so, he places his hand at the small of your back and pulls you in against him, until there’s no space left between you.

That’s when you feel it. You feel the heat of his erection pressed against your thighs. You’ve excited him enough, it being quite clear the effect your mouth had on him.

You smile, but his lips are back at yours again, and the taste of bitterness hits at the back of your tongue—the most sensitive taste receptors lighting up and ripping any smugness you had straight out of you as you close your eyes and sigh softly. His tongue mingles with yours.

He begins to move, forcibly taking you with him as you change where you’re standing, so that he’s no longer the one whose back is facing the workbench–it’s you. You feel the edge of the table bump against your ass. With your positions effectively switched, you don’t mind at all, far too enraptured by the kisses of your clown lover.

This was pure bliss.

He pulls away from your lips, now kissing the corners of your mouth, then going to your jawline, until he’s at your neck, sucking and licking and nibbling, giving you goosebumps. You feel your nipples go hard. You close your eyes and moan softly.

This is the few times of the year that you get this. It was the time that you’d be peppered in kisses, ravaged, and torn asunder in such a way that it would take you almost the remaining however many days, months, or years until you’d see him again to put yourself back together.

“Art…” You laugh a little when his lips tickle a part of your neck. He silences you again with his lips to yours. You feel the way that he nips at your tongue this time and draws a little blood. The endorphins from the pain gives you a pleasant buzz. He bites your bottom lower lip next, taking note of how he’s beginning to use his teeth more and more during this exchange, and you think about how he’s eaten the faces of his victims before.

You could be next.

He pulls away and kisses at the corners of your lips a second time. He’s obsessed with using his mouth. Your eyes finally open, and you gently move your head back a bit, until Art finally stops, the both of you staring into each other's eyes. His teeth are bared all the same as they were before, but there’s a sultry gaze you’re familiar with. Up this close, you can see the more subtle details of him.

Like his lashes, which otherwise, from a distance is obscured by the paint over his face.

How could someone–or… Something, be so monstrous… Yet so… pretty? You could get lost in his gaze. You could drown in it. And he knows that. And he likes that power over you.

Your lips turn upwards into a soft smile, and you feel a desire pool at your groin. It’s an undeniable throbbing in tune with your heartbeat. Nevermind that you can feel his own arousal against you. He’s warmer than you–he feels like he’s practically burning up, compared to you, and the body heat radiating from him only serves to make you hotter in turn. Right to the point where you’re developing a thin sheen of sweat across your brow.

“I love you.”

He watches you, and through his body language and eyes, you understand him through his reaction. You see a slow, smug smile appear on his face.

Very much an, I know. No sign of reciprocation. That would be too heavy of an ask from someone like him. But him being receptive to your love was a testament to how much he liked you.

Not that you expected anything less from a cold killer such as the Miles County Clown. The fact that he hasn’t yet killed you throughout all these years speaks in a kind of love on its own, you’d think.

Maybe not the one that people would refer to as being actually in love, but for him, for Art, it was. Love was tolerance. Love was allowing you to live.

You feel a hand slip up your dress again, and this time, you don’t stop him. You part your legs for him this time, willingly letting him indulge in what you denied him earlier. Through your panties you feel his thick fingers, his index and middle pressing against your clit, sliding down between your cunt and back up again. He threatens to penetrate you with the tips of his fingers through your panties with a gentle prod, but doesn’t follow through on it.

You ache, feeling more empty than ever.

He’s doing this on purpose. All because you told him to wait earlier.

“Art,” You say his name with a weak laugh, and he stops to look at you, knowingly, at that, well aware of what it is he’s doing. His little way of being petty with you, and he continues once more, trailing his fingers up and down between your thighs, waiting for you to continue.

“It’s been months,” You plead for him. His face is still inches from yours, and you lean more of yourself against him, as your voice gets low. He observes you through half lidded eyes, analyzing you, assessing you and sizing you up. He’s no longer smiling, and his lips are downturned ever so slightly. The expression looks more neutral now.

“I wanna have some fun.” You purse your lips. “Put your weapon crafting down for a bit?”

Your tone is pleading. It’s a mix of a command and a request–you’re voicing your thoughts. You try to get a reading on his response through his eyes, but he’s put up a wall that you can’t breach. He’s unreadable. It’s been months upon months since you’ve both done anything together.

“…Please?”

Art’s gaze is still indecipherable. It makes you a little nervous. The hairs on the back of your neck begin to stand up. Did he change his mind suddenly?

Had it been anyone else, you know they’d be dead instantly. There was no wondering about that. Not a speculation or doubt in your mind. You hated when he did this, when he was fucking with you like this, leaving you in silence. It’s in times like these that you’re reminded that you’re with a wild animal, and he could snap at any second if he decided he was hungry. It was part of the risk you took and the bargain you struck.

Maybe he’d just stab you here and now. Slit your throat and call it a fucking day because he decided that, nope, don’t wanna keep doing this anymore! He could. Again, he’s pushed you away before. Other days he’s yanked you in against him. His mood was unpredictable, hard to guess, and as volatile as a storm across an ocean.

Without another word, you’re turned around, and the flat of Art’s palm travels down your spine as he presses the front of your body forward and down onto the workbench. He gives you time to adjust, so that you’re at least able to rest your forearms on the table top. As of right now, your tits are squished against the surface of the table. It’s a little uncomfortable.

This is surprisingly tender, all things considered. You remember one time when he’d been fucking you on his workbench, how he tied your hands together with some zipties and then choked you out by wrapping some rusty metal chains around your neck. And that was only after he’d finished whipping your breasts, thighs and ass until you were a bloody bruised mess barely hanging on. You still have some scars from those times. He loved to twirl you over the line of death like it was all one dance, pulling you back at the last second.

You go from feeling his palm to the fingertips travel down your back. If it weren’t for the fabric of your dress in the way, you know those blood and dirt stained fingertips would have tickled you by now. And he’s done that in the past while fucking you–tickling you mercilessly. He even makes a point to wiggles his fingers a little against your back on the way down playfully. You can’t help but laugh a little as you exhale, letting some of the excitement stirring within you leave your body through your lungs. Your breaths are getting deeper, and in times like this, when he thrills you in such a way, you’re reminded just how much he makes you feel…

Alive.

Because when you’re with him, death is always hot on your heels. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Don’t be gentle,” You tell him. He knows. You know he knows.

You hear the metallic zipper from the front of his suit go down as the teeth on the track separate and reveal the body of a man beneath that clown visage. You steal a glance over your shoulder to admire his pale skin that covered over such a thin frame. Amazing how a build such as his carries such supernatural strength.

Unceremoniously, he gets right to work, giving your ass a firm slap after lifting the back of your dress, letting it crumple up over your hips. You yelp gently as you know that there’s likely already a red spot on your rump. Art rubs the spot on your ass he’d slapped, then gives it a gentle squeeze.

You make the decision to look over your shoulder, right on time to experience watching when the killer clown makes the decision that you no longer are in need of your panties. His dirtied fingers slip within the space between the elastic waistband of your undergarment and your skin. He lets it snap against your flesh once–that’s about the extent of use it gets before he grabs whatever meager fistful he can of that excuse of ‘modesty’ you brought to him and rips it clean off your form.

“Ow!”

You told him to be rough. And he’s planning on taking that quite literally, as he’s taking it for not just the sex, but all of what precedes it apparently. He’s quietly laughing to himself, teeth showing, eyes crinkled.

“Glad you got some entertainment out of it.”

A few more noiseless giggles then he sobers up. Back to the task at hand—fucking your brains out.

He aligns himself right up against your warm dripping cunt, hands gripping your hips so tightly that his filthy fingertips leave stains on your dress. His nails are so sharp you swear that if he tried to sink them in any further, he’d pierce the cloth and right into your flesh. You inhale sharply again, bracing for the moment he sinks in. You feel the tip of his cock press against you and begin to push in, the head barely getting the chance even to get inside you before it slips and glides between the crack of your ass as he misses. Your excitement stutters for a second, but then ramps back up higher than before, impatience and desire washing over you wholly like a wave.

You’ve been grabbing at the edge of the workbench, hands holding tight and then releasing them of their grip every so often to relax your muscles. You don’t say anything.

He’s annoyed at missing you the first push in.

With a look of disgruntlement he instead opts for one hand reaching to push your head down against the table with such a cruel force that makes you worry for a split second that he was trying to crush your skull. It was his way of trying to steady you as he then uses his other hand to line the head of his cock right against your cunt for the second time.

You shiver as you feel him, hands turning to fists that you clench tightly as inch by agonizing inch, he spreads you and fills you out easily. Your body did the heavy work, and has been prepping for him for the last ten minutes. It’s slick, and he can feel the wetness of your cunt hit against his balls when he bottoms out within you. That’s when you sigh in relief.

He almost pulls all the way out, then rams into you roughly, making you exhale sharply as the table shakes upon impact. The few tools laid out shuddered until they stilled. Give or take a few more times of this, and he finally releases his hand on your head, but you still opt to keep your head down.

The rhythm he has is a little awkward at first, but he is quick to course correct, both hands firmly planted on your hips, keeping you steady. You can’t see his face right now, but you’ve seen it plenty of times when you’ve fucked before. How his mouth would go into that ‘o’ shape, and the way his eyes would go half mast, holding nothing but a glimpse of paradise behind him as you could see that he was as close to heaven as his wicked self could get. You were beautiful to him, as far as sacks of flesh and blood went. And you could tell the times that he looked at you in such a predatory manner that there was restraint behind it.

You feel the pressure build up within you at a steady rate as he leans over you, chest pressed against your back, sucking on your neck, marking you. Then he nips. Then kisses, then sucks so goddamn hard on the same spot that you swear that he’s trying to suction your flesh right off your body.

It doesn’t take long for you to be so close. He’s so warm. The sound of his body slapping against yours, mixed with the creak of the workbench that’s forced to undergo the assault of you being rammed into it, a few quiet moans slip past your lips to join along.

You’re unbearably close, feeling yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, just a little more and—

Your phone goes off.

You forgot to silence it.

You feel it vibrating in the pocket of your dress. The ringtone scares the shit out of you and Art, who abruptly jumps a little while still on top of you.

“Of course.” You say sarcastically. “Of course! Who the fuck is calling me?!” You’re irritated now, mood under threat of being ruined. The excitement you felt shrivels up.

Reaching inside your hiked up dress pocket, you pull out your phone and check to see who had the audacity to try and get a hold of you in your time of undoing.

Your friend. Sort of. He was like a close acquaintance? If you could call him that. You met him when you were out and about one night. He’s an okay dude, hasn’t done anything wrong.

If only he didn’t harbor a romantic interest in you when you were already spoken for. But how could you begin to tell someone that you’re involved with a psychopathic killer clown? Specifically the Miles County Clown?

You’re ready to send him right to voicemail, until the phone is seized right out of your hand from over your shoulder.

“Hey!”

Your protest is in vain, as Art too, looks at who is calling you right now. You had HOPED he’d take a look at it, have his curiosity sated, maybe turn the phone off or better yet, you’d even forgive him if he tossed it over his shoulder, just this once!

But the look he’s giving you, then the phone, makes your heart sink as you realize.

“Art, don’t do it—“

His expression turns wicked, mouth upturned into the most shiteating grin you’ve ever seen.

“Art, I swear to god—“

But god’s not here, nowhere to be found in this workshop. God’s forsaken you. Doing the devils tango with a demon can do that.

Giggling silently to himself, in an act of deliberate defiance against you as well as likely for his very own amusement, he accepts the phone call for you and places it right to your ear.

What a gentleman. Truly.

You’re going to fucking kill him. You try to take the phone away from him, but he merely pulls it back out of your reach.

“Hello?”

You can hear the voice on the other end of the line. Art brings it down to your ear again and you try to make a reach for it a second time, only for him to do the exact same thing as before, silently cackling all the while. It’s become apparent that he’s not going to let you have it.

“Hellooooo?”

With a resigned sigh, you don’t fight him any further. Art puts the phone to your ear for the third time.

“Hey.” You answer wearily.

“Hey!” His voice on the other end of the line is suddenly lighter, filled with levity. You can hear the way that his breath is hitched in the back of his throat. Static tinges at the edges of his words.  Must be a shoddy connection down here.

“How are you?”

“I’m–” You start to answer, but are interrupted by Art going back to rocking his hips into you while still over you. Once again, you look over your shoulder to give him the stink eye.

“I’m good, just uh, you know. Hanging out.” You respond, exhaling deeply as Art stirs the fire within you again after it had just begun to cool down.

“Nice, me too.” He says, and lets the silence between you both sink in for a few seconds. “You doing anything tomorrow?”

This would all be so much easier if you weren’t getting dicked down.

“I… I’m uh–”

He’s pounding into you from behind now, still leaning over you, holding the phone for you in one hand and keeping the other on the workbench for stability. Each fluid roll of his hips is equally tantalizing as the previous, his body connecting with yours in such a familiar way you craved. The table shakes, and you’re gripping the edges of it for dear life. You can hear his heavy breath from behind you, excitement building in each time he fills and empties his lungs.

“Art–” You say his name through grit teeth like a warning, with annoyance in your tone, but the excitement you feel, the rush and the thrill of it all has you coming close to release. Why does this feel so good? This man, this sweet man, who has done nothing wrong to you, interested in you, blissfully unaware that your heart belongs to someone else, being fooled like this. It’s wrong. This is wrong. Art knew about this man. He knew about him for some time. Art made it clear that he hated him. The only reason he’s still breathing is because you asked Art not to put this man’s head on a pike, but you fear it’s only a matter of time until your clown lover eviscerates this trespasser for encroaching on what he perceives as his territory–you.

“Art?" He repeats.

This is all an act of revenge done on the Art’s part. His pettiness knew no bounds.

“Yeah, art. You know–Mhn–” Your nails dig into the edge of the workbench as if that’ll somehow make a difference in the fact that he’s pounding into your cunt with such an aggressive force that begins to make you ache.

“You know, p-painting? Drawing. That sort of thing.”

You can only pray the ungodly sinful noises of his skin slapping against yours can’t be heard over the line.

“Ohhh… Well, hey, you wanna hangout sometime soon? It’s been a bit. Wanted to catch up with you if that’s fine.”

You’re not paying attention to a damn thing this dude is saying. It’s just words, in one ear, straight out the other.

“Uhuh.” You say without thinking. You’re close. You’re unbearably close as Art angles himself in such a way that hits just right. He knows how you work all too well. He knows how to unwind you and how to pull you apart piece by piece like it’s second nature to him.

Art’s pushing you towards the cliff, and there’s no stopping it. Your vision starts to blur a little. Your breathing deepens, and Art knows what’s about to come next, which only seems to spur him on as well, exciting him to the point where now he’s going fast not just for you, but for himself, chasing his own orgasm hot on its heels.

“How’s about next Thursday, at 7pm? There’s a new restaurant across the street from where we both met—“

The phone becomes nothing short of white noise. This shouldn’t feel so right, it shouldn’t. But it does. Gods above, it does.

You feel yourself lose sense of the world around you. There’s nothing but ringing in your ears, and you realize how little time you have to prepare before it’s too late.

Your orgasm crashes into you and is ripped out of you all within seconds. You try to keep quiet, your voice strangled and choked out in the process. Your release is violent as it tears you between what feels like the state of life and death. Your cunt tightens around his cock, squeezing him in contractions that trigger him in turn. Art hisses like a serpent, feeling his muscles lock up and knowing that he only has a few seconds to bury himself to the hilt within you, and he does. His face twists into an ugly and horrid expression as he comes inside you, dropping the phone on the workbench in the process while filling you with all the pent up energy he had been keeping away from you for months.

All of what he’d been denying you was now yours.

“Hello?”

You’re finally coming back into your own body a few meager seconds later when you register the voice, and hurriedly grab the phone before Art gets the chance.

“Can I call you back?” You ask, holding the phone to your mouth, but you weren’t really asking. Your friend had no real say in it, and before he even gets the chance to respond, you hang up. And then you lower your head and sigh. All the while, Art has since recovered, but his legs are shaky. You shove him off of you, and he stumbles back with an uneven balance, post orgasm weakened. Goofily he fumbles past the stool from earlier, which he tries to grab but fails in doing so. Instead, he lands right on his ass.

You’re sure to follow that up by throwing your phone at his head, which it does, but it lands with a clack right beside him. The only reason you felt remotely confident in doing that is because you’re both that close. Well, that and irritation made you a bold motherfucker sometimes. Yet despite all of that, he sits there, a wickedly amused smile on his face.

You pull your dress back down. Your legs tingle and you swear you feel some of his come dripping down your thigh, but you’re not sure.

“Proud of yourself, huh?” You ask, leaning against the bench for balance until you get your footing.

Yes. Yes he was proud of himself!

The rest of the night was spent at Art’s temporary hideaway space, lamenting the loss of your panties and calling back your guy friend who had unknowingly been part of something much more than he knew. And you’d never tell him. Not that you would ever have the chance to tell him really anything at all anymore in the future.

You had no idea at the time that Art would meet your friend the day you were both set to reconvene. But you should have known better, and a part of you already did. The reason you know he was dead was because he ended up on the local news the next day missing.

That, and Art had saved the man’s heart specifically for you when you came to visit him again.

[simplyraeblue]

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Professional (Shouta Aizawa x reader)

!afabreader x aizawa as a teacher, reprimanding wasn't uncommon for you to practice. you being reprimanded? only allowed by Shouta Aizawa. WARNINGS/TAGS: swearing, NSFW, MDNI, p in v, creampie (don't be silly wrap your willy!), somewhat public sex, sex on a desk, going commando (couldn't be me), no pronouns used, use of sweetheart, light bondage (gagged by a tie), punishment kink A/N: art above by ficel_art on instagram! I saw it on pinterest first but immediately deep dove onto their account. dadzawa was just too hot in this art to not immediately write something for him ( ´ཀ` ) word count: 1,930

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you loved being a teacher at U.A. – but some days, it felt like the little future heroes were actually little devils. it was about the third time that little… twat waffle… named Katsuki Bakugo had interrupted your class just today to bully Izuku Midorya. while your mental nickname for him wasn’t very teacherly, the best you could do was to speak to his homeroom teacher.

after lunch had started, you marched your exhausted ass to Shouta’s classroom. someone needed to knock some sense into that kid, and you were very sure it wasn’t going to be you doing the job. if you tried… well, you’d probably lose your job with the words you’d use. and Bakugo could be even worse in return, you were certain of that.

you didn’t bother to knock at the door as you shoved it open to find Shouta sitting at the desk grading a stack of papers. he glanced up at your loud intrusion, an eyebrow arching up when he saw the look on your face, already knowing that you were ready to unload.

“who was it today?” Shouta hummed as he merely returned his focus to the homework in front of him without missing a beat. you slammed your hands on his desk, earning his full attention on you.

“I’m going to try very hard to speak in a professional manner, so listen up because I’m not repeating myself.” you warned him with a glare sharp enough to cut through steel. Shouta raised an eyebrow, hands up in a silent gesture to proceed. “I know you love your students – and don’t try to lie – but you need to reprimand Bakugo more often. he’s disrupted my class every day this week, and I’m seriously considering putting him on probation from participating in the sports festival.”

Shouta slowly stood, moving around the desk as he processed your words, nodding along. “so, you think he should be punished?” he asked, his voice even.

you nodded firmly. “and I’m asking you to help.”

he gave a small, knowing shrug. “and you’re trying to be professional about it?”

“well, I like to think of myself as a professional most of the time.” you chuckled dryly as you shook your head. in the back of your mind, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were getting close to the point where you might use your quirk on the brat a few times… but that would only happen if you were specifically asked to for training purposes.  

Shouta had made his way to your side by now, standing a few inches from you as he smirked. when you noticed his expression you raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t know that I’d call you the most professional of teachers.” he told you as he looked down into your eyes.

“what’s that supposed to mean, Shouta?” you dared to ask, still confused as to where he was going with this. “are you going to give me an exhaustive list of the reasons I’m not professional, because it wouldn’t be the first time you have.”

“no, not an exhaustive list today.” he snickered before his hand drifted to grasp at your hips. you jumped slightly at the contact, sucking in a breath when he ruched the hem of your skirt in his fingers.

he’d been watching you since this morning, the black pencil skirt you wore showing off the plush of your ass as you walked down the hallway to attend to the students. his eyes followed you like magnets wherever you went – and he hadn’t been ignorant enough to miss the tiny little detail he was about to bring to your attention.

before he spoke again, he swiftly lifted you to sit on the edge of his desk, causing you to gasp. when he leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, he whispered, “for now, let’s start with the fact that you’re not wearing any panties.”

immediately, a smirk crossed your lips. “ah, so you finally noticed?” you murmured, cheeks heating with his breath on your ear.

“I noticed long ago. I’m assuming this was for me?” he asked as his nose nuzzled your neck, making you groan. “you just couldn’t wait until we were home could you, sweetheart?”

“you’re always so tired when you get home, I just wanted you to know what you had to look forward to.” as you explained, you thought back to getting dressed this morning – you’d quickly thrown on your outfit, neglecting your panties while your husband was in the bathroom. Shouta had been none the wiser when he’d come out, simply giving you a morning kiss before the two of you left for work.

“I don’t know, I kind of want it right now.” you pulled back to study his face, seeing them dark with desire as his hands palmed your ass through your skirt. “we have some time while the students are at lunch, what do you say?”

you were reminded every day of how hot your husband was, and now was no exception. “lock the door.” you instructed him, to which he pushed off of you and secured the door. when he returned, he wasted no time in crashing his lips into yours.

“we should still be quick, sweetheart. don’t want any of the students roaming the hallway to hear us.” Shouta whispered between your lips, taking your lower one into his mouth and sucking harshly on it.

“then you’d better be quiet.” you teased, something that you always learned your lesson for doing later. you felt him smirk into the next kiss he gave you as he pushed your skirt up to your waist, cold air hitting your wetting pussy.

he knew how to be fast, and quiet. it was something Shouta learned very quickly within his line of work – but you’d figured out how to make that increasingly more difficult for him to put into practice. your hands all but ripped his belt off before shoving his pants and boxers down, revealing his cock standing at attention.

god, he’d thought about using his lunch time to find a secluded place and jerk off to the thought of you. after noticing your lack of underwear this morning, it was all he could think about, repeatedly having to clear his mind while working. but this was even better, he thought.

you watched in awe as Shouta pulled his tie off, and just as you wondered if he would throw it to the side, he instead pushed the fabric between your teeth and swiftly tied it behind your head. “now, you have to be the one to be quiet.” Shouta taunted as he placed a light kiss on your gagged mouth.

while he lined his tip with your seeping hole, you whimpered against the fabric muffling your words. Shouta was painstakingly slow in pushing inside of you, your walls stretching to accommodate his immense girth as you moaned at the feeling of his veiny cock molding your walls.

when he finally bottomed out, he let out a low groan of pleasure before placing a hand on your chest and pushing you back to lay flat on the desk. “I’m beginning to think your lack of professional is what needs to be punished.” Shouta teased as he leisurely rolled his hips into yours causing your eyes to roll back. “but I guess I’ll have to save your true penalty for tonight, since we need to be quick.”

 you nodded fervently as he began to slam into you, the desk creaking beneath you with every bullying thrust. “please.” your beg came out muffled, but enough for him to understand.

Shouta’s lips covered yours to add an extra layer of quieting your noises, his dick now repeatedly slamming into your walls with a fierce pace. he pulled away for a moment to spit onto your clit before his fingers began to work the sensitive nub. “don’t worry, sweetheart. tonight, you’re going to get a good punishment that I think you and I both will enjoy.” you whimpered at the thought, already knowing your ass would be bruised and sore come tomorrow morning.

“fuck I’ll never – mph – get sick of – hah – this pussy.” Shouta bit out with each smack of his hips into your ass, the noises the two of you were creating become filthier every second. as he brutally circled your clit, pinching it between his fingers, you moaned into the now wet fabric between your teeth. he always had been an expert at getting you close with almost no effort, and you could already feel the knot coiling in your stomach. “so perfect for me sweetheart. such a perfect wife.”

he was a little sad that he needed to be fast, wanting to savor every bit of you, but after looking at the clock Shouta realized that time was almost up. “gonna need you to – hmph – come on my cock now, sweetheart. need you to come before I fill you up.”

with his demand, he slapped a hand down onto your clit harshly, making your back arch off the desk in response. “Shouta!” your husband’s name barely passed your lips before he smacked your clit again, caressing it between each contact until you were coming undone beneath him. “m’ coming!”

Shouta swore under his breath as he watched your body convulse below, your pretty eyes rolling back just as your slick walls clenched around his cock. if he had more time, he’d keep going until you couldn’t walk for a week – but he’d just have to save it for tonight. for now, he allowed his release to barrel over him alongside yours.

his head fell down between your covered tits, the fabric of your shirt doing nothing to hide them as he muffled his own whines of pleasure before he was shooting ropes of cum inside you. he’d buried himself to the hilt to make sure you got every last drop, praying it was deep enough to ensure it stayed trapped inside of you for the rest of the day.

with perfect timing, he started to come down from the high just as the bell rang, echoing in your now almost deaf ears. Shouta slowly pulled out, hissing at the loss of warmth against his cock, before quickly pulling his tie from your lips. he used it to clean himself up before kneeling down to wipe away any mess he’d left between your thighs.

“maybe I should’ve brought a backup pair of panties.” you groaned as you slowly sat up. “now I’m going to have to worry that our unborn children are going to leak down my thighs the rest of the day.”

“you wicked woman, that foul mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one day.” Shouta smirked as he kissed you softly. you watched as he walked back around his desk and opened a drawer, before he pulled out a pair of your panties. “it’s a good thing I noticed before we left the house and brought these just in case.”

your jaw dropped out as you snatched them from him. “you knew! and you let me think I’d seduced you.” a pout formed on your lips before you slipped the underwear on, praying it was enough to prevent any embarrassment.

Shouta only caressed your head, his lips meeting yours again. “you seduce me without even trying, sweetheart.” you grinned at the words until his hand gently wrapped around your throat. “but don’t forget, you’re still getting reprimanded later.”

you’d never been so excited to get punished.

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Link to Kirishima x reader here (word count: 902)

Link to Shoto x reader pt. 1 here (word count: 1,800)

Link to Kaminari x reader pt.1 here (word count: 2,680)

Link to Bakugo x reader here (word count: 2,328)

Link to Hawks x reader here (word count: 1,903)

[ryndicate]

45 ⨳ Soul Evans

Warnings: fem body, creampie, feeeelings (@cwgyuutaro), mid 20s Soul, canonverse, weapon!reader

Event: 2023 Summer Anthology

Notes: @medusashima if i remember correctly it was you who requested Soul so here's a little courtesy tag and a thank you for participating and choosing such a juicy line for him <3

“This really isn’t subtle, you know,” you mewl, putting your teeth in his shoulder to try and muffle your own sounds, arms tight around his shoulders, clinging to him as he pants into your neck. His hands are hot as he moves you on his dick, your legs secured around his waist, 

"Maybe you shouldn't be so loud then." He chuckles at the little oof you give out as he lets your back fall to the sleeping bag, settling firmly over you.

“Then maybe you should hurry up!”

Soul ignores your pointed whine, giving you a small glare as you try to let your legs fall; he readjusts the grip of your legs around his waist so he can lean in closer, pressing your tacky foreheads together. “Nah, I don’t think I’m gonna.”

“Soul,” you whisper, the only voice to your plea as you submit to his tongue as he pries your lips open with his tongue. His fingers tighten on your ass and you feel yourself squeeze tight around him. Soul groans down your throat, the muscles in his thighs jumping as he fights to keep control of his current pace.

Neither of you are strangers to quick, casual hookups; back home that’s the norm. It’s this that’s rare—usually reserved for late night’s with too much beer, or a distraction from a frustrating day—this version of Soul. Right now he’s slow, torturous, intent. Undeterred by the embarrassing sounds of your pelvises slapping together. Sometimes he’s just seated in your hot cunt, accompanied by little grinds as he puts more focus into running his hands over your body, steady, firm, like he’s mapping new territory. Like he’s not had access to every inch of your body for the last several months. 

A pitched keen pulls from your throat, blocked by his tongue and dissolving into whimpers as he worships your body. He shushes you softly, pressing his lips to yours gently, across your swollen bottom lip, then the corners, continuing the comforting sound as his lips track down the column of your throat.

“If you’re really so worried about someone hearing, then tone it down,” Soul noses at your jaw, sucking a dark mark there, feeling his pulse kick at the little whine you let out even as you let him do it, “Make it soft. Make it just for me, ‘mkay?”

You tremble at his touch and nod, the warm pads of his fingers as he traces over the mark he just left behind, eyes burning with things the two of you have never spoken about. Things you think you’re beginning to understand, even if a little. Things that frighten you.

“Good.”

You clasp a hand over your mouth as he raises himself up a little and begins to move in the way that you’ve been begging him to since the moment you fell into his tent at the end of the night. Everyone else is a mere couple meters away, with nothing but a few layers of nylon between you. Your words a little more than breaths slipping between your fingers. “Mn- yes, please like that.”

“Haah,” Soul groans against your cheek, gritting his teeth at the starry bliss in your eyes, framed by tear laden lashes. The way you look right now, carefully taken a part—it’s exactly what he wanted but he’s still not had enough of you. He’s starting to think he never will. His cock is throbbing, wrapped snug in your wet heat, and the coiling ball in his gut is winded so tight that it wouldn’t take much to send him reeling to oblivion.

All his restraint vanishes when your nails dig into his back, chanting his name under your breath. “Soul please, please. Can’t take anymore. Need it, need you to—”

“Oh fuck, babe,” Soul groans, a shudder wracking through his body as you gasp. “Fuck, I’m s’close. You’re s’good, you feel s’good. Perfect for me, babe.”

Your heart flutters at little scrunch of his nose, how his words start to blur together as his own urgency rips down every wall that he uses to put himself together, and he’s left bared in front of you. It never fails to exhilirate you. 

“I need you to come,” he rasps, a exertion making his voice weak, pretty even. He pets over your clit so sweetly, insistently, steady and even and so, so perfect that you forget everything. There’s just you and him and this heaven shattering feeling rushing through your veins and tipping you into the realm of no return. “I need it, need you t’come for me. Please, please, babe ‘s okay now, let go.” His voice breaks as you start to gush over his cock, slick sounds getting obscene, but it’s lost to the sound of Soul’s voice as he comes apart for you. “For me, babe, need you to– that’s it– awhh fuck yes– Y-yes, yes, yes, yes—”

He shudders against your chest, still humping into you in broken, jerky motions as he unloads hot, sticky white into your twitching cunt. You’re too overcome with your own orgasm and his sweet little groans to truly register that he’s never done that before. You’re so full of him, of his cum, of his half hardness, still valiantly twitching inside you like he never wants to leave.

You trace sticky lines up and down the valley of his shoulder blades for a few moments, the both of you sheltering in this quiet bliss before you have to return to reality.

“I should really go,” you whisper to him softly after a few minutes of increasingly uneasy silence. “We’ve lost enough sleep. Our meisters will be depending on us tomorrow.

“Yeah, alright.” He sighs and lets himself slip out of you, intensely watching the way his seed spills out of you the moment he stops blocking it’s path. “Let me clean you up first.”

You let your head rest back with a small sound of content as he digs in his pack for something to wipe you down with, and roll over when he’s finished, fishing for your discarded clothing. 

Soul tugs his pants on, and sits watching you, his forearms resting over his bent knees. “You know I should be apart of the frontal assault team.”

“Lord Death wanted you and Maka to lead the rear reinforcements, he wants the finish to be decisive. There’s no one better for such a task.”

“Yeah, I heard it all in the briefing,” Soul scoffs, wiping his hands on his thighs and standing up and helping you out of his tent. 

His malcontent is like a quiet storm, brewing in the distance, never to truly breach the horizon. He doesn’t fight losing battles, and he knows that the chance to change this has long since passed.

“You’ll catch up with us soon,” you assure him with a fragile smile, lacing your fingers with his gently. 

“You bet your ass we will,” Soul responds quietly, carmine eyes studying your face like he’ll find something new. Only the tiniest squeeze of his fingers around yours betrays that unshakable facade of his, alerts you that he’s thinking the same thing as you. The words “take care” itch across your tongue, but neither of you dare tell the other. Both of you have known from the beginning, wrapped tight in the mutual understanding that if anything were to go wrong today, you would both do your duty as weapons. 

You sigh and let him go, adjusting your haori and then your hair, preparing to slink back to your tent.

“Oi.”

You turn back to him. His voice is back to that indolent drawl, the one that used to have you at each other’s throats back in the day. He’s got his thumb under his headband, adjusting silvery strands in silence until he turns his eyes on you.

“When we get back…I’m done hidin’. I’m don’t want to be that kind of guy anymore.”

“O-oh,” you breathe, startled, a fluttery feeling rising in your chest, battling your fear for the coming battle. “Okay.”

Soul gives you a sharp half-smile, echoing himself. “When, you hear me?”

After a moment you realize what he’s saying and after another second of though you nod, unsure but unable to deny him this little tangle of hope. 

“When.”

[iridescentttears]

my thoughts on the deal with the toxic ex thing we’ve got going on from a late night noncoherent ramble hot take:

the whole billford shipping is so fascinatingly heinous and foul and complex and infuriating and interesting that i certainly can’t look away and i’m intrigued by seeing more of the billford sexy kinky shipping, like that’s not the right word for it but u get it. and i won’t be mad when i see it again but i will slightly shake my head disapprovingly because i know that no iteration of billford is in any ways healthy.

and as someone who’s been through DV and emotional abuse situations it’s kinda odd to me that ppl are making serious and silly takes on, oh no they’re fucking n sucking, they’re kinky af. (and i know that’s an oversimplification on that regard as well but just like for the point of this i think you get what i mean— like it’s in my hc that they hooked up after karaoke and maybe for a while after that it was like a partnersitustionship and in the year of our good lord and savior casual by chappell roan it’s a perfect addition to the lore timing wise)

but also it’s like, no they’re in an unfair power dynamic. sure they each come to it with unique sets of trauma and experience. but one participant is way older way “smarter” way more manipulative and to me there’s no way for that to be sexy. it just leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

i also, from experience was filled with an overwhelming sense of peace and relief at the end of the book of bill when ford lets his family into his world, into his inner trauma, and they embrace him. they tell him that he’s not stupid or weak for being a victim of abuse they tell him that bill is a fucking loser! and he is. and the ppl who hurt me were fucking losers and so is every person who hurts people!! and having that moment when he was surrounded by their love, and he no longer felt shame and guilt from what happened in his past— that moment right there is what made the book something i will cherish. that’s a moment in the book where i out loud had a moment where i was like yes, this right here is the heart of what this is all about what gravity falls is at its core level.

like journal 1 taught me that i could embrace being weird and in the end i’ll turn out all right. the book of bill missing journal pages taught me that even tho ive had some shit happen to me and it’s changed who i am and how i see the world, i am more than a victim and if i allow myself to trust the ppl i love and let in the light, my past will not consume me and does not have to continue to be a part of my story. i can dance around in the woods with my niece and mock a triangle statue while wearing witch hats. i can grieve and move on and a lot of that is my internal work with myself like ford with himself, but its not done all alone, when you have love around you in your friends, in your chosen family whether they be by birth or not, that’s how you really learn to let it all go.

so in a way it’s really fucked up, the ship that is, but again i’m not mad at anyone who ships it. i’m sure you all have very different perspectives and thought and reasons that are totally valid, this is just how i feel from my perspective! i will continue to enjoy all the billford edits and fanart that comes across my page. i especially love anything to do with the breakup/divorce/ fiddleford, bill, ford love triangle angle. i love that shit

this is favorite thing on the internet rn:

@ raycipher2 on tiktok i think is the creator of this delightful viral sensation!

so i took a detour rant there, oops word vomit am i right?

if u read all this pls tell me if this makes any sense lmao

[kassiekole22]

At First Sight

Pairing: Syzoth X Fem!Reader Description: On a mission to cause a great diversion, Syzoth gets distracted when he lays eyes on a gorgeous woman who sits all alone at one of her family's biggest festivals.  Warnings: None... Word Count: 508 A/N: I'm sorry this turned out so short. I didn't know how far I could go with this, especially since I wrote the first fic before watching the game. So I tried to keep the reason he was there discreet so it would make sense for both my story and the canon story. But I'd be willing to do a part two where it fits in with the canon storyline, if that's what you guys want. Anyway, more Syzoth x Fem!Reader requests are coming soon. 💚 Main MasterList: 🖤 Kassie's Angels: @lorebite, @mornandil, @bihansthot, @katiralovely, @queenkhepri, @blackbunnymayw, @simpforhotmaskedmen, @theleftkittycollection, @kiashines. (If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know in the comments! 🖤)

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As soon as my feet touched the shingles of the roof, I was on the run. I scurried across as fast as I could before stopping at the very edge and looking below to see if I had been noticed. Fortunately, everyone was too busy enjoying their time at some festival the royals had thrown. Everyone danced and mingled with each other without a single care disturbing their perfect night. For a moment, I pondered what it would be like if I was able to do that with my people — to be one with them once again — but I knew that would never happen; that was just the sad truth.

I shook myself out of my moment of reflection before turning back to my mission, since this was clearly no time to be taking my mind away from it. So I waited and watched on the rooftop, studying everything below me and trying to decide where and when it would be best to cause my diversion. Everybody was heavily distracted with dancing and talking with their friends and family so I decided that now was the best time to make my first move, but then my eyes landed upon someone different.

A young girl — dressed in a beautiful (favorite color) dress with her hair done all up — sat alone with a rather melancholy expression etched on her features. In fact, she seemed to have no desire to participate in her people's antics at all. She looked too rich to be a normal lower-class person like the others surrounding her, so I figured she was a part of the royal family. But what I didn't understand was why she seemed so down and... Alone.

It was a moment that I was grateful that one of my Zaterran abilities was brilliant sight, so I could see every detail of her — the way her eyebrows turned up due to sorrow, her pink lips forming a straight line until she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, her beautiful (E/C) eyes twinkling under the lanterns' light — she truly was a sight to behold.

I watched her patterns for a moment — watched how she slowly brought her drink to her lips every minute or so and how she nervously played with the few strains of hair that fell gracefully over her shoulder. It was as if everything she did — even the most natural things known to her kind — were done in the most beautiful way. I could feel my heart beating faster and faster by the second and then when I got that burning desire to be near her and never far from her presence, I realized that she was the one. I just had to have her all to myself.

I wanted to learn more about her; I had to… Soon. But for the time being, I had to finish my mission. It was too important to let anything distract me from it, no matter how beautiful the distraction may be. Maybe once the fire is out and the smoke is cleared, I'll see the beauty once again.

》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《

[sugashook]

deadpool 3 is literally......pride and prejudice ...hear me out...

having mr darcy acting in the deadpool movie has to be a SIGN like ... everyone's playing their most famous character and then he's just paradox. nothing is as it seems~ ooo~

anyway~

i think logan is totally mr darcy and wade is elizabeth.

logan is a well off man with a rich history, everybody loves him. and wade is jealous of that, he doesn't see himself as highly regarded as logan and perhaps is not. and wade, well he's the brown eyed beauty.

"are you into dancing" "not if i can help it" / save my world or i'll make you take a breath through your forehead (and then he drinks and passes out, just not to dance with wade. [and dancing is used as a parallel already by the canon use of 'lady in red' in the film]).

mr darcy is totally closed off and nasty, he insults her appearance, he doesn't wish to participate in anything. but immediately after hearing her out, he's doing whatever she says to do to change himself.

logan was kind of enchanted from the first moment they met, i think. but he was still RUDE after.

and wade sees the way logan acts, at face value and is like that guy sucks, then paradox is like, this guy sucks even more than you think. and wade is like omfg that's terrible (just like in P&P).

wade misunderstands logan's rudeness, and other peoples rudeness as well. and thinks he's a bad person because of it. he looks at paradox who he speaks so well and is so polite and tells wade 'logan is a horrible person (JUST LIKE THEY SPOKE BADLY ABOUT MR DARCY). you're gonna be an avenger'. and wade believes him. and then once that is revealed to be a not true, only she and her father know that in the end, just like only wade's family knew about how they saved the world.

wade thinks people babying him and letting him do whatever he wants is love, but logan is the opposite of that so he feels very attacked.

but logan judges too quickly as well as wade. and even with his JUDGEMENTS of wade, he was mesmerized by wade (most hot men and vanessa are in the movies ,it's no big deal, tch)

he was too proud to accept the x men, too proud to admit he wants to fit in. and too proud to say he wants to be with wade. he thinks hes above it all.

Wade tells Logan to practice speaking aka to speak with cassandra . and logan rejects to dance with the lady (join him on the mission).

and in both movies, the hand holding really shook something in their worlds. elizabeth/wade saw something there. PLUS logans glove literally exploded off his hands that moment so its like he touched this lowly girl, like it was no big deal. Like, that's just what you're supposed to do. And wade hasn't met a hero like this that would sacrifice himself for wade so he's really in awe.

OKAY. HER, WADES VIEW OF MR DARCY started to change, there was something different there. HE TOUCHED HIM!!

and then it took wade accepting logan and telling his mom about him and all he did for her. bwaaaaaa n the movie ends.

has logan been in love with wade since day 1 ? did he really believe wade's lie or did he want to be with someone/wade. he's a little puppy needing a home. he won't dance if he can help it, but if it's for wade, he does. he kinda believed it, but also he wanted to take his rage out on something.

it was a good excuse to go along with deadpool, otherwise he'd be forced to say he simply wants to be with deadpool and he's absolutely not that type of person. he has to belittle wade/Elisabeth to make himself feel bigger. later on he realizes how badly he treated her.

wade heard logan's words of understanding, then he felt logan touch him for the first time. and then they touched knees and shoulders~ teehee~ and not touching on accident due to bad circumstances, or because they're tied together or in an act of brutality, but just casually out of love~ meep~

the world tried to tied them together....by force, out of necessity and THAT IS comparable to marriage, but they don't JUST need each-other in the end, they want each-other. and wade proposes to logan for logan to stay. even though they could have parted ways.

but wade has bewitched him body and soul entirely. 'my affections havent changed ,but one word from you will silence me forever(logan wanting to walk out, he didn't wish to make wade uncomfortable with his desires). i never wish to be parted from you since this day on.' thats the third act when logan realizes wow wade is incredible.

but also wade literally needed him, just like elizabeth needed a husband to marry, but she didnt want it to be mr darcy. but oh how wrong she was!!! if it was 1813 and wade was the lowly girl who needed a husband to survive, she really wants it to be mr logan darcy. basically.

and wade kinda does need to depend on someone, sure not societally the way she HAD to, she had no other options, but wade depends on people in every single other way, economically ,mentally and emotionally he does depend on others. and he hates that vanessa isn't his like bride to be.

but he sort of wanted to be her equal and her not take care of him at the same time. which is like a battle in his mind, they aren't on the same level. but logan and wade took care of one another on equal grounds.

you must know surely you must know it was all for you (wade says that basically to vanessa) GULP does logan feel the same way to wade ruh roh.

EEEEE

[doodler16]

the more I think back to episode 4 the more it doesn’t make sense. So husk is calling Angel out on being fake, right, but fake how? Because he’s he crosses boundaries and sexually harasses him? Because he’s mean? Thats not being fake that’s committing a sexual offense. there’s nothing to Angel/Anthony that distinct enough to show two sides of Angel’s persona. I’ve heard fans say Angel slips into more New Yorker accent when he’s Anthony but the VA is doing a bad pilot Angel dust impression I cant tell the difference. So is Angel fake because he acts promiscuous and raunchy in and out of pornos but he secretly hates it? But than loser baby has like about how he likes to sample every sex toy he can find and he’s a dick sucking hoe? So he isnt fake, Angel is just naturally promiscuous, but that doesnt mean deserve to be sex trafficked. Husk has no right to call Angel fake the same way Angel has no right to cross boundaries and try to coerce husk into sex. “You don’t know me, sex ain’t the thing I’m good at” yeah because this episode doesn’t say anything new about you either that you’re being sex trafficked and force to participate in pornos and you shoot guns sometimes. Also Charlie is so terrible in this episode, she is the nail in coffin for me. I hate episode 4

being mean or using sexual is defense mechanism it’s not being fake it’s a sign that someone is using avoid/push other away so people don’t get to close and they don’t form close attachments because did the trauma they’ve endured or are enduring. It’s a sign that someone needs help and you can choose to help or not.

Feels more like Angel Dust is masking his personality and how he truly feels regarding the abuse than being fake. Let’s say hypothetically Husk was right about Angel Dust being fake, wouldn’t Angel Dust lead everyone on especially Charlie and talk shit about her to other people along with contradicting himself. But in the show, he’s honest to Charlie about the hotel, why he’s here in the first place, and still participates in the activities even if he doesn’t put his best foot forward (no matter how dumb some of them are).

Either way it’s no excuse for Angel Dust to sexually harass any man who breathes near him. If he’d continue Angel Dust would’ve turned into a Valentino junior. There’s not much of a difference between Anthony and Angel Dust. Even before he met Valentino, he still used guns since Angel Dust is in a mob/mafia family. I wouldn’t be surprised when he was alive would confidently dress in drag, etc.

Who knows Vivziepop can surprise us and change everything in order to make Anthony and Angel Dust different from each other. Which is why I forever take her with a grain of salt. I never notice these guys accents and personally won’t care, never made a difference for me. 😂 Charlie sucked balls in that episode. The writers should’ve worded Husk better to be honest, Anon.

[therealhousewifeofharrystyles]

Whatcha Doin' Step Bro

*Part 2*

Read Part 1 Here

Pairing: Harry Styles // Y/N (Step-Sibling EU)

Word Count: ~ 9k words

🔞WARNINGS🔞: adult language, rough smut, degradation, overstimulation, references to a filthy masturbation session, sexual fantasies involving a step sibling, inappropriate touching between step siblings, dom!harry, sub!y/n, cum fetish, oral sex (m & f receiving), unprotected p-in-v

[y/m/n=your middle name; if you don’t have one, you can just ignore it 😊]

You couldn’t stop thinking about it. About the thing. How wet his dick was, how he knew you were there at the doorway, the way he looked at you…and he just…came all over himself. You speed through your neighborhood streets to sink yourself into the realm of retail. It’s meant to be a distraction—a visual diversion to get your mind off of Harry and his dripping cock. But it’s as if a part of your subconscious is holding a marathon of your short-term memory, and the past 15 minutes loops on a suspiciously high-definition projector inside of your brain…

You wake up. Harry isn’t shitting on your day 1st thing in the morning. Life seems livable for an hour or so. You think it’s strange, but you want to savor it while you still can. As if he could sense your state of ease, Harry yells for you from his bedroom. You reluctantly decide to check on him. Being well-mannered, you knock on his door before entering. He responds strangely. Your imagination has brought you to dire conclusions. You open the door, growing concerned for his well-being. Then, boom—you get front-row seats to see your step brother and his stupid, perfect cock, and after his cum finishes shooting out of him like lotion out of a pump, he has the audacity to assume you’d want to sample some.

He’s such a scumbag. What—does he think you’re in some kind of pure taboo, bratty-sis, family strokes, sis-loves-me video?! Not that you ever watch those…or even know what they are…

Who are you kidding—you’ve explored this fantasy in the privacy of your bedroom more times than you can count. Especially since the other day when Harry fingered you in the laundry room and left you before you could cum. You’re still mad about that, by the way. Right after it happened, you bolted for your room where you shut your door behind you, dropped to your knees on the floor, and rubbed at your clit to finish what he’d started. You muffled your moans with your free hand as you rode out your perpetual orgasms. It was pathetic how quickly you’d gotten yourself writhing and humping against your fingers to the sick imagery of your step brother savoring your natural lubricant from his fingers. You’d only ever dreamt of something like that coming to fruition. You’ve been entertaining yourself in this perverse land of daydreams for so long—pretending to be repulsed by your step brother and his malignant vulgarity. 

Meanwhile, your thoughts have progressively been plagued by filthy scenarios where you and your step brother participate in extremely inappropriate activities in places where it’s extremely likely for the two of you to get caught. The details aren’t too important…but they do change according to whatever Harry chooses to say and/or do to you each day. 

For example—one time, it was late and you’d just arrived back home from a friend’s house. As you tiptoed across the first floor towards the main staircase, you were spooked by the sudden noise of someone clearing their throat in the living room. You froze and whipped your head in the direction where it came from, squinting in the darkness to try and identify any odd shapes or shadows. Then a phone screen lit up to illuminate his face. Harry’s face. Easily startled, you sucked in a gasp and knocked your elbow against the wooden railing. You clutched onto your arm to self-soothe and tried to hold in an echoing yelp. “Ouch…! Harryyy!” You whisper-yelled. Your eyes darted back to him as if he’d been the one to directly cause you harm. He wasn’t even looking at you; rather, he was pretending to be occupied with his device as if he was completely unaware of your presence. Prick. You knew he was up to something.

“Harry!” You hiss, slowly approaching him near the sofa.

That was when he finally acknowledged you by lazily lifting his gaze to travel up your figure, taking his sweet time in doing so. “Oh…you’re home.” His voice was both dull and bitter in its tone. You sensed more tension in the room than usual, and you wondered what sort of fight he was trying to pick at 2 o’clock in the goddamned morning. While you were sleepily making sense of the situation in your head, Harry went ahead and gave you a hefty clue as to why he seemed so peeved. 

“So, how’d it go with what’s-his-nuts?” He shut his phone off before reaching beside him and clicking a lamp on. It took a few uncomfortable seconds for your eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. Due to the unpleasant combination of drowsiness, the lingering sting on your funny-bone, and the overall irritation climbing up your spine from Harry preventing you from going straight to sleep, you answered his stupid question with pure impatience. “His name is Max, and I had a lot of fun, actually.” You ended your statement with a sigh. The sound came off as more of a swooning sigh, but that was completely unintentional. You were just exhausted and you honestly didn’t feel like staying up even later just for your step brother to tease you about a guy you just hung out with.  “Ah, I see…” he hummed, staring you and your body down as if it were his property to defend.

Max was just a friend, but Harry wasn’t convinced of that. It certainly didn’t help matters that you’d returned home so late wearing the not-so-conservative outfit you’d chosen to wear. 

But you'd only participated in a movie marathon, and you both just lost track of time. Honestly—that was it. Sure, there may be a possibility that Max has a little crush on you. But he’s never tried to make a move on you or cross any boundaries. He’s nothing but a kind, funny, respectful gentleman towards you, and you value his friendship. 

Harry has met him in person a few times and he’s always put on this protective older brother persona as some intimidation tactic to make Max nervous whenever he comes over. It’s like he’s a jealous boyfriend or something, except he’s your step brother, and he essentially has no valid reason to act the way he does. Regardless, you still had to put up with the grump and his accusatory attitude after every interaction you have with your friend.

“…Hope you kids at least used protection…” Harry’s expression grew even more resentful, but to his surprise, your face immediately reflected the same. “Wha—what the fuck, Harry?!” You whisper-yelled, stomping all the way towards him with your arms crossed over your middle. The man just propped his leg upon his opposite knee and huffed in disbelief. “Oh, c’mon, Y/N. Don’t play coy w’me. Everyone knows he’s dying to fuck you—” 

“—Stop! He is not!”

“Ok. Keep tellin’ y’self that, babe—”

“—Don’t fucking call me that.” You held out an accusatory finger at him.

“Oi, whatever. I just hope he’s got a fresh box of Trojans at his place.” You made a face at him. “Ugh, just shut up, Harry.” 

He hummed, dropping his leg down so he could spread his knees wide and sit back against the couch cushion with his hands behind his head. “Hmm…oh, by the way…” He slowly stood to his feet, towering over you as if he were twice your size. You felt the remnants of whatever power or tenacity you had slip from your lips in a tiny whimper as his chest brushed against yours and your nipples perked up at the contact even through the layers of your clothing. You swallowed dryly. The lack of decent moisture in your mouth almost made you choke.

Harry leant down so his lips and stubble tickled your cheek. “…Don’t you ever tell me what I’m allowed to call you. I can speak to you however the fuck I want. You understand me?” His voice was deep and harsh, his accent thick. It only got like that when he was serious. I guess this was one of those times. Your heart sunk to the floor. He carefully pulled away and you were actually quite aroused by his display of dominance…at first. 

Your step brother was just trying to get a rise out of you. His method of doing so was really fucking hot and you desperately wanted to be a good girl so he’d reward you later…but that’s not what this was. No. Harry wanted to use your crush on him to his advantage. But guess what? You weren’t gonna let Harry walk all over you. Not when he got to have his fun making his way around the neighborhood with all the desperate housewives and their newly divorced 40-something friends. 

He acted like he wanted you—like you were his. Except he was only interested in bedding the local cougars and milfs. You weren't either of those things…i.e.: you weren’t his type. And so why would you want to waste your time sneaking around with your STEP BROTHER, of all people, when he’d just humiliate you and leave you for someone more experienced anyway? It wasn’t worth the pain of rejection nor the embarrassment once mom and dad would eventually find out. 

And so, instead of putting on your ‘good girl’ act, you glared at him. “HA! I don’t think so, you asshole. Fuck off!” Your voice was a bit more amplified than intended, but it didn’t seem to stir any commotion upstairs. Phew…

Harry, however, seemed to think you were a ticking time-bomb. Clasping a palm over your mouth as his other hand held the back of your neck over your hair, he shushed you and held you still whilst you struggled against his firm hold with flailing, combative arms. Your eyes were wide, your brows scrunched in frustration, and every muffled whine and grunt only further entertained Harry as he chuckled and held you tighter.

You pried his fingers off your lips just long enough to spit out the words, “L-Let go of m-me…you idiot!”

Harry laughed and replaced his fingers over your mouth where he previously had them. “And what are you gonna do ‘bout it, you little brat?” His lips curved up into a sneer. If you had the energy, you’d pounce right back at Harry and claw at those stupid fucking dimples until they were unrecognizable due to the scratches. Alas, your eyelids were becoming heavier with each blink and you were close to collapsing onto the floor. The two of you just stared at each other for a few dragging moments, quietly contemplating one another’s next move. But lack of energy was getting the best of both of you. Harry’s grip was weakening and your legs were wobbly. 

You used the last ounce of oomph you had left to shut your step brother up for the night. Shuffling your feet, you nudged Harry backwards until he fell back onto his plush chair. You then stood right in between his spread legs, leaned down until your face was level with his—your hands on either one of his knees, slowly sliding up his meaty thighs and gently squeezing and raking your smooth nails up and down his sweatpant-clad legs. You never took your eyes off of him, but he allowed his eyes to drift down to your heaving tits which threatened to spill out of your tube top and bra, and then downwards to watch as your dainty fingertips and thumbs dared to graze his growing bulge. You fluttered your long, wispy eyelashes—your eyes dreamy and sleepy, but intoxicating nonetheless—and the words that flowed from your delicious, pink tongue into Harry’s entranced ears escaped your lips like they were silk ribbons caught in the breeze.

“Fine, Harry. Maybe I did let Max fuck me tonight…” Bluffing. Harry’s jaw tightened and you could see how hard he was clenching his teeth by how his veins by his temples were more visible. A smile was tugging on the corners of your mouth, but you didn’t want to blow it. So you continued, “…But I think what really got him going was when I told him I’m on birth control…” You grinned as your words drained the remaining seafoam green from his irises to make more room for his expansive pupils. Harry’s lips separated and his chest was rising and falling quickly. “…And you know what, I can’t really blame him…” you paused and reached your hand up to his head, gently combing your fingers through his soft, already-tousled curls. His hands were twitching and straining on the chair’s armrests. Then, dipping your head next to his ear and lowering to a whisper, you said, “…I like it raw.” 

Harry huffed through his nose and smacked his head back against the cushion of his chair before he softly breathed out, “Fuck me…” 

After that night, you’d conjured up a new fantasy where it would’ve been you and Harry curled up on the couch watching a movie marathon. Except in this scenario, you imagined sharing a blanket where all you wore was a skimpy little night dress as Harry spooned you from behind to keep you warm. And then, once you’d finally started dozing off in his arms, he’d lift the hem up and slowly glide himself back and forth against your pussy lips, coating himself with your dampness before eventually pushing inside of you so that you could also keep him warm. After all, it’s only fair that you share with your big brother.

.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜

Harry’s shameless display of sin and indecency, jerking his dick off while you watched, left you with nothing but your soaked underwear, pulsing clit, and of course, questions. Was all that cum…for you? Your heart quickens as you rewind time in your mind for the thousandth time to admire your memory of Harry in his state of arousal. You think back further to how things had escalated to that point. You still can’t believe it. Harry had really yelled out for you just so you could be in the room when he…Jesus Christ! And what were you going to do once you got back home?! How could you act like nothing ever happened when you’d not only been denied an orgasm the other day, but then forced to watch Harry pleasure himself—to what seemed to have been you. Also, what was he hoping would come out of all this, anyway? No pun intended. What if you had a friend over and both of you had been at his door?! Ugh, nevermind. He would’ve loved having a bigger audience for his cocksure production.

Strangely enough, you feel both embarrassed yet incredibly powerful at the same time. Thinking over the specifics in your head pushes you to the conclusion that all of that cum had been for you. And, god, he asked you if you wanted to taste it. What if you’d actually accepted? Just a little taste, you think to yourself. Your mouth salivates as you imagine your lips wrapped around Harry’s sticky fingers and your tongue licking them clean—just like they had back in that laundry room; except your taste buds would only detect him. You envision your step brother holding your hair back so that you can lap up the remainder that had landed onto his laurels and all the way up to his butterfly tattoo. He made such a big mess of himself. If he put on the show just for you, why shouldn’t you give him the basic courtesy of cleaning him up afterwards? You catch yourself pouting at the realization that all of his delicious cum had gone to waste. What a shame. If only you’d been more grateful. He just wanted to share—GAH! NO, Y/N! That’s your STEP-BROTHER! Yeah, watching him bust one out as his hungry eyes devour you through his orgasm…well, that’s pretty fucked up as it is! He’s played plenty of pranks on you in the past. Surely, you can just pass this off as another one…? Yeah, right! You’d never be able to look him in the eye ever again. You wouldn’t be able to open his goddamn bedroom door ever again! At least not without picturing him laying back against his bed frame, his eyes all soft and sleepy, his hair messy and stuck to his forehead…and his big hand sliding up and down his lubed-up cock…then that hot, white fluid squirted out from his tip over and over again until his balls were drained.

Harry’s orgasm didn't just look intense, it most-definitely was. You knew it because his toes curled and flexed, his balls tightened, he almost choked on the air in his throat, and his legs were shaking by the time cum was shooting out of him. Every stroke was so deliberate and strategic. His fist would tighten around the head of his shaft and twist, and you saw how that made his hips thrust up off of the bed in reflex. The size of his load was impressive, and it raises your body temperature to fantasize how it’d feel to have it pumping inside of you. You remember studying him and memorizing each movement as if you were preparing yourself for a future occasion where it would be your hands doing all the stroking…but you keep having to tell yourself that you and Harry could never let things get that far. You’ll just use these mental notes on some other guy later, maybe Max? Nevertheless, that shocking performance of self-pleasure will be burned into your memory forever. You’re certain of it.

You wish you were disgusted. You should be. You shouldn’t have enjoyed it so much, but your body refused to react negatively to witnessing your step brother perform such lewd acts on himself. Honestly, all you want to do now is go home to the privacy of your bedroom and do the same to yourself. To use the events from earlier as your inspiration. Doctors recommend masturbation for stress relief all the time, don’t they? A therapist, however, would definitely have a problem with you fantasizing about fucking your step brother. After all, it’s not exactly the most conventional family dynamic.

Whatever, it doesn’t even matter. What matters is that seeing Harry masturbating had awakened something animalistic inside of you that you never knew was there in the first place. You didn’t know how much you wanted a—nay—wanted Harry’s big, thick, drippy, heavy, gorgeous cock to empty hot loads of cum so deep inside of you that it wouldn’t come out until a day later. Well, you didn’t know how badly you wanted him to specifically stuff your cunt full of his seed until right now.

As you walk out of the store with your shopping bag and receipt, you feel your phone buzz in your purse. You assume it must be your dad or step-mom checking in to see how things are at home. Lifting the screen up to your face, you’re immediately proven incorrect. The notification is not from your parents, but rather from Harry. You’re met with the contact photo of him paired with his message that reads: 

“where u go, baby sis? 💔”

You scoff at his patronizing and just slide your phone back into your purse so you can continue browsing the shops. You couldn’t successfully distract yourself from Harry if you were texting him…it’s not like you’ve been thinking about him and his beautiful dick nonstop since you first left the house or anything…

*grumble-grumble*

Amidst all of your depraved sexual fantasies and your attempts to reject your physical attraction to Harry, you’d forgotten to feed yourself.

Yet another reason why you should’ve taken his offer, your inner monologue teases. You just scrunch your nose at your own thoughts, and then you remember you have leftover pasta from last night in the fridge. The growl in your tummy only intensifies from the anticipation of eating the cheese-filled noodles for lunch. A vibration goes off in your purse, but you ignore it. You’re feeling extra irritated now that you’ve realized how hungry and horny you are. It’s a lethal combination. 

You make the desperate choice of buying an overpriced orange cream-sicle to hold you over for a bit—you actually started to feel lightheaded for a minute, there. As you’re sitting on a bench and sucking on the citrus sweetness, you take your phone out once again. There are more texts from Harry:

--12:30pm

“Miss u🥺👉👈” —12:39pm

“R u mad at me?”—12:45pm

“So u hate me n u want me 2 die😣” —1:07pm

Goddamnit. You huff a breath out your nostrils before sending a quick response. 

“Go play with your foreskin, loser.” — read 1:07pm

You flip your phone face-down on top of your lap and continue to slurp on your ice cream. A couple minutes later, another buzz alerts you to check your notifications. Surprise—it’s Harry.

“That’s not very nice >:| besides, u know I already did that today🙄”—1:12pm

“How could I forget? I’ve been scarred for life thanks to you and your sorry excuse for a penis.”—1:13pm

“I think u accidentally sent that to me…I’ll send it to Max and let him know ur thinking of him😌”—1:15pm

You grunt and shove your phone back into your purse. Suddenly, you come to realize that your overwhelming desire/disdain for your step brother combined with your aggressive famishment has given you the necessary amount of confidence to return home and face the idiot without giving a flying fuck about the fact that you watched him bust a nut. 

Of all people, Harry should be the one who’s embarrassed to look you in the eye after what he did. Why should you feel exposed when it was his bare cock and balls that were revealed to you in their entirety. Granted, Harry is quite gifted…but that’s beside the point!!! The point is that you are starving and you want those leftovers NOW! Harry can go fuck himself—Alone, this time!!!

.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜

Once you pull up to your house, the only thing on your mind is that bowl of rich, buttery alfredo tortellini you’ve hidden in one of the vegetable drawers of the fridge. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend? Nah. Carbs are the ultimate ride-or-die when you’ve got mixed feelings about a guy. It doesn’t matter how many calories it is. You deserve it! You’ve had a long morning, and it was time for a tasty reward, goddamnit!

You open the door and slip your shoes off before making your merry way towards the kitchen, bags in-hand. The rich aroma of garlic and cheese dances its way into your nostrils and your heart immediately sinks. Your legs scurry themselves at a cartoonish speed towards the room where the smell is wafting out of. The kitchen island slows you down to a stop, your feet sliding against the hardwood floor. You drop your purse and shopping bag with a *clink* and a *plap*. You stand in place with your little hands balled into fists at your sides as you practically burn holes into your step brother’s face. He’s sitting atop one of the counter stools that’s placed opposite of you. Wearing only a pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs and his cross necklace, you see the irony as remarkably twisted. Especially since he used his hand with the cross tattoo to perform such unholy deeds to himself.

Wonder what God thought about today’s Sunday morning semen brought to you by Harry ‘wanna taste?’ Styles, you fume internally.

Not only does it look as if he’s just gotten out of the shower, his hair damp and extra curly, and his tan skin a little dewy. But he’s sitting right in front of you, eating your leftover pasta—fresh out of the oven in its foil container, it seems. Your lunch that you’d been craving so desperately has been unfairly stolen from you. Harry just looks at you with his elbows resting on the marble and stabs into another steaming tortellino with his fork before swirling it around in the air, blowing on it, and popping it straight into his mouth—his teeth scraping against the fork in the process. 

You feel that your skin is red hot and your hands are shaking. Your jaw is clenched, your teeth grinding together in frustration. This man has no goddamn shame. None whatsoever. Just when you’re about to give him hell, he’s sliding your shopping bag towards himself with his foot and is digging through your new purchases. “Oooh! What do we have here?” Harry hums mischievously.

Your eyes widen. You jump at him and you practically claw at his snooping hands like a feral cat. What you just bought at the mall was none of Harry’s business! Wasn’t it enough that he was consuming your food right in front of you?! “Give me that!” You yell, internally debating whether or not it would be helpful to use your teeth as a weapon in this situation. You decide against it for both of your sakes. You don’t want Harry to think you’re giving him a hickey—you know he’d use that against you in any way he could.

In the end, you aren’t strong enough to fight him off, and he yanks out the first thing he finds and holds it up above your head to an unreachable height(for you). If you were 10, you would try jumping for it, but you’re in your 20’s and you have a set of tits that unfortunately obey the laws of physics. The last thing Harry needs is your boobs bouncing in his face at the same time as he’s dangling your new pair of red, lacy, crotchless panties from his finger. And so you huff and back away with your arms crossed, reluctantly accepting your fate. Harry, now standing like a building beside you, lowers the piece of lingerie to his eye level so he can study them closely. He smirks devilishly once he discovers the special opening.

“Y/N-Y/M/N!” He clutches at the pearls around his throat mockingly with his other hand and gasps. If you rolled your eyes any harder, they would roll out of their sockets. You’re completely out of patience at this point. You’ve dealt with quite enough in the past 72 hours, and you could use a fucking break. 

Just when you thought you’d gotten the final nail in the coffin, Harry swaps the underwear in the bag for a different item. Something bigger. Something that has discreet enough packaging to be mostly disguised, but the logo on the front of the box somewhat gives away what it is…

“Oooh! What’s Tracy’s Dog?” He grins, shaking the ominous black box next to his ear. “How ‘bout we have a lil’ look-see, hm?” 

You sigh, “Harry…please.” He looks at you and smirks again. He seems to be amused by your new toy, but you’re not in the mood for his shenanigans right now. These were meant to be private items that no one except you were to have known about. It’s ruined when your step-brother is in on the secret, because now it’ll just be an on-going joke that he’ll never let you live down until something better(worse) takes its place. This is the worst day ever. You can’t wait until classes start again in the fall so you can spend as much time away from that pest of a man as possible without your step-mom feeling offended by your constant absence. Your go-to excuse would be studying—and even if you weren’t busy with school, you’d find something to study if anyone in your family caught word that you had free time. You can’t fucking wait to get out of this house.

Harry lifts the cover off of the box to reveal its contents. A neon pink vibrator—with some…extra advantages, as well. He chuckles and picks up the manual, reading out, “Clit-sucking g-spot vibrator…woah, that sounds like a good time!” 

Your eyes narrow at the man, hiding that you’re suddenly aware that he’s only wearing his underwear and that he’s also sporting a little bit of a semi. However, you’re trying your damned hardest not to look directly at it. It’s peeking out from the edge of your peripherals. In the process of fighting against temptation, your mind reverts back to a couple hours prior…when Harry’s hair was wet with sweat. His skin was shiny and glossy, but not nearly as reflective and oiled up as his erection. The sounds keep echoing through your ears. Shlick, shlick, shlick. Your step brother shamelessly voiced his ecstasy to you as you stood in the doorway and admired him in a stunned silence. When you abandoned Harry in his post-orgasm haze, you’d initially planned upon seeking an innocent distraction to entertain your erotically fiendish train-of-thought—anything that would help get your mind off of what you’d just witnessed. That plan failed once you’d arrived at the mall and found yourself exploring the shelves inside Adult World. An employee there recommended the Tracy’s Dog toy that you bought and told you that it would “change your life.” 

Desperate for anything that would occupy your time for the next several days stuck in the house with Harry, you yanked your credit card out to pay for it. The nice cashier then threw in a complimentary pair of crotchless panties and you were sent on your way. Your previous plan to seek an innocent distraction morphed into purchasing a g-spot vibrator that also had a clit-sucker on the opposite end—and in your mind, the new ‘plan’ was to go home, wash the new toy, charge the toy whilst convincing Harry to go see a movie with his friends or some shit…you’d play with the new toy until it “changed your life” and then you’d end your activities with the leftover tortellini. It sounded like a great night. 

It’s too bad Harry had to go and fuck it all up for you right off the bat. Now, you’re no longer sexually frustrated—you’re furious. You’ve had quite enough. Snatching the box from his hands, you shove at his bare chest and whine, “Harryyy!” He stumbles backwards a step or so, not expecting you to get physical with him. “Oi, ‘the fuck’s your problem?” His brows crease, him obviously puzzled by your sudden outburst. You’re upset, but you’re just as surprised at yourself as he is. You’ve never really pushed Harry before. Sure, you two are siblings—step siblings, but for the short time that you’ve lived in the same household, the two of you have always stuck to the verbal-type of quarreling.

In a way, even though he’s twice as strong as you are and you hardly used any force on him with that shove, you now almost want to apologize. But then you remember that you’re not in the wrong here. Harry is. 

“My problem? You wanna know what my problem is, Harry?!” You raise your voice for emphasis. “You’re my fucking problem!” You start to step away towards the stairs, but you stop for a moment just to add, “And put that thing away, would you?! For Christ’s sake…” As you say this, you point to his crotch. Harry looks down and his hands smack over the front of his underwear to poorly cover his full-on boner which its unsheathed head was actually threatening to poke out from the waistband of the briefs. His cheeks flush a dark shade of pink as if he’s embarrassed, but you find it ridiculous that a mostly-concealed stiffy makes him blush when he’d had no problem performing as your personal little camboy just a few hours earlier.

You take your bag and purse and run up the stairs to your bedroom before slamming the door closed. At this moment, you wish your door could lock. Alas, you have to make-do trusting that your perverted step brother won’t barge in on you changing, or worse…

.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜

It’s been one day since the thing happened, and tensions have finally dissipated somewhat between you and Harry. You’re still not happy with him—for several reasons—but he hasn’t added anything more to the list, which you see as a silver lining. He’d actually ordered from your favorite Italian place and replaced your leftover tortellini with a fresh new order of it. To ensure that you wouldn’t worry about him repeating his offense from yesterday, he ordered two entrees for himself so that he’d have plenty of food left over and wouldn’t have any reason to touch yours. 

You’re honestly delighted by Harry’s kind gesture. It’s unexpected, for sure. But a welcome surprise, regardless. After the two of you finish eating, you insist upon doing the dishes. It’s not like there’s much for you to do, but you want to make it known to him that you’re appreciative of his olive branch offering.

You’ve been in the kitchen for a while now—probably around 30 minutes—just cleaning out the fridge, dusting, scrubbing the counters, all that junk. You don’t know how much time has passed until the sun has finally set and you need to flick the lights on to see what you’re doing. You’re just about finished, washing your hands in the sink, when you feel a pair of hands grip around your squishy hips. “Sup, lil sis.” A voice hums deeply against the shell of your ear. The combination of unanticipated touch and sound makes you instinctually jump. “AHHH! Harry!” You gasp. You grab a towel to dry your hands and then you turn around to face him. A stupid smirk covers his stupid, cocky face. And yet you can’t help that tingling warmth that burns down your abdomen and zings its way straight to your sensitive clit. 

You haven’t seen this smirk since he unboxed your magical clit-sucking vibrator contraption. It’s still in its box under your bed—charging, of course—because you’ve wanted to try it out when you have the house to yourself. You have the tendency to say some dirty things out loud when you touch yourself, and so you’d really like for Harry to be as far away from you as possible…even though you know he’s exactly who you’ll be thinking about, anyway…

This was so bad.

All you want right now is to jump up onto the counter and tug Harry in by his hair until his head is trapped between your thighs. The ache is killing you. Your step brother, of all people, is the one man you want to rail you against every surface in this goddamn house. You don’t care if the neighbors see. You don’t care if your parents find out. You just want your step brother’s cum. It’s yours. He’s made that clear to you. His cum is all for you. All for his pretty little step sis. 

As you stand trapped with your bum pressed against the sink, his hands on either side of you, Harry speaks to you once more. “How’d it taste?” 

You gulp at his words and hesitate. What’s he talking about? You never got to—ohh! He means…dinner…damn, your brain was really fucked. 

“G-good, thank you.” Your voice ends with a nervous giggle. His eyes scan down your body before nodding and running a hand through his hair. “Hmm. I’m glad. M’sorry, again, by the way…” He bites on the inside of his lip shyly, looking genuinely apologetic for making you upset. You give him a forgiving smile and rub his upper arm and shoulder with one of your hands. “It’s ok. It’s my fault, too…” You humor him. “…I should really learn how to share with my big brother...” As your fingers caress and squeeze onto his muscular bicep, you blink your eyes up at him in faux-innocence. Harry’s lips part and his nostrils flare.

Your touch, no matter how light or seemingly harmless, has a serious effect on the man. You can reckon because simply grazing your fingers down his taught, tatted skin past the sleeve of his shirt—making prolonged, direct contact—has triggered his feral reflexes. Without a moment of delay, he’s flipped you around, pressed you face down against the countertop, and has your wrists held in one of his hands at the small of your back. He nudges your legs apart with his knees so that his other hand can slide in between them. 4 of his fingers massage up and down your covered slit in a swirling motion, applying more pressure when he knows he’s reached your clit. You’re just stuck in his grasp, your ass wiggling and grinding against his hand as you moan and beg. “Mmhh…Please, Harry…so good…feels so fucking good…oh my god!”

You feel him squeeze your clothed clit with his thumb and forefinger as he speaks against your ear, “Ooh, yeah? You like it when your step brother touches you like this?” Then he releases you before spanking you on your pussy and then rubbing it with his fingers again afterwards. 

“F-fuck—yes! I love it,” you gasp.

Harry yanks you up by your hair, one hand holding your ponytail while the other still has your wrists manually bound. “I knew it. Knew you were holding out f’me.” He drags you stumbling over to the couch in the living room and positions you onto all fours atop the cushions. Now properly situated for him, you turn your head back to look at him. You can feel how dark your eyes have gotten by how narrowed your focus is—all you see is Harry. 

Keeping eye contact with you, he smooths his palms up and down your ass. Your leggings are thin enough for him to squeeze at the fleshiness of which he immediately takes advantage of. You moan, shaking your ass and hips back to further entice him. “Shit…” he pants out. You giggle and do it again which in turn earns you a hard spank onto your right ass cheek. You immediately stop your taunting. Harry grabs you by your hair, wrapping it around his fist and pulling you up to his chest with one swift yank. “We’re not just playing around anymore, Y/N…” Harry grunts in your ear. With his opposite hand, he gropes onto one of your breasts causing you to whine and arch your back at his unforgiving, heavy touch. He doesn’t seem to be concerned with the possibility of leaving marks and bruises all over your body. And you aren’t either. You’re enjoying this. Your desperate, throbbing cunt is aching for more of your step brother’s touch. It’s sick. It’s depraved. Your friends, parents, distant relatives—they’d be disgusted if they saw what was about to transpire between two step siblings. 

Your thoughts on the matter?

Let them fucking watch.

Harry releases you and you drop down onto your hands. With quick and reckless fingers, he pulls your leggings over the swell of your ass, tugging back and forth to get them down your thighs to reveal your new red, lacy, crotchless thong. Your pussy lips glisten with arousal. Harry chuckles to himself once he’s rid you of your pants and smooths his hands up and down your bare ass. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this…” He admits with a hard slap against your right ass cheek. You face forward and blush to yourself, too shy to openly share the same truth. Although, you assume you’re making it pretty obvious to him that the feeling is mutual. “…When I fingered you a few days ago, I was so close to just fucking you right there against the machines…so close, Y/N.”

Before you can even make an attempt at a delayed response, he’s dipping his face between your legs and licking a fat stripe up your slit, stealing your wet arousal onto his tongue for his own selfish quench. You suck in a shaky breath and giggle, wiggling your ass back against his face. He groans and spanks you on your left cheek, then the right, then the left, then both at the same time, and then he grabs at your hips and pulls you closer towards him as he shoves his mouth and nose deeper into your drippy cunt and slurps you up. “Oh my god!” You choke out as you struggle to find something to solidly grip onto. 

Harry pushes his sweatpants and boxer briefs down, his solid cock already weeping with precum and begging for a wet hole to fuck. His face is still buried between your legs when you take a peek at him from down below, your head upside down, and you see his package in all its beauty. You’re so ready to take him inside you, but you need to take care of something first. You whine, “W-wait, Harry, wait!”

He halts, pulls himself out from the comfort of your squishy thighs, then returns your gaze with his confused one. “What?” He slurs, his voice wet and drooly.

You shift your body so that you’re completely facing him now. “C-can I…?” Your thighs instinctively squeeze together before the words can even come out of you, and you let out a pathetic whimper. Harry licks his lips and wipes his chin with the back of his hand. “Can you…what?” His brow quirks up. 

You don’t know if it’s a good time to ask this, but you’ve already started asking, so you might as well finish. You doubt he’ll refuse…but you also worry that you won’t get fucked if he grants you this request. What if this moment is the only chance for your desperate needs to be met?! 

“Can I have a taste? J-just a lil’ one?” Your eyes flicker down to his bouncing erection that he’s now caught onto and is slowly stroking.

Silence. All except for the soft, wet rubbing sound coming from Harry carefully jerking his own cock whilst you’re sitting pretty on your knees with your hands laced together behind you. 

You sigh and bow your head, attempting to hide behind your ponytail due to feeling embarrassed to have given such a silly request. But you know better than to sulk and complain after not getting your way. So you use your cuteness to guilt him instead. 

“Please, Harry?” You’re really playing it up. Tears have actually welled up in your eyes to add to your act.

Harry blinks several times as if he had just been stuck staring into space for a moment. He’s dumbfounded, never having any woman beg to suck his dick before in his entire life. It’s a welcome surprise, and he shakes his head with a slight grin tugging on his lips as he responds to you. “Fuck yes, you can...go ‘head, love… sorry…fuckin’ hell…”

You practically jump up and happily clap your hands together, smiling stupidly at your success. Of course you realize that he’d only been floating around in his own little world when you asked the first time, and it wasn’t at all that he was refusing to grant your wish. Regardless, you feel that Harry can’t resist you when you beg. Looks like you’ll have to use this power against him forever.

You take his flushed dick in your hand, replacing his, and slowly pump him a couple of times before lowering your face down to its level. You keep your eyes on Harry’s as you stick your tongue out and flick it against the exposed tip, tasting the small bead of precum that was leaking from it. It’s salty. Musky. It’s Harry. You moan, nursing onto the tip with strengthening suction as if to be begging for just one more drop. He hisses and grabs onto your ponytail once again. You release your lips from him with a pop, giggling due to the knowledge that you’ve finally got a hold on this man. Then you begin swirling your tongue around the entire tip before wrapping your lips around it and sucking once again, but gently and sloppily this time, drooling and dousing his cock with your spit. Then you softly drag your glossy mouth up and down the underside of his cock like it’s a melty ice cream cone. Harry swears under his breath and takes his phone out of his pocket. He slides his thumb over the screen, opens the camera app and he clicks the record button. Your eyes flicker up towards the lens and you smile before sticking your tongue out flat and smacking Harry’s cock down onto it several times. 

You’ve never been recorded doing such lewd things before, but you trust Harry. You know how protective Harry is over you, so there’s no way in hell he’d let anyone see something that’s only meant for him. This is just a dirty little secret that you’ll always share as step siblings. You guess it’s something that’s bringing you closer together. Or maybe you’re both just sick and disgusting.

You then hold onto the base of him with both hands and dribble a good amount of spit down onto him. Your fingers smear it all over his shaft until he’s completely covered, and you begin pumping him with one of your dainty hands as best as you can. You beam up at the camera and to Harry again, biting your lip, and you bow your head back down to lick all the way up from his balls to his slit. Harry pets his hand through the long, silky hair of your ponytail. The gesture feels loving and kind. You love the thought that he’ll save this video on his phone to watch later. You love to think about him thinking about you. And so you want to make a show out of this as much as you can before Harry can’t take it any longer and makes you stop.

You take his cock and wet it a bit with some extra saliva before bobbing your head up and down, letting it slide against your tongue over and over again slowly. Eventually, this starts to get a little messy, but nothing too bad. Your spit is just leaking a little from the corners of your mouth. However, you decide to kick it up a notch and take him deeper. You bob your head on him so that the head of his cock nudges your throat several times in a row until you are forced to let go and are gasping for air. Drool is dripping from your chin, your cheeks and lashes are wet with tears, and your eyes are clouded with pure lust as you stare up at Harry as he half-assedly points his phone camera at you and gawks at the sight before him simultaneously. His eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth is gaped. This has been much more than just a little taste by this point. It doesn’t seem as though either of you could give a shit, as both of your minds are completely empty and neither one has hesitated or slowed down.

You finish the ‘performance’ by slapping your cheeks with Harry’s dick, still staring up at him as you do, and he twitches in your hand. The power you hold over him causes your sticky arousal to drip down your thighs and you end up rubbing them together to hold yourself over. Harry ends the recording, tosses his phone onto the carpet, and tugs on the back of his t-shirt, pulling it off. You resume your previous position on all fours. Your ass is stuck up high and perfectly accessible for him as he aligns himself up with your core. He rubs himself up and down your pussy to coat himself with your drippy essence. “I’m gonna fuck this cunt whenever and wherever I want…can’t be wasting my cock on any other slag…it should only go in here.” As he pronounces the last word, he pushes himself inside you all in one thrust. Your body arches in retaliation and you grasp onto the couch cushions with your shaky fingers. Harry wastes no time to let you adjust to his size and stretches you out by aggressively smacking his hips against your ass without mercy. It’s like you’ve been thrown into the middle of a race and it’s impossible to keep up. Your body is pounded into the couch until your knees fail to support you and you’re being yanked up to lean over the couch’s arm by your hair so that Harry can continuously bottom out until his balls slap perfectly against your clit with every plunge. And Harry’s not a silent ‘lover’ by any means. He’s proudly announcing his pleasure to every brick of this house to hear. You also learn how degrading his mouth can get as he continuously steals more and more of your innocence.

“Shit…your body was designed f’me, y’know that? Just f’me…just for your step brother to use as his little cocksleeve…” he seethes into your ear after having shoved his entire length into you and pausing for you to flutter and tremble from your insides out.

Your cunt is insanely wet, and you can feel that you’ve completely soaked through the cushions already. 

(You’ll have to figure out how to handle that later…)

It’s as if Harry’s cock makes your hole splash every time it enters it. You’ve gotten to the point where you don’t know how much time has gone by, you can hardly breathe, and you honestly can’t tell whether or not you’ve basically just been orgasming over and over for the past several minutes straight. He’s pounding into your cervix so hard that it’s painful and you’re starting to whimper helplessly. Thank God your cats have chosen to mind their own business this time and are upstairs sleeping, because they’d probably develop some sort of innate hatred towards Harry after witnessing something of which, to the uncorrupted eyes of a domesticated animal, definitely looks violent in a bad way. What a time that would be trying to explain to your parents why your cats have been defending you with their very lives, triggered by even the smallest glance from your step brother. If this ever happens again, you’ll need to make sure it’s done in guaranteed-complete privacy.

You can feel hot tears streaming down your face from the force of Harry’s thrusts that have bruised his cock head against your cervix, but you don’t want any of it to stop. “Fuck, baby. Love it when you squeeze me like tha’…” he groans, gripping tightly onto your fleshy hips and lifting them up each time he slams his lower half into you. The atmosphere is tainted with the mixture of your sexes. The only consistent sounds are your gasping breaths and the *slap-slap-slap* of your jiggling ass clapping against Harry’s pelvis. 

As you’re leant over the couch armrest, the carpet tickles your out-stretched fingertips and you feel braindead. Your thoughts are nonexistent—the only matter you can internally comprehend is satisfying the man connected to you. All you want is his cum; you want to be filled to the brim with it. You want to be overflowing with your step brother’s sticky seed so that you both can watch it drip out of your fertile cunt once he eventually has to pull out of you. 

His thrusts are now becoming stuttered and shallow, losing their original relentless rhythm. You choke on a wet gasp as you feel your step brother’s rough hands grip onto your ass before harshly spanking it. Harry drags out a growling groan and pulls you back up to his chest by your ponytail, then wraps his other hand around your throat, still fucking you on his cock. You hold onto the arm that’s holding you up by your neck as he seethes into your ear, “I was gonna cum all over your pretty face, my pet…” *slap-slap-slap* “…But now I think…” *slap-slap* “…I’ll fill up this tight little pussy, instead…” You moan loudly, your head falling back to rest against Harry’s shoulder as he continues to sloppily pound into your slick hole. He bites your ear and slides his choking hand down to your loosely-covered breasts to tease and grope them during your final moments of intimacy. He flicks your nipples with both of his thumbs as you both reach the highest peak together—you having reached it for the upteenth time this session. Harry cries out, his hands now completely circled around your torso and holding you down onto his squirting cock. You’re rocking your hips forwards and backwards, your internal walls pulsing and milking him of every last drop until he’s shaking from overstimulation. Still having one left in you, you reach your hand down between your legs and circle your clit, swiveling atop of Harry’s un-softening cock. He  shakily guides you by your hips, whimpering and gasping at the intensity he’s feeling in his extremely sensitive organ. Shockingly, as you’re fucking yourself to another orgasm on his cock, you feel a couple more small jets of cum shoot out inside of you; and as you look back at Harry, he’s a sweaty, whiny, weak, mess of a boy who’s been milked of all he’s got. You giggle, grinning victoriously at him before clenching your cunt and pulling off of him—attempting to keep all his cum inside of you. Some of it drips out, but you shove it back inside with your fingers. Harry watches with glossy eyes, rosy cheeks, and baited breath. 

You steal his boxer briefs off of his calves and slip them on over your crotchless panties. Harry is laying back against the couch cushions, his glistening cock throbbing and slowly softening against his abdomen. Before you scamper upstairs to change your sweaty clothes, you give Harry one last goodnight present.

You grab your phone from the coffee table and click record. Then, you kneel down onto the floor between Harry’s legs, pointing the camera at his nude and spent form. You giggle to yourself and take his cock in your free hand. The camera picks up Harry’s face as he jumps, his eyes widening and his abdomen tightening in defense. You flip to the front camera to record yourself as you lick the remnants of both you and Harry combined off of his still-stiff dick, and you make sure to swirl your tongue around the tip before giving it a good suck—releasing him with a *pop*. 

“Ahhh, fuck!” He whines.

You end the recording and kiss his swollen erection tenderly, making him squirm and giggle. You smile at his newly-expressed vulnerability. Harry realizes his mistake and straightens his posture. “Hm…uh…send that to me later, yeah?” 

You smirk at him. “Sure thing, loser.” With that, you stand up and take off up the stairs with your phone.

.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜

Sorry for the long wait, everybody! I hope you liked it!

Please follow, like, and reblog - and let me know if you want more of this kind of content! My requests & my inbox are always open! Hope everyone has a lovely week! ❤ xoxo,

༺♥༻❀༺♥༻ Regan ༺♥༻❀༺♥༻

[thatbloodymuggle]

READY TO RUN (iv)

FOUR - DIMINUENDO

SUMMARY: in a world where everyone has a predetermined match, JJ Maybank and Y/N Montgomery want nothing to do with theirs. it has to be a cruel joke; the universe forcing two people to love each other when they don’t know how.

PAIRING: jj maybank x reader / soulmate au

WORD COUNT: 4k

SERIES MASTERLIST

SONG: CHOPIN’S 24 PRELUDES, OP.28: NO.4 IN E MINOR

✰✰✰

You never liked tennis, despite being forced into lessons since the ripe age of 6. You greatly preferred more physical sports, like lacrosse or soccer, as opposed to prim and proper tennis.

Yet, here you were, at the annual mid-summer Outer Banks amateur tennis tournament. Any other year, you would have been in bed with an unfortunate "cold". But due to recent events, you didn't dare protest when the entire Montgomery family hiked their tennis bags onto their shoulders and drove to the country club. 

Georgia was the most excited of the Montgomery clan, as she never failed to remind everyone that she was the reigning North Carolina 13U tennis champion. Of course, daddy's favorite would be playing with Clyde.

Dixie would be playing with your mother, as her boyfriend Brad was still away on business. Margaret knew Dixie was only participating for the open bar, but of course, so was she. 

Much to your relief, you partnered up with Anna. You thanked God that Anna's dad was out of town; otherwise you would be stuck with your own father's creepy college roommate, Carl. 

"I hate this sport," you grumbled while readjusting your ponytail, "Why can't we play, like, soccer or something? I feel like kicking something. Or someone."

"Come on, it won't be that bad," Anna chimed while double-knotting her shoes, "Topper and Kate will beat us first round and then we're off the hook for the day."

You scoffed, "Even if we lose there's no way in hell I'm getting out of here. My mom's got me on a short leash. She’s not letting me out of her sight."

"Well you had quite the night without her around on Saturday," Anna grumbled, jumping up from the bench. She didn't bother waiting for you as she sauntered over to the court to stretch and get the game started.

Your cheeks flushed red as your mind was infiltrated with flashbacks from the night at the Kegger, which in turn, reminded you of the other day in JJ's beat-up pickup truck. You could almost smell the rain pouring down, feel the warmth of his flannel, taste his-

"Let's get a move on, Y/N!"

Topper's booming voice startled you, shaking you from the unwanted thoughts. You jumped from the bench and ran to the court, willing the blush covering your face to go away. You'd gone all morning without thinking about your other half, and you weren't about to let him ruin your already horrible day. 

"Let's get this show on the road," you feigned a grin.

Kate shot you a weird look from across the net--everyone knew how much you didn't want to be there. But regardless, you tossed a ball across the net for Topper and Kate to serve. 

To no one's surprise, the loving couple immediately took the lead. You found yourself actually putting effort into the game in an attempt to distract yourself from all the chaos plaguing your mind. But still, you sucked.

Kate and Topper cheered as they shot yet another ball across the net that neither Anna nor you could track down. You huffed, and trudged back to your position on the court. Sweat beaded on your forehead, and you tried to wipe it away with your arm in vain. A squeal sounded from the court opposite you, and you glanced over to see Georgia cheering and your father spinning her around in a celebratory manner. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. 

You instantly regretted letting your eyes wander away from the court as a tennis ball came flying at your face and a sharp pain exploded in your nose. 

"Shit!" you screeched, cupping your nose. 

You glared across the net at Topper who was in a fit of laughter.

"What the hell?" you yelped.

"That's 30-15, losers!" he laughed back, high-fiving Kate.

"You're an ass," you grumbled back, just loud enough for Topper to hear. You turned expectantly to Anna, waiting for your best friend since 3rd grade to back you up. Your frown deepened as you found Anna staring in the opposite direction, oblivious to Topper's antics. 

You followed Anna's gaze to find her staring at the Pogue you were desperately trying to avoid; JJ Maybank.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," you fought the urge to snap your racket in half. 

JJ's nose scrunched up in discomfort, and his fingers pressed against the bridge of it. Your eyes widened as you realized you were holding your throbbing nose in the same manner. You ripped your hand away from your face and cleared your throat, "Anna!"

Your counterpart ripped her gaze away from the Pogue and shot Topper a tight-lipped smile. 

"Nice one, Top," Anna called to the pair across the net.

"Anna--" you hissed at your friend, trying to pull her attention away from the game.

"30 serving 15, right?" Anna ignored you, getting in her ready stance for the next point.

Your lips parted, but you shut your mouth as you realized there was nothing to say. What would you say? You had no idea what was going through Anna's mind, and you were in the middle of Kook central. 

You could feel JJ's gaze burning into you, but you didn't dare turn to face him. Instead, you mimicked Anna's ready stance, and pretended to give a shit about the game, internally praying it would be over soon.

The first set ended without a hitch, and then the second. By the end of the game, you were sweating profusely despite losing miserably. 

With one last serve, you tossed the ball in the air and swung the racket with the little energy you had left. You sighed in relief as your serve flew about two feet out of bounds. Topper and Kate cheered across the court.

"At least it's over," you sighed, your arms falling limp by your sides.

You didn't even bother walking up to the net to shake hands with your opponents. It was Topper and Kate; they wouldn't be offended. Instead, you trudged over to the bench. You didn't hesitate to lay down on the bench with a sigh of relief. You threw an arm over your face to shield yourself from the sun and blindly reached for your water bottle. 

"You suck at tennis," a grating voice disturbed your moment of recovery.

You lifted your arm and squinted one eye open. You groaned when you caught sight of the striking blue eyes that seemed to follow you everywhere you went.

"Go away," you spit, closing your eyes again.

"No can do, sweetheart," JJ quipped.

"You're interrupting my peace and quiet."

"And you're interrupting my job," he shot back, "Go get your peace and quiet somewhere else."

You grunted, hauling yourself up from the bench. your legs felt weak, but you forced yourself to stand. You turned to face JJ with your arms crossed.

His signature mud-caked boots were replaced with a slightly cleaner pair of sneakers. His uniform khaki shorts were a far cry from his usual attire; not to mention the white polo shirt with a shiny name tag clipped to it. Despite the Kook-ish uniform, his messy blond hair was a dead giveaway that he did not belong in the Outer Banks Country Club. Not to mention he was very hard at work folding dainty white towels. 

"Nice polo," you snorted.  

JJ diverted his attention back to his towel folding. You rolled your eyes, ready to walk away when a sweaty, used towel was flung in your direction. You screeched as it landed on your face, and flung it back at the culprit. 

JJ laughed at your overreaction and dodged your retaliatory attack. 

"You're a pig," you scowled.

"You're one to talk, Miss Bourgeoisie."

Your lips curled into a sneer, "I despise-"

"Y/N Montgomery!" a cold voice shut you up immediately.

Your cheeks flushed and you subconsciously cowered as you turned to face your mother.

"Come watch your father and sister play," Margaret Montgomery ordered. "And stop associating with scum," she lowered her voice, but kept it just loud enough so the Pogue could hear. 

You were swept with embarrassment and guilt. As much as you didn't want JJ around, he didn't deserve to be equated to scum by your mother for merely doing his job. Nevertheless, you hung your head and followed your mother obediently. Your body screamed at you to turn around and apologize, but you didn't dare spare JJ another glance. 

The Pogue scoffed, and flung the towel he was holding onto the bench in frustration. He fought the urge to curse the evil witch out, and instead searched for Pope, who was on catering duty. He caught a glimpse of his friend a couple of courts away. JJ abandoned his towels and strode towards the other Pogue. What was the worst that could happen, he'd get fired? He was ready to get out of there anyways. 

Just as he was a few strides from stealing Pope away from his work, a freshly manicured hand dug into his arm, yanking him into the doorway of the club entrance. 

"What the hell-"

"Stay away from her."

JJ let out a dry laugh as he stood face to face with a very pissed off Anna Kim. Her arms were crossed and her eyes narrowed with malice. 

"Well shit, I'm popular today. I'm like a Kook chick magnet," he smirked, "This has been a great ego boost, but I'm not interested, Kim."

JJ tried to brush past her, but you caught his arm yet again, turning him back to face her.

"I mean it," Anna hissed, "Leave her the hell alone, Pogue. She doesn't need you fucking up her life; she deserves better than that."

JJ's jaw ticked, and he yanked his arm out of her piercing grip, "I know you Kooks like to think that you run this island and all of us lowly peasants are just dying to infiltrate your perfect little lives, but you'll be shocked to hear that silver spoons and high teas are my own personal hell. I have absolutely no interest in your friend."

Anna's glare only deepened at the thinly veiled insult, "Glad we're on the same page." 

She pulled a dollar bill from the back of her phone and passed it alongside her dirty towel from the tennis match to the Pogue. "For your troubles, towel boy," she sneered, venom dripping from her lips. She swiftly turned on her heels, and sauntered back over to her friends.

JJ shook with rage as he crumpled up the dollar bill in his fist and carelessly threw the used towel aside. He had never wanted to clock a girl so badly. "Entitled bitch," he grumbled while ripping off the shiny name tag pinned to his chest, and tossed it alongside the dirty towel. JJ marched swiftly towards Pope, who was manning the grill. 

"Hey man, you wanna dip early?" JJ's words caused Pope to jump, nearly sending a patty flying through the air. 

"Shit dude, don't sneak up on me like that!" Pope cried, turning to face his friend. He frowned as he took in the sour expression painted across JJ's face, "What happened to you?"

"If I have to serve one more of these pigs I'm gonna lose it," the blond snapped, "you coming?"

Pope cocked a brow at his friend's nonresponse, but decided against pushing him any further as he really did seem ready to burst. "I can't dude, you know my dad will kill me. Why don't you just stick it out for another hour?"

JJ huffed, "No way, I'm out of here." He turned on his heels and weaved his way through the mass of polo shirts and tennis skirts, leaving a very confused Pope behind. 

For as long as he could remember, JJ had been certain that the soulmate thing wasn't for him. Still, he used to feel bad for whoever his other half was. He felt guilty for the pain he constantly put them through. He routinely laid awake at night, mulling over the impending disappointment his soulmate would feel when they inevitably found out who he was, and the life he led. 

But now, any trace of guilt he previously felt was gone; crushed by the pristine, designer shoe of Y/N Montgomery. 

As he stomped aimlessly along the side the road and spat at the gaudy white houses (both figuratively and literally), JJ tried with all of his might to take his mind off of his soulmate. But, much to his frustration, every train of thought led back to you. 

You were an enigma; the object of his unwavering hatred, and of his deepest desire.

✰✰✰

After a long day under the beating sun, Georgia and Clyde Montgomery were crowned the Kildare County Annual Tennis Tournament doubles champions, to absolutely no one's surprise. 

You, on the other hand, were left with a blistering sunburn and an equally scorching feeling of resentment in the pit of your, or should you say JJ's, stomach. 

With your family caught up celebrating the youngest Montgomery child's win, you were able to slip away from the post-tournament award dinner to accompany your friends to the neighboring docks. The sun had set, and you welcomed the soothing touch of the ocean breeze against your skin as you sat with your feet dangling over the water. You let your eyes flutter shut, and just for a minute, tuned out the voices around your and your own thoughts. 

"Are you alright, Y/N? You're quiet today," Kate's voice jerked you away from the temporary relief. Your eyes fluttered open, and you turned to your three friends staring at you; Topper and Kate's brows furrowed in concern, whereas Anna remained stoic.

"'M fine, just exhausted from the tournament, I guess," you sighed with a soft smile which didn't quite reach your eyes, "Are you implying that I'm a bore?"

Kate rolled her eyes, "Yeah, I actually can't stand you," she nudged you jokingly.

"I second that," Topper interjected, earning a glare from you.

"You're one to talk, you grouch," you flicked your foot to kick up a splash of water towards him.

Topper shrieked at your assault, and reached over the dock to send a splash of water right back, "Don't test me, Montgomery. I will throw you in.  You know I'm--"

Topper was cut off by another splash of water, this time from a giggling Kate. His jaw dropped at his girlfriend's betrayal, and you seized the moment to send and your spray of water towards him. His eyes narrowed, and you bolted up before he could lunge towards you. You ran away giggling as Topper scrambled up to chase after you, all the while continuously getting splashed by water from both Kate and Anna now, who had joined in on the action. 

"You are so dead!" Topper shouted after you, as you tried your best to outrun him. It wasn't long until he caught up to you and grabbed you, throwing you over his shoulder.

"Owww, Topper put me down!" you squealed. You kicked your legs blindly and tried to squirm out of his grip, but to no avail. 

"You made your bed, Montgomery, now lie in it," Topper quipped. Although you were unable to see his face, you could hear the smug grin in his tone. Kate and Anna were cackling. 

Your eyes widened as Topper neared the edge of the dock, "Topper don't you dare throw me in, I will not hesitate to kick you in the balls!"

You pleaded with your friend, but he had already made his mind up. You screeched as he dumped your rather ungracefully over the edge of the dock. You squinted your eyes shut and braced yourself for the impact milliseconds before you was submerged under the cool water. You swam back up and gasped as your head broke the surface. Kate and Anna were now laughing so hard, tears were streaming down their cheeks. You wiped the water from your eyes, and glared up at a smirking Topper. 

However, a devilish grin took over your face as you noticed Kate's legs were dangling over the edge of the dock in your fit of laughter. Before Topper could stop you, you lurched forward and tugged your friend down into the water with you. Kate screamed as she fell over the edge and into the water. She coughed violently as she came up from underneath the water, "What the hell was that for?"

You sent a splash of water towards Kate, "For enabling your boyfriend!"

Before Kate could splash you back, a wave of water engulfed both of you as Topper cannon-balled between you. You both cried out, and assaulted him with splashes as soon as his head peeked out from underneath the surface. 

You giggled as you fought with your friends in the moonlit water. This was the first time in days that your mind wasn't plagued with thoughts of piano, or college applications, or your soulmate. Even if for just a few minutes, you felt an unwavering bliss like no other.

But just as quickly as it engulfed you, bliss slipped away.

The feeling of sharp nails dragging down your back wiped the wide grin off of your face instantly. In an instant, you became acutely aware of your whole body. You felt teeth nipping harshly at your neck, and a familiar feeling bubbling in the pit of your stomach. You felt your gut twist and wrench; but this feeling was your own. 

You had felt your soulmate getting it on many times in the past. Sure, it annoyed your; but only because it would interrupt your own activities. You had never thought of it as anything more than a nuisance.

But things were different now. You had felt the electrifying touch of his skin on yours; of his lips on yours. You had stared into his ocean eyes. He was no longer some faceless, nameless agitation. He was JJ Maybank.

"You're feeling him, aren't you?" Anna's icy tone sent a shiver up your spine.

Anna frowned down at you from your seat on the dock. You were suddenly aware of your surroundings and whipped around to find that Topper and Kate had drifted off on their own. You diverted your attention towards Anna again, feeling small under her punitive gaze. You felt the invisible nails clawing at your back again, and clambered out of the water as if you could escape the feeling.

"I don't know what you want me to do about it, Ann," you barely spoke above a whisper, "It's not like I can break the bond." you hugged yourself as the combination of your dripping wet clothes and the soft sea breeze made you shiver. 

"No, but you're entertaining the idea of it," Anna coolly replied, "I saw how you looked at him today."

You frowned and clenched your fists as the feeling of pleasure in your gut returned. You sunk your nails into your arms with the hope that JJ would receive your message. 

You composed yourself before you bit back, "I don't know what you're talking about, Anna. I barely looked at him. But even if I did, then so what?"

"I'm just looking out for you here, Y/N. He's bad news, and you're above that. You don't need that kind of chaos in your life," Anna replied in a condescending tone, eliciting a scoff from you.

"Do you think I'm fucking dense? I am fully aware of who he is and where he comes from, and frankly, I don't have a rat's ass what side of the island he lives on," you seethed, "I won't be associating with him because I don't want a soulmate, not because he's beneath me. And my decision to do so will not be to satisfy you, or my family. That decision will be made for myself, and myself only."

As you ranted, your voice raised and captured the attention of Kate and Topper. 

"Well someone has to look out for you if you won't look out for yourself," Anna sniped back, matching your volume. 

You groaned, and stomped your foot in frustration, "Get your head out of your ass, Anna. You and I both know that you're only looking out for yourself and your reputation."

Anna opened her mouth to reply, but you cut her off, "I'm out of here."

You spun on your heels, and marched away from your angry friend. You ignored Kate and Topper's confused shouts asking you what happened, and where you were going. 

As you walked further from the scene, your composure cracked with each step. It wasn't until you were completely out of earshot that you allowed it to shatter completely. Just as the first tear trailed down your face, the first sob wracked your trembling body. Your bottom lip wobbled as you willed yourself to calm down, but to no avail. Your legs felt like jelly as you stumbled along the side of the road, tears streaming down your face. Your vision blurred, and you couldn't contain the wails escaping you. It was as if your body was dispelling all of the events from the past week. The fight with your parents, the stress from Madame, and the unavoidable, mind splitting confusion you felt over JJ Maybank.

JJ. 

You were doing just fine until he came into the picture. You had a handle over things. But the small semblance of control you had felt over your own life had cruelly slipped between your fingers, as you sobbed over a boy you barely knew. You cried over the image of him with another girl. And you cried over the prospect of accepting him as a part of your life. Above all, you cried because you felt helplessly alone. No matter how suffocating your secret became, you couldn't talk about it with anyone, as Anna had proven to you that evening. 

You stumbled over your feet, but before you could collapse a pair of wet arms caught you, wrapping around you from behind. 

Your cries only escalated as Topper held your frail body against his chest, "Shhh, Y/N. It'll be okay. You're okay. You're safe."

Despite his soothing tone, you shook your head violently, unable to respond through your wheezing sobs. He delicately turned your body to face him and wrapped his arms around you once again. Topper held you firmly against his chest and rubbed circles in your back, all the while whispering affirmations in your ear. Breathe, Y/N. You can do this. You're strong. You buried your face in the fabric of his soaking shirt, muffling your cries. 

You weren't sure how long you stood there crying into Topper's arms, but his hold on you did not waver until your sobs subsided into hiccups, and your breathing slowed to a normal rate. Eventually, you were able to unravel yourself from his limbs. Your red, puffy eyes trained on his, and you opened your mouth to speak. But your voice was hoarse, and you didn't know what to say. 

"You don't have to say anything," Topper read your mind, "But at least let me walk you home."

Your shoulders sagged in relief, and you nodded gratefully. You began the mile long trek to the Montgomery estate in a silence filled only with the sound of your hiccups and chirping cicadas. Your eyes remained trained on the ground below, but true to his word, Topper did not ask you any questions. You felt his concerned gaze trained on you, but didn't dare to meet his eyes. As you walked side by side, you felt a fogginess overcome your mind. A haze brought on by crying until you had no tears left. For just a moment, you allowed yourself to dissociate from the chaos. You felt a temporary relief; one you knew wouldn't last long, but that you welcomed all the same. Because you knew that tomorrow it would pass, and you would have to confront the mess you had the misfortune of calling your life.

And boy, what a mess you were in.

-

...so it's been a minute, but I felt inspired to pick this back up again. taglist is super old, so please message me if you would like to be added or taken off! (repost)

[purplesoulcollection]

Unnatural Love

Part 9 (2) Synopsis : Name has being transmigrated into the world of I'm Not That Kind Of Talent without ever reading the novel. She's not being reincarnated as a human but as a devil as well. Hi There! I want to let you know that this fanfiction story isn't solely my creation. I borrowed the concept from @quqiwo2. I haven't actually read the novel either, just some spoiler to the end.

I hope you'll excuse my spelling and grammar mistake, because English not my first language.

"Adele, just a heads up that I need to participate in the hunting competition next week." He surprised me with the news when I least expected it.

“Hunting? Sounds like fun! What's that for?”

Deon's reaction to my question wasn't a happy one; he seemed really stressed and overwhelmed by the news.

"The emperor hold a hunting competition to inform the world that the empire is not afraid to hold a contest in the middle of war." He spoke in the monotone way, looks like someone drop him to the grave and sucks his positivity.

"Oh, that sounds complicated. Are you okay with that?" I genuinely worried about him, ever since he brought this topic, he don't look too good for me.

He pressed his finger against his temple, looking quite pitiful with stress written all over his face. All I can do is offer him some comfort with a gentle stroke.

"It was tiring. The Emperor sent me a gift of clothes that I couldn't refuse to wearing!" He finally yelled, that’s likely the root of his stress.

"Is that too revealing for you?"

He shook his head and covered his face with his hand. "No, just the color..."

"Bad? "

"Too striking..."

Is that bold color on Deon really working for him? If it’s not a great match, maybe he should reconsider wearing it.

"Let me see, you give it a try later. If it's suitable for you, it might be the best for you!"

"Adele, don't you too... Remember already nagging at me too..."

"Who’s Remember?"

"My butler. The old man I talked to this morning, that's his name."

Remember is the head butler's name earlier?

Fix, I'm in a story made by earthlings. The English word doesn't really seem to fit as a character's name.

This definitely confirms that Deon is the main character of this world. No female character appeared at him makes this original story the mc is the male, not the female one.

"Adele, you tend to drift off into daydreams quite a bit, don’t you??"

"Oh, not quite! By the way, I’m feeling so famished, a nap makes me miss the food."

"As I thought, so I asked for lunch to be prepared."

And I was faced with luxurious food typical of nobles. A bowl of corn soup, some chicken in gravy, a dessert, and a piece of bread. It's just the right amount for one person.

"It's already cold, should i ask servant to reheat it?"

"You don't have to worry about that. I can still enjoy it even if it's not warm anymore." I quickly reject his idea, this is looks fine for me.

When I see the cutlery on the table, it really makes me wonder. I have no idea about the proper table etiquette, and it all seems so complicated. I glanced at Deon, giving him a look that said I was completely lost.

He who understood about my trouble after seeing me glanced at the cutlery said, "Just eat your way. I won't judge you."

So I used a spoon that was the right size for my needs and ate with gusto. Deon just looked at me eating hungrily.

"Have you eaten?" I asked Deon, with a mouth stuffed with food.

'If he hasn't eaten yet, perhaps I could share a little with him.'

"I’ve already had my meal, you were the one who overslept!."

'Has he now started to mock me, even though he always appears so weary himself in the devil world?'

"It can't be helped, I'm tired. Having no sleep at all really do the wonders."

"But you sleep too much, can you sleep tonight?"

I pressed my finger to my lips, contemplating whether I would get any sleep tonight or not, "No... I guess."

I can already imagine what I should do at night, maybe take a walk in the garden. because I won't have a fever like humans. The little perks in many disadvantage to became a devil.

"Want to go for a walk?" asked Deon, interrupting my thoughts.

“You want to go for a walk? I think you're tired already.” My voice soared with happiness. if Deon wants to join me, why not?

"If you can't sleep, it will affect my sleep cause I'm light sleeper."

"Okay. Let's go for a walk." I'm really excited to have my tour guide in this new world! I'm eager to learn about the human world during the kingdom era—what were the people like back then?

This could very well be my final moment of tranquility. I need to savor it to the fullest. Nothing can hold me back from my adventures.

"Done, madam. Please see the results, madam." The servants mentioned that they had finished making me look absolutely perfect.

I felt a mix of excitement and reluctance as I approached the mirror.

Ever since I became a servant of the devil, I hadn’t really looked at my reflection. My gray skin made me shy away from seeing myself, no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise..

But I'm human now. Let's look at our human version.

I couldn't help but admire myself the moment I caught a glimpse in the mirror. I turned out to be a very beautiful human being...

My hair was still a purplish silver color but I finally saw the face of a human whose beauty I could appreciate as a human being.

I was eager to snap a quick photo before switching back to my devil mode. However, there’s no camera available here, so I buried my futile hopes

Finally, the waiter's choice of dress was a pastel purplish pink dress. But I also realized that this dress suits me. Makes me look pretty and slay.

"Thanks for dressing me."

"No need to thank Madam, this is our duty."

I then turned to look back, noticing the way the skirt of the dress danced around me. The swaying of my skirt only added charm to my natural beauty and make me more confident than before.

"Madam, Master has been waiting outside."

“He's outside? I'll be right out.”

I quickly put on the small earrings that the maid had provided. I chose round pearl earrings. Feeling that my appearance was perfect, I hurried to go out. Want to quickly show off my new appearance.

"Deon!"

I shouted as I walked quickly towards Deon. He, who was initially arranging his gloves, turned to me.

Wow, he looks amazing, even though he's all covered up and the only thing you can see are his striking red eyes. But the his mysteriousness and coolness really being topped up.

He fell silent while opening his eyes wide. Not even saying a word for me.

Was he surprised because I was strange, even though I was already become human?

“How's my look? Is it strange for you?”

He simply averted his gaze, avoiding a proper look at me.

I moved towards him with such intensity that he couldn't bring himself to meet my eyes fully. I did my utmost to present myself as beautifully as possible.

"You are... good." He says that with shy and tried to hide his face even if he already use the a cloth mask.

But I still don't understand the implied compliment that he can't expressed.

"What type of compliment is that, Deon? Tell me whether am I beautiful or ugly in your eyes...?"

I'm so eager to see him compliment me, you know? Women looks the best when her lover praise her!

But he didn't meet my expectation, "Let's go! "

He ran away from me before he could give me a compliment, and I have no idea where we're headed.

"Wait for me, Deon!" I try to catch his super fast walking, but it's not so easy with this dress.

"DEON!"

To Be Continued

[ugh-yoongi]

riding fakie | ksj

(or, the one where you think you’re getting a fake boyfriend, but you end up with a whole lot more.)

→ pairing: seokjin x f. reader → genre(s): enemies to lovers (lite), fake dating | humor, fluff, angst → rating: mature → warnings: based entirely on this edit i saw ages ago so good luck, swearing, reader is a trust fund kid with awful parents so classism and screwy family dynamics, a very brief but referenced two-night-stand with taehyung who has a foot fetish (canon) and is ultimately plot irrelevant, this is lite enemies to lovers so sometimes they are not very nice to each other, kissing. i think that’s it? this is mostly tame, all things considered, but i will revise if needed. → word count: 14.2k → written for: the catch of the century collab. thank you to @raplinesmoon​ / @joheunsaram​ / & @kithtaehyung​ for hosting and allowing me to participate! ♡ → thank yous: my holy trinity for keeping me inspired and accountable and letting me know when i don’t word good. @the-boy-meets-evil​ / @hot-soop​ / @effortandmore​. also my husband who actually skateboards and helped me to sound knowledgeable but will also never, ever see this. → a/n: [looking a whole lot like the dehydrated spongebob meme] hey, long time no see. this fic absolutely kicked my ass like nothing has ever kicked my ass before, but it’s finally done and here. i don’t think i’m super happy with how it turned out and i think it’s probably rushed, but i hope you all enjoy it regardless! now, if you need me i will be sobbing on the floor holding a locket with seokjin’s picture inside.

[THE THREAT]

The thing about privilege is—

Well, nothing. It’s just there, propped up in the corner, looming over every aspect of your life. And usually it’s fine. You want for nothing. People just hand things to you. But, just like the apple tree and Isaac Newton and the Law of Gravity—everything that goes up must come down. Nothing gold can stay. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. You might have your name and your money and your status, but you also have your parents and your brother.

Your brother, who has somehow found someone to marry him and is planning a wedding.

Your parents, who are threatening to revoke your trust fund if you don’t attend. And bring a date.

“I don’t want to hear it,” your mother says, preemptively cutting off your protests. She’s always had a knack for dictatorship, and another one for doing so as she barks orders to the hired help in the background. “This wedding is very important for us as a family. Do you know how bad it’d look if you not only didn’t show up, but showed up alone? It won’t do.”

On your end of the line, sitting at some bougie outdoor café with an overpriced latte in hand, you roll your eyes. “Wouldn’t it look worse to cut off your only daughter and leave her destitute? God forbid, what if I have to get a job?”

An aggravated click of her tongue. “I don’t know where you got that smart mouth of yours, but it’s unbecoming. I’ve at least managed to talk your brother’s fiancee out of including you in the bridal party, so you could show a bit of gratitude instead of being a brat.”

(Impossible, you think. Your brother had taken all the suck-up genes and left nothing for you. Alternatively, you’d taken all the backbone, so it’s almost even.)

“Why don’t you ask the youngest Jeon boy? They’re coming anyway, and it would look good for your father if the two of you were seen together.”

You grimace. “Jeongguk? Absolutely not.”

Another click. “Fine, but don’t you dare even think about showing up with some—”

“Piece of shit loser,” you finish for her. Usually she’d scold you for swearing, but it’s apparently allowed in the name of shitting on the middle-class. “Yes, Mother, I get it. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare sully our good family name by associating with the poor.”

She doesn’t trust you, you can tell by the way she huffs and starts mumbling under her breath, but it’s clear she’s just as done with this conversation as you. “You have three months to figure it out.”

Privilege can go to hell.

[THE SEARCH]

Park Jimin is a lot of things.

He’s got money. He’s got hundreds of thousands of Instagram followers for no reason other than he’s hot. He’s got a closet full of in-season designer clothes, so he’d look stunning hanging off your arm in a tailored suit. He’s got charisma and charm and that innate ability to talk to anyone about all that boring shit you can’t stand.

Most importantly, he’s got a chip on his shoulder, too. He’s on your level.

Park Jimin is telling you no. “Sorry, I’ll be out of the country that weekend,” he says. He doesn’t look sorry. “One of those things I can’t skip. You know how it is.”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re full of shit.”

Park Jimin’s got a laugh that rings like Tiffany crystal. “Maybe.”

Still, you’re not above begging. The list of acceptable arm candy candidates (which you’ve taken to calling The Armcandidates, because you also got all the humor genes) is rapidly dwindling, and although Jimin’s not bottom of the barrel, he’s close. “Jimin, please. Whatever you want, I just need this one favor.”

“Don’t barter with things you’re not willing to give up,” he chides, nothing but heat. Would you fuck Jimin to keep your trust fund? Pillowy lips, slutty little waist, thighs that could crush your head like a grape—you could definitely do worse, all things considered.

“Who says I’m not?”

Jimin would come dead last in a poker tournament, the way surprise flashes across his face. “Well, in that case, I’m actually sorry I’ll be out of the country that weekend.”

You groan, head dropping onto your folded arms. “Can’t believe I outed myself like that and you’re still turning me down.”

Laughter trails behind him as he disappears into his massive closet. “Have you asked Taehyungie? He loves weddings.”

“The last time I talked to Kim Taehyung, he jerked off on my feet and cried. I don’t think I could look him in the eye, let alone invite him to my brother’s wedding.”

Jimin snorts. “He’s actually quite lovely once you get past the foot stuff. Think about it.”

Regretfully, not only do you think about asking Taehyung, you actually go through with it.

One day you’re talking to Jimin and the next thing you know, you’re once again on your back in Kim Taehyung’s bed. No weird feet shit this time, you’d told him, and, well, here you are. Skin tacky from sweat, entire room stinking of sex. Kim Taehyung is weird as hell but he’s unreasonably hot, and you’d made it all of ten minutes in his presence before folding.

(The last time it’d been five, so you’re making progress. Surely that’s something to be proud of.)

“I actually came here for a reason,” you say, still trying to catch your breath. Beside you, Taehyung hums an acknowledgement. You try not to wonder if he’s staring at your toes and that’s why he’s breathing so hard. “I need to bring a date to my brother’s wedding or my parents are gonna cut me off.”

He whistles. “Damn, that’s cold. Fully?”

“That’s what they say.”

“And you’ve decided to ask me? I’m honored, angel.”

“I asked Jimin first, to be fair.”

Taehyung’s face falls comically. “I’m no longer honored,” he jokes. “Jiminie’s great at weddings. He said no?”

You shrug. Something about his rejection still stings. You’re trying not to take it personally. Or think about it too much. “Said he’s going to be out of the country that weekend. Told me to ask you because you quote-unquote ‘love weddings’.”

“He said that?” Taehyung asks, voice pitched higher, dopey look overtaking his features. “Wow, we’re so in sync.” Wistful, like he’s lovesick. “We really must be soulmates.”

You choke. “Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“Uh, no. Is the wedding the weekend he’s going to Milan?”

That ‘no’ seems to be carrying a lot of weight. You eye him suspiciously. “Apparently.”

“Ah, I’ll be in Paris. I asked him to come with me and he told me no, too. Guess you know how it feels.”

You sit up, sheets clutched to your chest. “Seriously, what’s going on with you two?”

Taehyung heaves a long-suffering sigh. “How much time do you have?”

You roll your eyes. “About three minutes.”

“Next time, then. Sorry I can’t help with the wedding. You’ll find someone, though.”

Another day, another rejection. You tell Taehyung not to look at your feet as you get dressed to leave.

Jung Hoseok isn’t generationally wealthy, but he’s got enough money to be deemed respectable in the eyes of your parents.

He’s also got a 24 karat smile and a meticulously highlighted and underlined study guide for your upcoming exam, so he’s currently ranked number one on your Armcandidates list.

“Hobi, have I ever told you you’re my favorite person?”

He eyes you over the lid of his coffee cup. “A few times, yeah.”

“Jung Hoseok,” you singsong, “actual sunshine, number one human, best thing since sliced bre—”

“If you finish that sentence with some fire of my loins Lolita bullshit I’m leaving.”

You pout. “I need a favor.”

He tosses the study guide in your direction. “Just take it. I have another copy in my bag.”

“Not that,” you say, but you take it anyway. Hoseok’s study guides are a thing of legend: even if you don’t use it, you’ll be able to sell it to some idiot underclassman for a week’s worth of coffee. The bougie kind with whipped cream on top. “I need a date for my brother’s wedding.”

Now it’s his turn to choke. “And you’re asking me?”

“Yeah? What’s wrong with asking you?”

He shrugs, suddenly antsy, like he’s too big for his skin. “I don’t know. Don’t you have, like, actual prospects? Every dude in our cohort wants to date you.”

“Because I’m hot and I have a shitload of money,” you retort, and Hoseok makes a face that says yeah, fair. “I’d rather be tarred and feathered than ask any of them. We’re friends, and I trust you. Additionally, your family’s rich enough to get my parents off my back and we’d look good together.”

“Ah, yes, that last point is very important.”

You scoff. “Of course it is, it’s my brother’s wedding. Do you know how many pictures I’m gonna be forced to take? Hundreds. Possibly thousands.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“It will be, which is why I need a brother-in-arms. A confidante. A comrade.”

“Have you asked Jimin? He’s great at weddings.”

You nearly start shrieking. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“...Is that a yes?”

“Of course I asked Jimin. I asked Taehyung, too. They’re both going to be out of the country and are probably fucking, and that’s not particularly something I want to get in the middle of.” Hoseok raises an eyebrow. “It could be serious,” you argue. “Like, Actual Feelings kind of stuff, and that shit gets messy.”

“Yeah, fair,” Hoseok concedes, out loud this time. “Plus Tae has that weird foot thing.”

“Exactly! So you get it.” Finally, a lead! “Will you come, then?” You flutter your eyelashes. “Pretty please, Hobi.”

“When is it?” As you rattle off the date, Hoseok digs through his bag for his phone. Then he pulls up his calendar and frowns. “Shit, no can do, either. My elective rotation starts that prior Monday.”

“Ew. What elective are you taking?”

Hoseok nearly blinds you as he smiles. “Reproductive endo and infertility.”

Your eyes widen. “Holy shit, that one you applied to ages ago? You got it?” He nods. “Oh my god, Hobi, that’s amazing!” You launch across the table to hug him. “I still hate you for bailing, but think of all the tiny raisins you’re gonna help bring into the world!” You wipe away a fake tear. “You’re a god amongst men, Jung Hoseok.”

He takes a bow. “Thank you, thank you. Speaking of which, how’s the volunteer gig in the ER treating you?”

“It’s fine.” You groan, put-upon, and sometimes Hoseok is so smiley and endearing that you feel guilty unloading all of your burdens on him, so you aren’t going to. Not unless he asks. Because he’s prone to dramatics and neuroticism but not like you are, and you know it can be a lot for someone not expecting it.

However—

“That’s good. Is that annoying guy you told me about still bothering you?”

Wrong question.

You cock an eyebrow. “This is the third time this week.”

In front of you, Kim Seokjin just grins, dried blood cracking on his plush lower lip. “Yep.”

“It’s Tuesday,” you deadpan. The grin grows wider, warping the purple-black bruise beneath his eye.

Because he’s arguably the most annoying person on earth, Seokjin just hums an acknowledgement, leaning further against the reception desk. “Well,” he says, voice interlaced with honey, “you’d have to take that up with the Babylonians, since they invented the modern calendar. Not much I can do about that.”

A pause. Then, “You’re really fucking annoying, do you know that?”

“It's a bit rude to insult someone seeking out your services, don’t you think?”

You roll your eyes, pushing your tongue into the fat of your cheek. “Not really. Not if it’s you.”

Surprisingly—or maybe not, considering everything seems to roll off his back—a laugh comes tumbling out of him. “Listen, I know it’s probably overwhelming to be blessed with the sight of this face not once, but three times in a week. I can understand and excuse your insensitivity, so I won’t report you this time, but—”

Ignoring him, you slam a clipboard onto the space between you. “You know the drill.”

“What if I’ve forgotten it?”

“Name, address, insurance information, reason for treatment.”

“You know my name, you know where I live, insurance hasn’t changed, and I’m just here to soak in your sparkling personality.”

With as murderous a stare as you can muster, you push the clipboard further in his direction. It hits something solid. Probably a rib, judging by Seokjin’s pained wheeze, but you don’t get paid enough to care. “Do you need a pen?”

“Why, so you can stab me with it?”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

He rolls his eyes. Thumbs through the intake forms and pretends to read them, even though the last time he had to sign one he’d just drawn a stick figure giving you the finger. “Have you ever spoken to anyone about your sociopathic tendencies? Might do you some good.”

With prolonged eye contact, you toss a pen in his direction. Hits him square between the eyes. “A million times,” you deadpan. This is where you’d blow a bubble and pop it if you were allowed to chew gum on the clock. “I’ve been diagnosed with an incurable case of bitchitis. It’s a very tragic burden to bear. Fill out the form.”

Seokjin huffs. Stays standing right in front of you as he does as you say, ignoring the line of people behind him that’s rapidly stacking up. Someone towards the back yells at him to get out of the way, but the protest dies immediately once he turns around and smiles. You think an elderly woman faints. She definitely bobbles, at the very least.

“Thanks so much for your help,” Seokjin says, handing the forms back with a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. They’re free of doodled middle fingers, so you wave him off. “Have a great day,” he lobs over his shoulder. When you look down, he’s giving you the finger at waist-height.

“Have the day you deserve,” you fire back.

Your skin needles with anxiety for the rest of the day.

Seokjin comes into the emergency room again on Friday.

He’s got a large gash just above his eyebrow that’s gonna need stitches. You tell him as much as he fills out the same forms as the day before, and he tells you to tell him something he doesn’t know as he rolls his eyes and winces immediately.

“Here’s something you don’t seem to know: karma is real, and she also thinks you’re an asshole.”

You get the finger again for that one. Honestly, you can’t say you don’t deserve it.

“Kiss my ass.”

You pretend to pout. “Health hazard. Against hospital policy.”

Seokjin pauses. Seems to study you for a while, and then he’s cocking an eyebrow and asking, “What do you actually do here, anyway? Besides be a giant bitch.”

Wordlessly, you point at your name tag. There, right beneath your first and last name, lies the answer to Seokjin’s question. He squints. Winces again. “You’re a med student?”

Again, you point at your name tag.

“That means I can write a complaint.”

“Go ahead,” you retort. “My mother’s on the board of directors, and luckily for you she already knows I’m a giant bitch.”

Seokjin snorts, jaw dropping slightly. Just enough to draw attention to his mouth, which you’ve seen a hundred times for a hundred different injuries, but it looks especially sinful today. Maybe it’s just because he’s being mean to you, which is something you might need to explore with Taehyung in exchange for pictures of your feet.

“Ah, I should’ve known. You’ve got overwhelming nepo kid energy. Probably never had to work for anything a day in your life, huh? Probably a legacy to whatever shit-tier medical school was bribed into accepting you, too.”

Until now, you’d thought your banter with Seokjin was relatively harmless. Barbed, sure, and definitely effective. You’d throttle Seokjin if given the chance, and you know he’d do the same. But it’s never been outright cruel.

You try to look unfazed. Try to look like you don’t care about Seokjin and his words at all, because they’re nothing you haven’t heard before. Not like you’d asked to be born to your parents, so shit like this usually rolled off your back.

Now, though—

Your face must fall, just a little, because Seokjin immediately looks remorseful. Moves to say something, but you’re retrieving his clipboard and intake paperwork before he can stutter out an apology. “Thanks. They’ll call you back shortly.”

“Hey, I—“

“You can take a seat over there,” you interject, eyes locked on your computer screen. If you tear up, you can just blame it on eye strain.

You don’t see Seokjin for another two weeks.

And that’s… fine. His absence has given you some time to digest, some time to mull things over, decide if you’re actually upset or if you’d gone temporarily insane. It’d taken ten days, but you came to the conclusion that it’d just been a fleeting moment of sensitivity. People are mean to you all the time in the ER; if you took each insult or attack on your character to heart, you’d be in for a world of hurt.

So, yeah. You’d had a rough day and Seokjin saying you were a good-for-nothing nepot stung a little. That’s it.

Because you’ve got more pressing matters to attend to. You’ve managed to piss away an entire month without securing a date to the wedding, and now you’ve got time breathing down your neck. Two months, your mother’s shrill voice shrieks in your head, and it devolves into weeks and days and hours the longer you let yourself spiral. It’d seemed like so long before: you’d been so certain you’d have a date by the end of day one, and then the universe had to go and humble you. Cruel.

But the universe is also fair, because one day it’s been two weeks since you’ve seen Seokjin, and the next it’s a painfully slow Thursday afternoon and he strolls in with splinted fingers and a sheepish, weary expression.

“Uh, hi.”

You look up from your computer, taking in all the bruises and scars that dot his face but take nothing away from the beauty of it. “Sorry, exorcism hours ended at noon.”

Seokjin swallows, nostrils flaring. He looks like he wants to argue, just because he’s him and you’re you, but he acquiesces with a little nod. “Fair. I deserved that.”

“Here for the usual?” you ask, tone dry and neutral. When Seokjin doesn’t answer, you grab a clipboard and start your usual spiel—name, address, insurance information, reason for treatment—and then there’s a choked-off sound, not unlike a cat dying.

He looks pained when you dare a glance. Face contorted into a grimace, just like all the parents who bring in their constipated babies. “No, no,” he says. Sucks in a deep breath, and you nearly roll your eyes in exasperation. This guy’s acting like he’s about to give a speech at the goddamn United Nations. “I’m here to… apologize?”

You blink. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Telling you?” A pause. “Yeah, definitely telling you.”

“Okay.” Another pause. Seokjin fidgets, shifts his weight from one leg to the other, wipes probably-sweaty palms on his jeans, picks up every pen in the cup and drops it back in. “Well, the floor is yours.” More silence. His face seems to shift into reluctant acceptance. “Any day now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Okay.”

“I was having a bad day and I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Okay.”

“I still think you’re really mean—”

“Sure, that’s fair.”

“—but I’d like to make it up to you. I think.”

“You sure are thinking a lot. Wanna give those brain cells a break?”

“Fuck you,” he replies automatically. “Here I am, trying to be nice—”

An idea strikes you then. Parts the hazy recesses of your mind like the Red Sea, and it feels like you’ve been struck by lightning. “How were you planning on making it up to me?”

Because he’s not wholly an idiot, Seokjin sends you a pointed look. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You’re sure your smile looks straight out of a Creepypasta, but there’s an opportunity here, and you’d be a fool to let it slip through your fingers. “Because I just so happen to need a favor, and here you are, ready to dish one out.”

“I never said it was a favor.”

You pout. “But Seokjin,” you whine, “you were so mean.”

One of his eyes twitches. “Why does this feel like a crossroads deal?”

“I think the Grinch felt similar. Right before his heart grew three sizes and he saved Christmas.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and you can almost see the scales tipping in his brain, weighing whether or not it’s a good idea to entertain you at all. Which is impressive, all things considered, because he doesn’t even know what you’ll ask for yet. He could be expecting something humiliating at his expense, or a monetary bribe—you’re pretty certain asking for a date will catch him fully off-guard.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing big,” you reply easily. Twirl your hair around your finger. Bat your eyelashes. “Just a little date.”

Seokjin sputters. “A what.”

“A date,” you repeat. “I just so happen to need a date to my brother’s wedding, and you just so happen to be overcome with guilt. It’s a win-win.”

“We don’t even like each other!”

You click your tongue. “Even better, because I don’t like my brother, either!”

“So this is… what? A game? Some kind of petty revenge? Bring the guy who looks like me to your brother’s wedding to rebel against your parents?”

“Yes, absolutely,” you answer, not even bothering to sugarcoat it. Seokjin doesn’t seem convinced. You sigh. “Look, you can say no. Or I can throw in something extra if it feels unfair—”

“Like what?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, I haven’t had time to prepare a fucking offer sheet, Seokjin. What do you want?”

“Depends. What’s this all entail? Is it a one-time thing or do I have to pretend to be your boyfriend?”

You choke. “My boyf—” But then it hits you: your brother will hate this. Your parents will hate it even more. Without even needing to ask, it’s clear Seokjin isn’t from your world, and if they’re ready to disinherit you for showing up to your brother’s wedding alone, might as well commit to the bit. So you clear your throat and smile again. “And if I say yes?”

“It’ll cost more,” Seokjin deadpans.

You nod, feeling a little like you’re swindling this poor man. “Add it to my tab, boyfriend.”

[THE MEETING]

Finding a date was supposed to be the hard part. Turns out, it’s only the beginning.

Your parents are thrilled and a little stunned when you tell them you’ve secured a plus-one. (So is your brother, but you have better luck with him listening when you tell him to fuck off. It’s a little hard to say the same to your mother and father when they’re dangling a trust fund in front of you like a carrot.) And, in true upper echelon form, they grill you. For hours. Family name, family business, how you met, what their intentions are, blah blah blah. You feel a migraine coming on somewhere around question two.

Eventually, your mother says, “I don’t know about this,” and your father grunts in agreement. You don’t think he’s used full words in years. Not with you.

“What’s there to know?” you whine, nearly rolling your eyes. “I’m not marrying the guy. It’s just a date.”

Your mother flutters around the kitchen, pointedly not looking at you. It’s weird seeing her like this: almost like a real mother, almost like she’s going to say something comforting and serve you a plate of freshly-baked cookies instead of huffing and puffing at everything you say and treating you like a pariah. “Do you even know this young man?”

“Of course I know him.”

“Do I need to remind you that it’s bad etiquette to bring a first date to a wedding?”

There’s a pang of annoyance that you have to tamper down. “It’s not a first date.”

“Oh? You’ve been seeing him regularly?”

This time you do roll your eyes. “Sure, Mom.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at your mother,” your father says, not bothering to lower the newspaper in front of him.

“How did you—”

“Is this young man your boyfriend?”

You think about what Seokjin had said: It’ll cost more. Not, you couldn’t pay me eight billion dollars to pretend to date you. Not, no thanks I’d rather die. Just, it’ll cost more. So, as you sit in this opulent kitchen with your parents and some ungodly amount of Italian marble, you think there’s nothing you wouldn’t pay to make these people miserable. These people, who never saw you beyond a status symbol. That traditional nuclear family tucked behind the white picket fence. Two kids. Golden retriever. Pool boy. Family vacations to five-star resorts, only your parents smiling in the pictures before they abandoned you and your brother with the nanny.

So, no, Seokjin isn’t your boyfriend. Not really. But he’s willing to play the part and that’s good enough. “Yeah,” you answer, and one simple word stops your mother in her tracks and gets your father to finally abandon his stupid newspaper, and just this little bit of power feels nice.

“Oh,” comes your mother’s reply. She shares a look with your father.

Because the patriarchy is alive and well and he loves to play the arbiter, he says, “I think we should meet him.”

And, because you’re not an idiot, you say, “Don’t forget the rule was that I had to find a date, not that you had to approve them.”

With a huff, your father disappears again behind his newspaper.

You: i need another favor

Rapid Onset Migraine: how much

You: shouldn’t my boyfriend want to do nice things for me out of the kindness of his own heart

Rapid Onset Migraine: no

(“Shouldn’t you have him saved under his actual name? Maybe a little heart emoji?” Hoseok asks, looking over your shoulder. “Unless he has a degradation kink, I don’t think anyone’s going to buy that someone named Rapid Onset Migraine is actually your boyfriend.”

“Shut up, Hobi. It’s one of those things that are violently affectionate and ironically cute.” A pause. Then—“Do you think Thunderclap Headache is better?”

“No. No, I definitely do not.”)

You: you don’t even know what the favor is

Rapid Onset Migraine: don’t care

You: fine

You: i would like to formally demand your presence at dinner with my parents this thursday at 7

Rapid Onset Migraine: i’m busy

You: i will literally venmo you rn to cancel your plans

Rapid Onset Migraine: i’m suddenly free. @jin-k92

Rapid Onset Migraine: five hundred dollars please

You: fuck off

You: $50. final offer. take it or leave it

Rapid Onset Migraine: leave it

You: sent. see you thursday!

  It’s Tuesday night and you’re fresh off your shift, headed to your car, looking forward to doing nothing but absorbing into your couch and maybe using that new bath bomb, when someone on a skateboard crashes into you.

You’re on your ass before you can process, stunned, staring up at the fluorescent lights of the parking lot. A familiar face enters your line of sight, not looking all that apologetic. “Whoops.”

You groan. “Worst boyfriend ever,” you retort, sticking your hand in the air. “At least help me up.”

There’s absolutely no grace in the way Seokjin hauls you to your feet. Doesn’t bother to steady you when you bobble, either, and you have half a mind to give him the finger. Instead, you say, “Are you stalking me?” and delight in the split-second of panic that overtakes his features.

“No,” he eventually says, expression right back to neutral. “You’ve already agreed to date me. Why would I need to stalk you?”

“There’s at least seventeen different problems with that statement and I’m not going to touch any of them.” You take a second to look him over: no obvious injuries, still obnoxiously attractive. Hair a little longer than usual, rogue strands hanging loose and framing his face. No one should be allowed to look like this. He really, really gets on your nerves. “Why are you here, though? You look fine.”

“I am fine—”

“Uninjured,” you clarify, which earns you a scoff.

“I’m that, too,” he snarks, “but I came to find you to figure out the game plan.”

“Why didn’t you just text me?”

“I was already in the area,” he lies.

“Uh-huh.”

“And I thought I could con you into buying me dinner.”

“What’d you do with the fifty bucks I sent you the other day?”

Seokjin looks at you like you’re dumb. You’re really starting to wonder if you are. “I spent it.”

“On what?”

“Are you my accountant now?” he huffs.

“No, but you’re not my sugar baby, either. Buy your own dinner.”

He bats his lashes at you. “But honey…”

“Fuck off, Seokjin,” you say, stomping towards your car. Unsurprisingly, he’s right behind you, the wheels of his skateboard noisy as they glide along the concrete. “This is why you’re always needing stitches?” you ask, knowing he’s close enough to hear.

“Yep.” A louder noise; probably some kind of trick. You’re not going to dignify him by watching and being impressed.

During your second semester of college, Hoseok had gotten you into this horrible habit of parking far away. So you get your steps in, had been his reasoning, and it’s hard to say whether you’d given in to the 10,000 steps per day hysteria or just Hoseok’s convincing, evil little smile, but you still do it. And you’re really regretting it now, when you have to traipse through a half-mile of parking lot with the world’s most annoying person on your heels.

“Are you gonna take me to dinner, though?”

That’s how you wind up sitting across from him at a diner.

His cheeseburger is demolished in record time. Fries are halfway gone, too, by the time he asks what the plan is and seems genuinely shocked when you say there isn’t one.

“What do you mean there’s no plan?”

“There’s no plan,” you repeat, dipping your own fry into his ketchup just so he has to swat your hand away. “I mean, dinner is at seven, but that’s it.”

Seokjin looks confused, like you’ve tilted his world on its axis. “There’s gotta be a plan,” he argues. “There’s always a plan with you trust fund kids.”

Another dig, and you can tell by the way he avoids your gaze once he makes it. “There’s really no plan,” you say, ignoring the quip. There’s a reason you’ve got a fake boyfriend, and it’s not because your parents are benevolent and easy-going. “I don’t care what you tell my parents.”

“Now I know for sure you’re setting me up.”

You shrug. “Believe whatever you want.”

Seokjin studies you, clearly still unconvinced. “You’re telling me,” he begins, sticking the straw of his root beer float in his mouth, “that I can just walk in there and sabotage you? That I have carte blanche? That I can tell them you literally paid me to be there?” You shrug. There’s a disgusting slurping sound. You grimace.

“Well, I’m hoping you won’t, but I certainly can’t stop you.”

“You’re terrible at fake dating.”

A sigh escapes you before you can stop it. You don’t want to delve into twenty-plus years of parental trauma, especially not with this guy, but sometimes it can’t be helped. “Look, I don’t want to go to my brother’s wedding. I don’t like him, and I don’t like my parents. No one else wanted to fake date me”—you hold up your hand to kill the obvious comment before he makes it—“and, honestly, my parents are gonna hate you and that’s the entire reason I asked for your help. So, no, I don’t care what you tell them, because I don’t care if they approve. I’m sick of them making me jump through hoops just to be their kid.”

Unfazed, Seokjin breezily replies, “You obviously care enough to keep taking their money.”

“I consider my trust fund to be reparations.”

“That why you were so touchy about that nepotism comment?”

Nodding, you fidget with the hem of your scrub top, hands suddenly sweaty. “Well, it doesn’t feel great to have my accomplishments credited to my last name or whatever, but it’s not something I can stop anyone from assuming.”

“Are they?”

“It’d be naive to think they aren’t.”

“You got into med school, though,” Seokjin says, and you tamper down the flush that’s creeping in. You are not going to care about any man’s acknowledgement. “That’s not an easy thing to do.”

“Can you tell my parents that?”

A laugh bellows out of him, and you’re horrified to learn it’s a terrible sound. Everyone in the diner turns to stare, and you’re flushed crimson and trying to duck under the table.

Still, you can’t help but smile. Your parents really are going to have a stroke.

To your delight, Seokjin is good at getting people to hate him. Like, really good—almost scarily so.

He’d shown up twenty minutes late, having ignored the dress code entirely, clad in a pair of ripped black jeans and a plain black t-shirt, arm tattoos and innumerable scars proudly on display. He hadn’t bothered to shake your father’s hand or introduce himself to your mother, just fell into the seat next to you, stage-whispered a, this place is a shithole huh, and stuck his nose in a menu. When the waiter came by, he ordered a bottle of wine older than the two of you combined and the most expensive entree on the menu.

Now, an hour in, your parents are teetering on the edge of a major cardiac event.

“So, Seokjin,” your father says, voice gritty and forced, “what do you do?”

Seokjin shoves a large piece of meat in his mouth, making sure to smack his lips. “What d’you mean?” he asks, the question garbled around the food.

“For a living.”

Scarily good, you think. Seokjin pretends to choke, pretends to look shocked and appalled. “I don’t work,” he answers, tone bang-on to the one your parents use when they’re being condescending. “My parents give me money, and I figured I’d date this one”—he flicks you in the temple—“until she becomes a doctor and can support me. Then we’ll get married.”

Your mother gasps. Your smile is involuntary.

Your father, on the other hand, knocks over his wine glass. Spills it all over the table, goes red in the face, and it’s the most distressed you’ve ever seen him, usually composed to a fault, immovable. “You’ll do no such thi—”

Seokjin fakes a yawn. “You ready, babe?” He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, just stands, tosses his napkin on the table, and grabs your hand. The two of you are out of the restaurant before either of your parents can utter a word.

Feels like one of those movie moments, you think: the cool breeze in your hair, against your flushed cheeks, your hand in Seokjin’s, both of you not daring to breathe or make a sound until you’re safe outside, away from your parents and their gobsmacked expressions. And then you crack, just enough for laughter to spill out, and Seokjin snorts, another horrible sound, and before you know it, the two of you are collapsed against the side of the restaurant, tears in your eyes as the brick scrapes against your skin.

Maybe something shifts. Maybe the smile Seokjin sends you is genuine.

[THE RELATIONSHIP]

Much to your horror, fake relationships aren’t all that different from normal, authentic ones.

Which means two things: one, that your brother and his wife-to-be both received an earful from your parents about Seokjin and The Dinner, and two, you still have to compromise.

The first one wasn’t so bad. Your brother had called you and issued a vague threat, of course, because he’s never had a sense of humor about anything, but you hadn’t answered so it’d been easy to delete the voicemail and forget about it. And, luckily for him, your future sister-in-law was far more lax. Bring him, she’d texted. He sounds like a good time.

You’re not sure you’d describe Kim Seokjin as a good time, but you replied with a thumbs-up emoji regardless.

All of that had been fine. You’re well-versed in dealing with your family by now, so it’s easy to let their bullshit wash over you and down the drain like rainwater.

No, it’s the fake but has to look at least semi-real relationship that’s proving to be difficult.

Because you don’t like to compromise. You want to do what you want to do when you want to do it, and you don’t want to hear about it from anyone. But here you are, doing a quasi-photoshoot with Seokjin so he can “soft launch” you on his Instagram—which, honestly, is a little daunting. He has a lot of followers. Not surprising, considering the way he looks, but the thought of being perceived by hundreds of thousands of strangers makes you feel like you’re wearing your skin inside-out.

“Can you try looking less constipated?” he asks, tone dry as toast as he scrolls through the series of selfies the two of you just took.

You scoff. “First of all, I don’t look constipated.” Really, you don’t. “Second of all, why do you even need to do this? We only have to convince my parents, and you pissed them off so bad I’m not sure they’ll ever ask me to bring a date to anything ever again.”

“Because I have a competition next weekend that you’ll have to go to, and I don’t want anyone asking any questions.”

“What if I’m busy?”

“You’re not,” Seokjin retorts, all conviction. “If I had to clear my schedule for that dinner, you’re free for this.”

“What if I have a school thing?”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. He’s looking at you, and you’re looking at him through his phone camera. It’s really not fair, the way his face is. “Do you?”

“No, but what if?”

He takes another picture and cackles, gleefully showing it to you. “See? You definitely look constipated.”

With a glare, you wrestle the phone out of his hand and aim it the way you want—the way you know looks good. And maybe you do a little pout, too; do that thing with your eyes that looks seductive and a little dirty. Not because you care about what Seokjin’s followers think, because you’re hot and you know it, but because you want him to suffer. Just a little bit. It’s illogical, the way you want him to look at this picture and feel… something. Half pride, half longing.

So, you angle and pout. Delight in the caught-out expression on Seokjin’s face this time, like it’s the first time he’s learning that you’re hot and that it troubles him a little. “Is that better?” you ask, sugar-sweet.

Seokjin doesn’t respond, just posts the picture to his Instagram story.

Skateboarding has never been your thing.

Your brother had gone through a phase, once. Spent all his allowance on the video games and collected CCS catalogs, spending imaginary money as he’d thumb through the pages and circle everything he wanted. Never bought a real board, though—just developed a superiority complex because he listened to the Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater 2 soundtrack one too many times and thought it was a legitimate substitute for actual pre-teen rebellion.

However, fake-dating Seokjin means you’re getting a crash course.

“What do these do?” you ask, holding up a set of wheels. There’s an alien holding a bong on them. They make you laugh.

Seokjin eyes you from across the shop and pointedly ignores your question. Instead, the disgruntled guy behind the register answers. “They’re wheels,” he says, tone clipped, which you answer with a surprised noise, like you’ve discovered something new.

“Wow, wheels,” you intone. “Cool.”

Done picking out new grip tape, or whatever the hell he’d said, Seokjin plucks the wheels from your hand and puts them back where you’d gotten them. “Fascinating invention, huh?”

The man behind the register smells like weed. Reeks of it, actually, and the stench is almost overbearing as you sidle up next to Seokjin at the counter. Yoongi, his name tag reads. You don’t think he looks like a Yoongi, because it kind of lends itself to a stoner character, but it also sounds kind of sweet, and the man in front of you looks like he could snap you like a twig and enjoy it.

Then—“Oh, you’re Instagram girl.”

You scowl. “I’m who.”

First, you’re reduced to nepotism and your family name; now it’s Instagram. There’s a huff halfway out of your mouth when Seokjin wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you against his side. You think he’d press a kiss to your temple if this was real. “My beautiful girlfriend,” he says, playfully hip-checking you. 

Yoongi looks between the two of you, then pushes the tape back in Seokjin’s direction. “You know you don’t have to pay for this shit, man.”

“Sure, but I can. I have a rich girlfriend now.”

He yelps when you step on his foot with the heel of your boot. “Aren’t you so lucky,” you grit out.

You don’t see the way his gaze softens, but Yoongi sure does.

Anticipation crackles in the air.

Feels like the day you’d sat for the MCAT—that brand of nervous, determined focus, bordering on excitement. Something that will really only go one of two ways with a million variables, and it’s a small relief to not be the one in the hot seat.

Hoseok had been there last time. Now, a man that’s seemingly all limbs plops down beside you, ungraceful and awkward.

“You’re Instagram girl,” he says, before sticking his hand out. “Hi, I’m Namjoon.”

Seems like Seokjin’s idea of a soft launch is anything but. Briefly, you wonder how many more people are going to forego your identity entirely in the name of Instagram, but it’s kind of nice, too—nice to be someone other than your parents’ daughter, your brother’s sister, your family name. There’s a long way to go before the patriarchy is smashed entirely, because it’s not so nice to be newly reduced to Seokjin’s girlfriend, but baby steps.

For now, it’s all right.

For now, there are far worse things you could be.

“Hi, Namjoon,” you finally reply, because he seems out of place and nice enough—nicer than Yoongi, at least. Definitely far less gruff and abrasive.

He chokes a little, like he’s surprised you responded to him. Not for the first time, it’s just sort of par for the course when you are who you are. “Oh, sorry,” he says, cheeks flushing under the guise of the relentless afternoon sun. “I just—recognized you? And couldn’t help myself? Which probably sounds really creepy, which was not my intent, it’s just—Jin doesn’t bring anyone to these things. Like, ever. So it was a little shocking! Kind of like meeting a celebrity? Even though I’ve never really done that, either. Oh! I met Greta Thunberg once. That was cool. It was, like, on accident, though? So…”

On and on he goes, bless him, because he just talks endlessly without expecting a response. You look around: the bleachers are starting to fill up, awestruck kids with humored parents, and you wonder what that’s like. To have an interest in something and have it nurtured, instead of having to live up to expectations you never wanted. Maybe you would’ve been a skateboarder, too. Maybe you would’ve shucked all those societal norms and did something you wanted, even though it doesn’t really matter now.

“Hey,” you say, stopping Namjoon’s latest spiel in its tracks, “do you come to these things often?”

Namjoon lights up like Christmas. People must not ask him about himself much. “Yeah! Well, sometimes? I’m in grad school, so I come when I have time. I thought it’d be a good idea to get two master’s degrees, so I finished my first one—in philosophy, before you ask, which was pretty stupid, because what am I gonna do with that, you know? But I guess it worked, because I had a full-blown existential crisis and decided to get a second one to put off the inevitable second existential crisis over what I was going to do with my life—”

“What was that one in?”

Namjoon startles again, and it’s almost hopelessly endearing. “Huh? Oh, Botany and Plant Pathology.”

You blink. “Plant pathology?”

“Yeah! It’s really interesting, because everything’s connected, right? Like, you can’t really fight climate change and food insecurity if you have all these diseased crops and forests, and I leaned pretty heavily into biological philosophy for my first degree, especially environmental ethics and conservation—”

“...And you come to skateboarding competitions for fun?”

His ears turn red; his cheeks and neck follow shortly thereafter. “I like physics, and skateboarding has a lot of physics.”

Just your luck. “Can you explain to me what’s going on, then?”

Namjoon does as you ask, and takes his job very seriously. He explains the rules and the implications, the rankings and what they mean for the future, who’s who and the major players. He explains tricks as they happen—how they got their names, who did them first, notable events. You remember your brother screaming at the TV the night Tony Hawk landed the 900 at the X Games, and Namjoon’s smile is so bright when you tell him about it.

“Yeah, that’s—that was so fucking cool, man. You know he was 31 when he did that? I think about that sometimes. There’s all this emphasis on aging, this juvenile notion that life peaks in your twenties, that you need to have it all figured out before you’re thirty: the job, the marriage, the house with the white picket fence, and it’s bullshit. I know it’s bullshit, but sometimes I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything at my age, and I just think: Tony Hawk landed the first 900 when he was 31 years old, and now 10 year olds are doing it. That’s fucking dope.”

He’s off on another tangent almost immediately, telling you about how he’d met Seokjin and how they became friends. You hear none of it. Seokjin comes in second place. You don’t remember much of the celebration, either.

You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve been dunked in ice-cold water. Feels a bit like drowning.

You’re good at compartmentalizing.

You have to be, growing up in the family you did. Because Namjoon’s words had rattled you, sure, but you can’t linger on them. Lectures still need to be attended, hospital shifts still need to be worked, and it’d really hurt Hoseok’s feelings if you bailed on your study sessions, so you have to tuck away all those wayward thoughts for later.

Not until you’re alone, tucked into bed far too early for someone in their mid-20s, do you think about it.

Well, it’s less ‘thinking’ and more ‘ah, these are the existential crises Namjoon was talking about.’ Certainly not your first crisis, and it won’t be your last, but it’s still… unnerving. Being a doctor was something you’d always been rock-solid about. You hadn’t wanted to go into business like your father and brother, had no interest in kissing ass in the political sphere and wielding influence like your mother, but you’d been told all your life you had to do something. Something important, something impressive, something worth bragging about—because what were you worth if your parents couldn’t talk endlessly at fundraisers about how much better you were than everyone else?

You glance at the clock: almost two a.m. There’s only one person that’ll be awake at this hour, even though you shouldn’t. Seokjin has one job, and it isn’t talking you off the proverbial ledge in the middle of the night. Still—

You: you up?

Rapid Onset Migraine: this is happening a little fast don’t you think?

You: ??? huh

You: wait no

You: that’s NOT what i meant

Rapid Onset Migraine: yeah sure

Rapid Onset Migraine: well obviously i’m awake

Rapid Onset Migraine: you ok?

You: yeah, i’m sorry to bother you about this

You: i think i’m just having a bad time?

That’s that, you think, because minutes pass without a response. But then your phone’s vibrating, lighting up in your hand. Rapid Onset Migraine flashes across the screen, his contact photo set to a meme of Handsome Squidward just because you’d thought it was funny.

“Hello?”

“Sorry,” he says immediately, “I needed to make a pot of coffee before I had this conversation.”

You hum. The comment doesn’t sting. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink coffee.”

“I don’t,” Seokjin answers. “Well, not usually. Only if I have an early flight or something.”

“Or need to talk through your fake girlfriend’s two a.m. existential crisis?”

“Yeah.” Seokjin laughs, and it’s almost enough of a balm. “But I’m friends with Namjoon, so I’m an expert in those by now. I keep weird hours, anyway, you know? I’m either skating or gaming, so he used to call me at, like, four in the morning because he’d read too much Kierkegaard or Beauvoir and was spiraling.” You hear him take a sip of coffee. He starts sputtering immediately. “Shit, that’s hot. Fuck, I think I burnt my tongue off.”

“Luckily you know a doctor.”

“I do,” he says, and his tone is warm. Almost proud? “Anyway, what’s going on? You read Being and Nothingness, too, or what?”

For a moment, you’re just quiet, trying to think of the words to say. You’re well aware of your privilege, make a conscious effort to not throw it around the way others might, so there’s a lot of guilt that comes with something like this. You know what people probably think: poor little rich girl, with her family money and their connections, it must be so hard to be her. It’s not, and you’re fine, but—

“Did you always want to skate professionally?” you ask, because you figure it’s safe. Doesn’t give it all away, even though Seokjin’s smart enough to read between the lines.

And, to your surprise, he plays along. Doesn’t call you out or press on the bruise, just says, “Hm, no, not really.”

“No?” you repeat, incredulous. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he confirms. “This is really embarrassing, but I wanted to get into software engineering or coding. Whatever would let me make video games.”

“Why would that be embarrassing?”

“Because it’s me?” Seokjin forces a laugh, pure self-deprecation. “That’s the kind of stuff people like Namjoon do. And that’s—it’s fine. I’m good at skateboarding and I get paid to do it. That’s the kind of thing kids dream about, right? Getting paid to travel around and skateboard all day?” He sighs, and it’s broken in a way that’s unsettling and familiar. A sound that could be coming from your own lips. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it and I’m thankful I get to do this as a job, it’s just not what I thought I’d be doing with my life.”

A brief silence, and then Seokjin’s talking again before you can reply, which you’re glad for. Everything feels off-center. “Is that what’s going on? School stress?”

“Maybe,” you admit, still a little breathless. “I’m just… struggling? I think? With knowing what’s actual desire and what’s just expectation.”

“Ah, I see. I don’t think I can really help with that beyond empathizing, but I’m sorry you’re going through it.” Then, like he’s telling you a secret, “If it helps at all, I think it takes a lot of courage to do this kind of introspection. It’s not easy, especially when you’re likely to find things you don’t want to.”

You can’t help but snort, but it’s gentle. Quiet, though still loud in the stillness of your bedroom. “Thanks,” you eventually reply. “Surprisingly comforting.”

“Yah, I’ll have you know I’m a very comforting person!”

“Of course you are.”

“Besides,” he says, and his tone takes on such conviction you’re sure you’ll believe whatever comes out of his mouth next with no hesitation, “it’s fine if you decide this isn’t what you wanna do. It’s never too late, or whatever, but for what it’s worth, I think you’re going to be a great doctor.”

“Or whatever,” you echo, smile creeping up on you. “That makes it sound so easy.”

“I guess it is.”

What’s it like to live like that, you wonder. Completely devoid of expectations, just going with the flow, doing what you want without crippling fear of the consequences. Must be nice, is your conclusion. Life doesn’t work like that for you, and you’ve had plenty of time to come to terms with that, so it’s fine. You’re on a path and maybe it’s not what you would’ve chosen had you had time to look at all the possibilities, but you’re on a path and it’s yours.

You want to say this to Seokjin. You want to thank him, both for the pep talk and the unfounded confidence, but your eyelids feel heavy and he’s just babbling now, something about the first time he landed a tre flip, and it’s soothing. Comforting.

Sleep takes you before you can think about it too hard—think about how Seokjin used to be nothing but a menace, the worst part of your day, and now he’s not.

You’re on another night shift, third in a row, and you’re the kind of exhausted that has you smelling colors.

Nothing makes sense. Your bones hurt. When you think about going home and finally going to bed it feels like when you’re starving and wait too long to eat and don’t feel hungry anymore. Then you finally do and it’s not satisfying, kind of makes your stomach hurt, and the cycle repeats.

Seokjin texts you to check in. After your two a.m. convo, you’re hyperaware of how much time you spend venting, so you assure him you’re fine. He drops off a coffee and some snacks, anyway. Just because he’s already up.

—

There are other hangouts. You don’t call them dates, because that word has implications and meaning and this is fake, but you have them nonetheless.

Overindulgent takeaway, equally expensive alcohol that has sat unopened in your apartment for far too long, shitty movies playing in the background, and Seokjin’s inability to stop talking. He sneakily lobs popcorn at you when he thinks you aren’t looking. This prompts an all-out war, and you both have tears streaming down your faces by the time Seokjin calls a truce.

Just days later, you spread out a gingham blanket in the park. Seokjin makes up bullshit constellations, gives them horrific names and backstories, and revels in the sound of your infectious laughter. When your head feels too heavy to hold up, you lay back in the grass and try to keep your heart in your chest when Seokjin does the same, slender fingers searching out yours in the dark.

You want so badly to kiss him. Want to crash your mouths together and kiss him breathless, but you don’t.

On your third hangout, you cover each other in silly temporary tattoos and take too many selfies. Seokjin snorts at how dumb he looks in the filters and asks you to send him some, immediately setting a particularly couple-y shot as your contact photo.

And if you get butterflies when he posts one to his Instagram story? Well, that’s your business.

—

Seokjin gets the dumb idea that he’s going to teach you to skate.

Which is not only dumb because it’s impossible, but because you’re sure your skeletal system is probably insured for millions of dollars, knowing your parents. You can’t do any of your clinical rotations with broken bones—instant dismissal—and Seokjin knows this, but he’s annoyingly persistent and assures you you’ll be fine, so you relent because you trust him, despite all odds.

Physically, you are fine. Seokjin holds onto your waist and doesn’t let you fall, which is about all you can ask for when it comes to unwanted skateboarding lessons. Emotionally, though? Not so much. You’ve been close to Seokjin before. Enough to feel his body heat; enough to get goosebumps; enough to nearly become delirious with your want to taste him.

Normally that’s fine. But now, as he uses one hand to hold your waist and the other to hold your own hand, you can’t think of a single logical explanation for depriving yourself of more of this. Because he’s steady and warm, and sometimes you teeter and he grips tighter, causing your mind to wander and think about things it shouldn’t. You’re only human, and Seokjin is an otherworldly brand of handsome, so you don’t beat yourself up over it.

Still. It ignites something, that’s for sure, and if it’s anything like Seokjin himself, it won’t be easy to extinguish.

—

It’s by complete accident that you meet Jeongguk.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate. You’ve met him before, at some bougie function your parents dragged you to, but it was brief and forced and awkward. Jeongguk was weird back then. Still is, probably, judging from his entire… presence, now.

He’s dangling upside down from a tree branch when you meet him for the second time.

“Oh. Jeongguk. Hi?”

“Hi!” he says, smile brighter than the sun, and before you can ask him why he’s upside down in a tree there’s a massive camera in front of his face. “Are you here to see Jin?”

Here is a public sidewalk, but you don’t say that. Instead, you say, “I’m on my way home. Why are you in a tree?”

His response is nonverbal, just a finger point dead ahead of you. Some Brutalist architecture leftover from the ‘50s—a large set of stairs, public fountain, weird art sculpture, a small crowd. Doesn’t take long to learn what they’re there for: Seokjin grinds down the rail, lands perfectly, nearly skates into the street and gets whacked by a car. Everyone cheers.

Ah, that explains the camera, too. You vaguely recall your mother telling you the youngest Jeon went to school for filmmaking. She hadn’t sounded impressed. You wonder what she’d think if she knew he was your delinquent, skateboarder, fake boyfriend’s videographer. Probably something aneurysm-inducing.

“He’s so cool,” Jeongguk says, whimsical and dreamy in a way that sounds like he has framed photos of Seokjin on his walls. Maybe his picture in a heart frame, like that one meme. “You’re so lucky.” There’s definitely some jealousy there.

You raise an eyebrow. “You wanna date him instead?”

Jeongguk seems to mull it over. Doesn’t move from his spot in the tree, either, and you reckon he’s got another sixty seconds before you forcefully turn him right side up. “Nah. He seems really happy with you.”

“We’re not—” Together, your brain finishes, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. So you cough, hope Jeongguk hasn’t caught it, and say, “Yeah, we’re not doing too bad,” instead.

—

“I think you’re too far gone, personally.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. What does Hoseok know? Okay, he’s probably the smartest person you know, but that’s medicine. He hasn’t had a long-term partner in years, so yeah, what does Hoseok know.

“I am not,” you insist, because the majority of your time in this library has been spent defending the validity of your love life, not studying. “Hobi, look.” You sigh, snapping shut your notebook. A migraine is forming just thinking about the amount of reviewing you’re gonna have to do at home to make up for this. “Does it really matter, in the grand scheme of things? Life is fleeting and we’re all inconsequential, so I understand why you’re grilling me on this and not the MLE review book we paid for—”

He pulls a face. “It was fifty bucks! You’re acting like I’m out thousa—”

“Not the point!”

Hoseok squeezes his eyes shut. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Presses his fingers deep into his frontal sinus points. “I think it not being the point is the point, though? None of this was necessary. You could’ve just brought him to the wedding without having to pretend he’s your boyfriend.” You move to protest. He waves you off. “I know you wanted to get back at your parents. Your parents suck, so I get it, but don’t you think this is a little much?”

“How?”

Now it’s Hoseok’s turn to sigh. Put-upon, like he’s a beleaguered parent talking to a very idiotic child. “Uh, how about the fact that the two of you are going on actual dates, for one? And they’re definitely dates, so I don’t want to hear it. You took him to a Michelin star restaurant, quote-unquote, just because.”

“I was hungry!”

“Sure, okay, whatever you say.” He throws his hands up, clearly defeated, and it settles all wrong in your gut. Hoseok gets mad, sure, but never at you. Not even annoyed. “Have you given any thought at all, even considered just a teeny-tiny bit, that this might not be as fake as you think?”

“No,” you retort, petulant, because it is fake and you don’t need Hoseok to tell you that.

But Hoseok is smart, you know, so you were never going to get off easy. “I think you actually like him.”

“I know. You’ve said that a hundred times.”

“And I’ll say it a hundred and one, if I have to. Fuck, your head must be made of concrete.”

“Could be,” comes your breezy response. “Maybe that’s why my mother hates me.”

Hoseok chokes. Knocks his tea over and onto the MLE guide, which prompts a distressed shriek from him and a harsh shushing from the rest of the library.

So much for it only being fifty dollars.

—

Unbeknownst to you, Yoongi does leave his skate shop, which comes as a shock for a man who has severe cavedweller vibes.

“Hey, Instagram,” he says, smelling like actual cologne and laundry detergent instead of a dispensary as he stands behind you in line.

Yoongi is clearly talking to you. You know he’s talking to you, but you still pause, fragile like a deer caught in headlights, and look over your shoulder as if he could be talking to anyone else. “Uh. Hi?”

He squints. “You are Instagram girl, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I thought so, but you looked at me like I was the one who’s stupid so I wasn’t sure.”

Did he just call you stupid? “Did you just call me stupid?”

Yoongi shrugs. “What’s good here?” he asks, changing the subject. He definitely called you stupid.

“I—most things? I don’t know, I always just get a cold brew with oat milk.”

He grimaces. “Ew, gross. I’m gonna go grab a table. Grab me a medium iced americano.”

You order him a small, purely out of spite, and Yoongi doesn’t come to this coffee shop often enough to know the difference so he doesn’t even notice when you set it down in front of him. Takes all the satisfaction out of being petty. He must know. “Thanks,” he says, not looking up from his phone as he unwraps a straw and stabs his drink perfectly in the center.

“Sure. I’ll send you a Venmo request.”

“Oh, I don’t have Venmo.” He finally looks up. “Are you going to Jin’s thing?” All he receives in response is a blank stare. “The skate comp. Second qualifying round for the big championship event? Surely he’s told you about this.”

Let no man ever say you’re a bad liar. “Ah, yeah, of course! Med student brain. It’s all memorizing neural pathways and… stuff… and forgetting skate competitions.”

“Hm,” comes Yoongi’s response, and he quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t question you further.

(You bring it up to Seokjin later, expecting him to laugh it off, extend an invitation out of obligation. Instead, he laughs in a way that sounds fond. Says, “Yoongi beat me to it,” in a way that brings his scarlet red neck and ears to the forefront of your brain, and follows it up with, “I’d really love it if you came, but I understand how busy you must be right now,” that has your skin flushing all the same.

You’re loath to make promises, but sometimes they’re easy.)

Time is not on your side.

You barely make it to Seokjin’s second competition. Barely have your ass in the bleachers, hairline dotted with sweat and anxiety coursing through you, before he’s dropping into the bowl for his first run.

He’d mentioned it offhand. Told you it wasn’t a big deal if you couldn’t make it, because he knew how busy you were with school and that you needed to study because exam season was relentless, but he’d looked so relieved when you joked that it wasn’t so easy to get rid of you, that you’d be cheering him on from the first row. That being anywhere else just wasn’t an option.

And that had… taken you aback. Watching him skate is a good enough distraction for all those thoughts. You don’t have to dwell on the whys: why the thought of sitting in your apartment, nose stuck in a book instead of being here, had been so unconscionable. Instead, you’re able to focus on him, which is almost worse. Because the way he looks—wind pushing his hair back off his forehead as he skates around, calf muscles flexing every time he kicks, shirt fabric darkening under a light sheen of sweat, smiling at kids and the countless people he knows—is a little overwhelming. You’re winded for two reasons.

It’s a beautiful thing, watching someone do something they’re passionate about. Seokjin especially, but you’re biased. You want only good things for him.

His first run finishes. He chews on his bottom lip as the judges huddle together. Numbers flash on the scoreboard. Good—great, even. You know what the stakes are: score high enough and he’ll advance to the championship. More sponsors will fall in line. Someone will present him with one of those comically large checks that he’ll probably spend on god-knows-what at Yoongi’s shop.

More skaters follow. Highs and lows. Seokjin watches them all, enraptured, just as happy for their successes as his own. Someone bails out right next to him, arms out to break their fall, making a sound an arm should never make, and Seokjin’s there right away. He’s good.

Except the universe doesn’t always reward goodness. His second run starts off well: smooth as butter, impressively technical. Seokjin is fluid when he skates. Makes it look easy, like you could hop on a board and do it just as well. You watch him, but you almost like watching everyone else watch him more: the wide eyes, the whistles under their breath, the nods of approval. Seokjin’s got all of it, truly thrives on the admiration. He’s good, he’s good, he’s good.

You know it’s coming. That trick he’d told you about—the one he’s never been able to land during a competition. The one that’s gnawing away at him. He’s going to try it, and you’re holding your breath as he kickflips, grinds his board along the rail, does some kind of dismount that looks absurd and impossible to your untrained eye.

Then he’s on the ground.

He’s still for a second. Huffs in frustration. Back on his board before you can blink.

Seokjin’s not a child, but you know it stings. You’re overwhelmed by the urge to comfort him, the way he’s done for you countless times, but you shouldn’t so you don’t. The two of you don’t talk until after, and by then it might not matter.

It isn’t until he’s about to drop in for his final run that he scans the crowd. You want to believe the look on his face when he spots you is relief, but it’s painted over in a nanosecond. He smiles, smug but content, and then he’s shoving his helmet back on his head, clapping someone on the back, and he’s off.

Maybe the universe does reward goodness, because everything goes right this time.

Seokjin lines up to attempt the trick again, because if he’s going to go out it’s going to be on his terms. Completely unshakeable, the kind of attitude that gets plastered on those bullshit inspirational posters about falling down nine times and getting up ten, and you wonder, briefly, if it’s stupid. A good score would be enough to get him through, but he wants to do this.

And he does.

Everyone around you erupts as soon as the trick is landed. Seokjin calls the run early—just a handful of seconds left, anyway—and his fellow competitors are on him immediately. Someone picks him up in a bear hug and spins him around, and the joy on his face is so pure, so unbridled, that you almost cry.

But the wait is torturous. His second run had gone so poorly and those in the top spots had done so well that it’ll be close, even with a gazelle flip under his belt. Nothing is certain, and the way you can barely bring yourself to look at the scoreboard is proof enough. Seokjin is good, and you want only good things for him, and you can barely look at the scoreboard but you can’t look away, either—

The roar of the crowd is deafening.

A freeze-frame moment. All around you, there are fists in the air, shrill yells of Seokjin’s name, maybe a chant, nothing but chaos. You can hardly hear yourself think, but you can see just fine, and what you see is Seokjin’s gaze locked on yours. The corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. A flicker of hesitation before he’s gracefully shrugging everyone off of him and making his way over to you, and then it’s just reflex. Here, you know what to do.

You barely flinch when he grabs the back of your neck and pulls you in.

Everything is soft. Feels a bit like floating.

Seokjinnie: do you wanna come over later?

Seokjinnie: i can either cook or get takeout, your choice

The apartment is small and you love it because he kisses you at the door. Seokjin has lips you want to memorize, so you kiss him again as he pulls away. The two of you kiss for a long time: throughout the “tour,” which is just the large studio space and the bathroom, all over the kitchen as he finishes cooking, until he exaggeratedly pulls out your chair, until you have to shove food in your face to keep your mouth off of him.

Seokjin has the kind of lips that leave you questioning if it’s really this easy.

Because Hoseok had been right: this isn’t fake for you anymore. Hasn’t been for a while, if you’re being honest, and maybe before this would’ve been a realization that scared you, but this doesn’t. Not when it’s Seokjin. So, yeah, maybe it is easy.

“Wait,” he says, chest heaving, gently pulling away from you. “Before I—wait, I have to talk to you about something.”

You just smile, hands still grazing over warm skin. “I think I already know.”

He stills. Takes a few seconds to reboot his brain before he’s smiling, laughing in a way that almost sounds unhinged. “God, yeah. Yeah, me too. But it’s—not that.”

“What, then?”

Immediately it’s clear this is not going to go well. Seokjin sighs, tilts his head back against the arm of the couch. His neck is gorgeous, littered with marks from you, but you gear up for a fight nonetheless. “The competition,” he says, as if that’s enough explanation. “The final round got pushed up.”

Your stomach drops. You know what’s coming, but you still ask, “To when?” because you’re a little bit masochistic. Because maybe you’re itching for the fight. Itching to say see, I told you so, I knew this was never going to work, because it’s always been fake. Itching to hurt, because you want what’s familiar when you hurt.

“Saturday.”

The day of your brother’s wedding. “Of course.” You snort; the universe loves a good dose of irony.

He sighs again. Looks so genuinely distressed that you find it hard to truly be upset. “I’m sorry. I just found out today.”

“It’s fine,” comes your instantly reply, auto-generated. Some silly, naive part of you refuses to spiral, stubbornly convinced you can salvage this. You’d found a date. That was the rule. You’ve done exactly what your parents asked of you, and you think with a rueful smile that they’ll probably be relieved when you show up alone.

But Seokjin’s not convinced. There’s still turmoil painted across his face—some silly, naive part of him clinging to something stubborn, too. “I’m going to ask you to be there.”

Yet another freeze-frame moment. The part in video games where it’s clear you have a very important choice to make, neon signs practically blinding, saying you better choose right, better not fuck it up. But you’re going to. You’re going to say no, and it’s going to hurt Seokjin, and you have about ten seconds to come to peace with that.

“I can’t.”

To his credit, Seokjin doesn’t look surprised, and you think that might be more painful. He’d expected nothing from you and you still let him down, so his snort is sardonic and derisive when he says, “Of course you can’t.”

And your tone is defensive and disbelieving when you retort, “What’s that supposed to mean? What exactly do you expect me to do here?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to do anything, I’d foolishly hoped you’d say yes.”

Your jaw drops. Snaps shut when you swallow around the lump in your throat, because you’re not going to cry at not living up to another set of invisible expectations. “It’s my brother’s wedding, Seokjin. It’s not some small thing I can blow off.”

“Is that it?” he challenges, eyebrow quirked, expression bemused. “Or do you not want to lose your precious little trust fund?”

“Are you serious? Of course I don’t want to lose it, but I—”

“You don’t even like your brother,” he continues, giving you absolutely no reprieve. No chance to catch up, catch your breath. “You don’t even like your family, but I guess you like their money. Nothing was ever gonna be more important than that, huh?”

“That’s not fair, Seokjin.”

He hums; knows you’re right. Doesn’t try to get in anymore jabs, but he looks broken. “I don’t think this has been fake for either of us for a long time. It was stupid to think you’d go against your family on this, but I thought maybe, for me—”

“Again, that’s not fair.”

“I know it isn’t fair,” he shoots back. “I know that. I just…” He rubs his hands over his face. “I can’t skip this, and you’re not willing to skip yours, so I don’t—I don’t know what to do.”

“I can just go alone,” you say, because it seems simple. “I already did what they asked, so I can just go alone. It’s fine.”

“It’s not like that for me.”

You’re stunned into silence. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s irrational, but it’s… the principle. For me. I’m never going to match up, you know? I’m never going to be from your world. I can make all the money in the world doing what I do and I’ll still never come close. So I had this stupid thought in my head, like, if she comes then it’s real for her, too. It means something. If she’s there, we can figure it out.”

“And that’s the only way? It’s only real if I do this one thing? Doesn’t matter how we feel?” You laugh, exasperated, and you’re up and halfway to the door. “That’s bullshit, Seokjin. How am I supposed to live up to these expectations you’ve got of me if you never tell me what the fuck they are? You know, that’s—this is exactly what my family does, and you—you know that, what the fuck.”

“Hey, no—”

“I can’t belie—” Things go all glassy. Crystalline. You need to get out of here. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do this. I’m sorry.”

“Wait—”

You press harshly into your eyes. You’re not going to cry over this. “Good luck, Seokjin.”

[THE CHOICE]

Things come full circle during another two a.m. crisis.

You’d stared at the ceiling. Scrolled mindlessly through your phone. Ignored Seokjin’s texts and thought about texting Hobi but decided it wouldn’t be fair and instead went cross-eyed watching some questionable late night paid program. Tried to disregard the crippling weight on your chest. Couldn’t. Thought about what Namjoon might do, because he seems well-versed in these sorts of crises, and looked up Sartre quotes on the internet. Got as far as one and quit, both because it hit too close to home and because all you can think about is your last two a.m. crisis.

Seokjin’s voice had been so soft. It wouldn’t have that same tenderness if you called him now and that stings, knowing you had a good thing, something velvet, and you let it go.

And still you think about Namjoon, about the ethics of conservation: when to preserve and when to let die. Does preservation ensure survival, or does it stave off the inevitable? It all gives you a headache, because nothing is guaranteed but that doesn’t mean you don’t try.

Jimin goes to Milan. Taehyung posts a selfie looking sad and beautiful on some balcony in Paris. You don’t want to be like them, doing some perpetual song and dance. Resisting an obvious thing.

Your brother answers on the second ring.

“Hello?” Groggy and confused. A voice you’ve heard a million times that still feels indistinguishable from a stranger’s.

“I can’t come to your wedding.”

A moment of silence, both literally and for your trust fund. “Uh, okay.”

“I’m sorry,” you rush out, because it feels important to say even if you don’t necessarily feel sorry. “I, uh—I am sorry, because I like your fiancée and I know this is probably a huge inconvenience considering your wedding is in a few hours, but I can’t—”

There’s some rustling. You don’t think you’ve ever talked to your brother in the middle of the night before. “It’s really fine.” He yawns. “This couldn’t wait ‘til the morning, though?”

“Not really.”

“Alright. Why do you sound like you’re about to have a panic attack?”

A lightbulb moment: he doesn’t know. “I am. You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That Mom and Dad threatened to cut me off if I didn’t show up at your wedding with a date.”

More silence. Then, slowly, the trickle of laughter. Just a quiet snort at first, and you’re a little confused, wonder if you should be laughing too, if he’s laughing at you, and then it compounds until he’s nearly in hysterics. “Oh my god.” He’s almost shrieking. “Holy shit. That’s why you brought that guy to dinner, isn’t it? The one they hated?” It’s the first time you’ve heard him sound like this.

“Yeah.”

“That’s fucking hilarious. Fair play.” You wonder why you’ve spent two-plus decades hating this man on the other end of the line. “Okay, then. Why can’t you make it?”

You talk until you’re hoarse: about the competition, the fake relationship that hasn’t been all that fake for weeks, about the trust fund and growing up under the weight of your family’s money and expectations and always coming in third behind societal ass-kissing and your brother. You’re not looking for an apology but you get one anyway. A heart-to-heart in a moment that’s not entirely built for one, because the sun is coming up and your brother is still getting married in a few hours even if you won’t be there to witness it.

“All right, I really gotta go, but listen: I’ll talk to them, okay? And I’m rooting for you. Maybe in a few weeks you and Seokjin can come over for dinner, if it all works out.”

“Yeah, sure.” You agree readily, and it’s nice to have someone that shares your name in your corner. “I’ll make sure he behaves.” Your smile drops, chest cracked in half. “If it works out.”

Your brother says goodnight and wishes you well. Hangs up, and the silence is deafening and consolatory. You think about the Sartre quote again: Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you.

Whatever happens, you think you’ll do just fine when it’s on your own terms.

Perhaps naively, you expected the day of your brother’s wedding—and subsequently Seokjin’s competition—to be gloomy. Of course, the weather is perfect. Mid-70s, light breeze, cloudless blue sky. When you’re wounded everything feels like an attack, so maybe before it would’ve felt like the universe was mocking you, saying look how beautiful and intact the world is when you’re falling apart, but you see something else.

You’d done a lot of thinking. Soul-searching and introspection and all those uncomfortable, vulnerable things you and Seokjin had talked about before, and you’ve made it to the other side, so a cloudless blue sky on a beautiful afternoon doesn’t feel like an attack. What you see is clarity being reflected back at you.

But it still takes a lot of courage. Instead of putting on a stunning, designer dress and painting on a smile to pacify your family and anyone else important enough to be granted entry, you’re pulling on normal clothes and normal shoes. It doesn’t matter if your hair and makeup are done. Everything feels wrong for a moment, like you’re forgetting something important, and you suppose that’s normal. This is arguably the biggest and most consequential decision you’ve made thus far in your life. No wonder you’re out of sorts.

Normally, this is where you’d compartmentalize. Tuck all that discomfort away for later: a problem for Future You. But that had been your go-to for years, and it did nothing but turn you into an emotionally constipated mess, so you’re done with that—trying to be done with that. Which is fine, because you don’t have a plan, not really, but sometimes it’s enough to simply show up, so that’s what you’re going to do.

Rejection is likely. You’re smart enough to know that, and you’re mature enough to accept it, if it comes down to it. But you don’t want Seokjin to feel rejected. Not again. That’s more important. So you’re going to show up, heart on your sleeve, and if he rejects you, fine, but you’re going to be there. And you’re going to cheer when he wins, even if your voice is drowned out.

Another packed event. It helps to feel anonymous when your sympathetic nervous system is working overtime like this. You’re trembling by the time you find a spot—a little out of the way, no room left on the bleachers. Seokjin probably won’t see you here, wouldn’t think to look, and it’s okay. You’re here for him but you’re here for yourself, too. Just to prove you can. Just to prove that you’re still human.

It all goes by in a blur. The skaters you don’t recognize, some you do. Scores that are both meaningful and meaningless until they aren’t. Seokjin’s name gets called and your stomach drops, but it’s okay. You see Namjoon, Yoongi, and Jeongguk, all nervous energy and bit fingernails and cautious smiles. They don’t see you, but it’s okay.

Two runs happen in a nanosecond. Seokjin holds steady in third. The guy sitting in first falls on his final run, and it’s best of three so you’re not breathing easy yet but your fingers start tingling with anticipation. The guy in second does well but nothing good enough to improve his score. Your phone’s blowing up in your pocket. Presumably your brother’s told your parents by now, and you can wait just a little longer to get cut off. What’s in front of you is more important, it is, and you know it when—

Call it divine intervention, but Seokjin looks up just as he’s about to drop into the bowl. Looks right at you, and the tingle spreads from your fingers all over. Another freeze-frame moment; the two of you are getting good at this.

He smiles. He wins.

Feels a bit like falling in love.

As always, thank you for reading! My inbox is always open if you’d like to leave feedback. I’d love to hear your thoughts! ❤

[satantica]

someone hitting on you - with haikyu boys pt.2

characters: bestfriend!atsumu, neighbor!bokuto

cw: fem!reader

bestfriend!atsumu

The party you went to with Tsumu wasn’t that bad at first. It was the Miya blonde one who left to get you drinks and had been gone for 15 minutes now. You weren’t up to the idea of going here and it was Atsumu who made you change your mind. Not feeling extremely sociable or talkative you were thinking of how lame it was to be just awkwardly standing here all alone just waiting for your bestfriend.

“Hey, wanna get a drink?” a tall brunette approached you. “So you would use it as an excuse for disappearing? No, thanks” your anger was rising. That was just perfect. Now you have to deal with a complete stranger because someone didn’t bother to remember about you.

“Woah, easy. I don’t know what a moron you should be to leave such a beautiful girl all by herself. I’m Chris by the way.” You finally noticed that Chris was even kind of cute. “Yeah, sorry about that. I went here only because of my friend he left for drinks and now he’s gone. Not even answering my texts.” You sounded more upset now than furious. It was actually pathetic.

“Well, let’s get you these drinks. I can’t let this beauty be wasted on sadness.” Chris’ smile started to fade away as you felt someone’s arm on your shoulders.

Miya was smiling charmingly and looking straight at the brunette “Who’s that fella, baby?” You wanted to answer with all the curses you’ve known but Tsumu moved his hand to your waist without any hesitation, not letting you to say anything.

“Oh, so you have a boyfriend.” Chris didn’t look very disappointed as he was acknowledging that. “Yeah, and a very handsome one as you can see.” Atsumu pulled you closer leaving you shocked with every move of his. It really was his way of ordering you to shut up.

“So tell me, handsome boyfriend, how come your cute girl was standing all alone here? Or is disappearing your love language?” Chris certainly wasn’t careful with words. You knew that Miya won’t let that go and you finally started to speak “I don’t—“. Tsumu laughed. He fucking laughed. You thought he was drunk or insane. Not really a big difference.

“Dude, I can’t really tell now if you’re flirting with me or trying to pick a fight” Tsumu was calm. Suspiciously calm. That wasn’t good. Chris was definitely accepting his call “Can you fight though? You know, I can’t hit a child.”

You thought this party couldn’t get more lame but these guys found a way. “Fuck off. Both of you. Wanna find out who’s the alpha male? Go ahead. I’m not participating in measuring your dicks. God.” You threw off Miya’s hand and stormed out.

Tsumu followed you but then suddenly took a few steps back. Atsumu slowly in a victorious manner glanced at the brunette saying “See, that’s what happens when you bother a girl way out of your league.”

neighbor!bokuto

You were returning home from practice exhausted as hell. Next to your door was a guy fixing his bike. He clearly sucked at this. The struggle on his face reminded of your own. Your bike broke down once an that would’ve kept you forever to fix if it wasn’t for Bokuto.

«Hey, you need a hand with that?” you couldn’t smile cause of all tiredness but tried to say it in the friendliest way possible.

“Hi! Yeah, sorry to bother. I just tried to make it work but the things just got worse somehow.” You smirked a bit “Tell me about it.”

After a little while you were all done. “See, that wasn’t so hard.” You pointed at the wheel all fixed up. “I think it’s just your magic power. How can I thank you?” the guy was looking with a strange hope in the eyes. “That’s okay. You don’t owe me anything.”

You turned to your house and heard “Can I ask you of one more thing?” You turned back to the guy. “I can’t not thank you. Maybe you would like to join me for diner?” The man was waiting for the answer. You were at your most polite “I’m sorry I’m not really into romantic things right now.”

You heard a bike riding your way as the guy was saying “Can I get your number then?” You looked in the direction of the coming bike with the familiar figure. “I don’t really think that’s a good idea.” As you ended the sentence bike drifted right between you and the guy leaving the black track of tires.

Bokuto took off his helmet and smiled at you in the happiest way. “Hey, Yn!! Did you see what I just did??!” Koutarou has always liked to hear words of admiration or approval from you. But this time was just perfect. “Yes, Kou. Will you teach me that move?” The guy was still standing behind Bokuto and apparently felt left out. “So, you two are like together?”

Koutarou frowned and turned his way. “Who are you?” You rushed to answer his question “This is just a guy I helped with his bike.” Bokuto looked at the guy again “Uhm.” Koutarou quickly smiled and turned the head your way “So is your mom still waiting me for the diner? Cause I’m veeeryyyy hungry and I missed your clean room a lot.”

The guy finally took a hint “Looks like I’d better go.” You and Bokuto watched him riding away when Koutarou said “Sooo, what’s his deal?” You glanced at Bo and tried to decide if you should answer in the tricky way or in the normal one “He wanted to get my number.”

Koutarou was surprised, then confused and then finally got it “Sorry, shortie, it took so long. If I knew I would’ve run him over.” You laughed at the unexpected statement “Okay-okay, biker, easy.” Bokuto looked a bit offended “I can’t give you to some loser who can’t fix his own bike. And I bet he would’ve stolen your mom who makes the best turkey in the world if he had a chance. Soo, are we going or not?? I. am. hungry.”

[shubblelive]

— MONDAY MORNING

summary : you'd always craved the idea of someone knowing and loving you completely. fortunately for you it seems like that person sits three rows ahead of you.

genre : fluff

warnings : reader's friends suck, also i self projected here shh you didn't see it

pairing : wilbur soot x reader, non-streamer, musician!wilbur uni au

pronouns : none (you yours)

featuring : uni student!musician!wilbur soot

word count : 1.5k

note : finished my first term of college so i thought i'd put something out. not super duper proud of this, but it's something. so here you go!! enjoy <3

you absolutely despised study groups. you weren’t a massive fan of studying, of course, but doing it in groups was the bane of your existence. if you were studying, you preferred to do it in the library. there were specific sections, marked with signs; a person talking in a big red circle with a line through it. headphones on, laptop open with your pathetic amount of coloured pens. 

however, every monday morning before your 11 am lecture you found yourself in the student commons, spiral notebook on your lap, trying desperately to take notes and your friend would not shut up. she was going on about some girl she’d met at the bar the night before and you couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

“are you listening to me?” you weren’t, but she didn’t need to know that. you nodded, not looking up from your notes, and she apparently didn’t care enough to press, continuing on as if you weren’t even there. you had been friends with her since high school, and she’d introduced you to another two people you shared a class with. you weren’t particularly close with any of them, but they were the only people you knew. 

if you weren’t studying, you were working uptown at marcel’s, the swankiest bar that would hire a uni student. it was classes, then waiting on finance men who weren’t rich enough to afford the good stuff. after that was a two hour bus ride home, then taking care of your mum before more schoolwork, and then collapsing into bed at one in the morning, only to wake up for more classes. your day punctuated with your tedious friends. 

the timer on your phone went off, and you sighed. “i better go. have to talk to professor marks about the homework,”

they waved you off, barely even noticing your impending absence. you deflated a bit, but by the time you were out in the sun you felt a bit better. you’d been feeling somehow trapped and also invisible for the first twenty-odd years of your life. no one had ever seen you before, not like it didn’t in the movies. you’d been a comfortable level of lonely your entire life, and that didn’t change just because you now had a group of uni friends who shared the same ambitions as you. 

but being out in the quad, with the breeze flowing through the grass, made you optimistic. there was two boys at a wooden picnic table, textbooks spread between them as they exchanged soft smiles and jokes about what they were working on. there was a group of people relaxing on the grass. a girl with headphones gazing at the clouds. a campus full of people just waiting to be befriended, and yet there you were. three years in, and still with the same group of people you didn’t click with. 

you reached the building your next lecture was in, another twenty minutes until class started. the door was unlocked though, and you slipped inside quietly. professor marks was your favourite teacher, but she also wasn’t alone. 

your class had about fifty students in it, so you didn’t know him by name, but you had seen the guy she was talking to. he sat in the middle of the room, answered enough questions to get the 5% participation grade but not enough that he got taken note of. 

if someone had asked if you knew him, the best way to refer to him would be “the tall one.”

professor marks saw you and gave a chaste smile, turning back to your classmate to let him finish speaking. they talked for a few minutes, both nodding, before he stepped back politely to let you have your opening. however, before you got a chance to talk to her, her phone rang. “ugh,” she groaned, giving you a sympathetic look. “one second, so sorry.”

so you stayed there with what’s-his-name as your teacher stepped out of the room to take her phone call. you went to pull out your phone but got distracted by your classmate saying your name. you looked up at him, he gave you a sheepish smile. “sorry. that is your name, right? i didn’t get it wrong? that’d be embarrassing.”

you just nodded, hoping he would introduce himself. “i’m wilbur.” oh, how your prayers were answered for once. “i’ve seen you around. you’re in my geography class, aren’t you?”

god, you were embarrassing. you had noticed him in this class but not the other one. you nodded. “yeah, sorry. you’re wilbur. of course i know you. you’re in that band, right? they play in the quad sometimes?”

you were hoping it was the same wilbur. you remember thinking it was a weird name when you saw it on the poster. him and a few other names you didn’t recognise. surely there were not two people named wilbur in the one university, not with how old fashioned it was. 

the relief was palpable when he nodded. “yeah! you’ve seen us play?”

“you guys are really good,” you weren’t lying this time. “you played cyberbully mom club.” wilbur’s eyes lit up. “i love them. you did a really good job. what are you doing taking geography courses when you can sing like that?”

he laughed, bring a hand up to the front of his face, fluffing his hair nervously. “someone of great taste i see. what about you? i saw one of your paintings in the exhibition in the hall. why aren’t you getting an art degree?”

you flushed, looking down. none of your friends even knew you painted, and yet there was wilbur. 6’6” wilbur with his los campesinos jumper and his scuffed doc martens, quietly loving your favourite bands and your art. “guess this just seemed right?”

“i get that. i’m a big believer of fate,” you looked back up towards him, his warm brown eyes already looking at yours behind his round glasses. people had started filtering in, and your friends were gesturing at you impatiently to come sit up the back with them. “you should go, your friends want you.”

“i don’t want them.”

you were sitting down on the end of the row before you even realised what you’d said. wilbur just laughed, taking his usual seat, eyes shining. you sat through the next ninety minutes, looking at the back of wilbur’s head. 

“now, i’m going to let you guys pick groups for this project. three people, though. no groups of four. don’t even ask. i’ll give you the last fifteen minutes to work that out.” 

great. a group of three. you didn’t even need to turn to your friends before they were muttering sorries, and you were stuck looking around the room for other people in your same predicament. you didn’t have to look for long, making eye contact with wilbur almost immediately. he waved you down and you hesitantly made your way down to his row. 

“wanna work together?” his smile was so bright that you couldn’t even think of turning him down. he was charming, he liked the same things as you. but more than that, he saw you. he saw you better than your friends over the last three plus years did. 

“i’d like nothing more, will.” you replied, and wilbur grinned. “you sure, though? you probably have other friends in this class.”

“i do,” he admitted. “however, i want to get to know you better, and i was hoping this might give me an excuse to ask you out. or, if that’s not something you’re interested in, then you are also more than welcome to join me and a few of my friends in the courtyard after class, purely platonic.”

his words were quick, but you understood every syllable. you didn’t have time to meet after class, you had a rare hour off after your last class before you needed to grab the bus to marcel’s. “i would love to, but i have work every day this week, and next week. and every week, and the bus is hours long. i’m sorry.”

wilbur nodded. “if this is your way of letting me down gently, i totally understand that. uh, but-”

“no,” you said quickly. “it is. i work seven days a week, it’s not you,” he didn’t seem convinced, still convinced you were trying to be polite. he didn’t want you to lie to him if you truly weren’t interested. you’d had one conversation, but he felt giddy when you made eye contact with him. it was dumb, probably, but he really wanted to know you better. he didn’t want to press you. you could see that, so you tried again. “however, i think my schedule’s just become more open.” you glanced upwards at where your friends were sitting a few rows back. “i’m free monday morning?”

wilbur’s face lit up, still hesitant. “you sure? because if you’re not interested then it’s fine, really. i won’t give you a hard time about it. promise. you can still meet my friends, if you’d like. or if you want to we can pretend that the other person doesn’t exist.”

“no.” you said decidedly. “i’m free monday morning, and i would love if we could meet somewhere?”

he smiled at you. “i can’t wait.” you’d never looked forward to homework so much, and from the bright look on wilbur’s face, he hadn’t either. 

[dailydegurechaff]

Honestly, Zettour, Rudersdorf, Ugar, and Lergan all trying to co-parent Tanya is good culture.

Zettour is the indulgent one that's far too much like her for the other comfort.

Rudersdorf is the dotting one enabling Tanya and Zettour.

Ugar is the one that spoils her rotten with gifts and tries to invite her to his family's dinners.

And Lergan is the token responsible one whose attempts at discipline are sabotaged at every turn.

In my eyes, every character in the Imperial Army is just one massive found family dynamic. No you cannot change my mind.

I thought just a bit too hard about all of their differences in trying to take care of Tanya, and suddenly instead of drawing, something else came out. Oops. This isn't edited very strongly, very sorry.

Through the walls, I can hear the sound of voices arguing. It’s getting late, and I really would prefer to be sleeping right now, but here I am listening to the unpleasant sound of annoying old men. This sucks.

“I’m just saying, with the way you act sometimes, I find it hard to believe you have her best interests in mind!”

“Oh would you relax, Lergen? You really need to take that stick out of your ass, I’m only letting her have a little fun.”

It seems that tonight’s two combatants are Colonel Lergen and General Zettour. I sincerely hope it stays between just them, but I get the feeling my hopes are going to be for naught.

“A little fun? You’ve been letting her have unimpeded access to your wine cellar! It’s completely irresponsible—”

“Tanya knows how to moderate herself.”

“Does she now? She’s still just a kid, you know!”

“Well, even if she doesn’t, she’ll only make the mistake once after giving herself a horrible hangover.”

“Have you considered you may end up making her an alcoholic?”

Ugh. I’m not sure why they’re arguing in just the next room over like this. It’s not their intention I don’t understand, I’m pretty sure I get that part. I think they might expect Tanya to feel bad if she overhears them fighting over her, so they’re trying to shelter her from it. It’s a nice thought, even if doesn’t technically matter because I don’t actually care. No, the confusion I have is stemming from their choice of location. Do they know how thin these walls are? I don’t think they do because I can hear just about every word perfectly fine.

“Oh, don’t think you’re completely off the hook, Rudersdorf! While we’re on the subject of things we shouldn’t be allowing Tanya to do, you need to stop bringing her to live fire exercises and weapons tests.” Oh, it sounds like Lergen’s moved onto the next target to harangue.

Rudersdorf is quick to clap back and argue his defense, “What? Why? Do you really someone like her could possibly get hurt watching a few little tests?”

“Yes, actually! Because the second Tanya walks onto the grounds, everyone is clamoring for the famed ‘White Silver’ to participate!”

“That only happened once!”

“Once that you told me! I have it on good authority you keep doing it!”

“Tanya herself said she loves flying!”

“Yes, well, she doesn’t like nearly getting blown up by experimental weaponry!”

“Who told you about that?”

I’m wondering about that myself. Lergen honestly has the tendency to be a bit of a mother hen, so I’d avoided telling him about it. Really, it was also for his benefit as well as mine, the poor guy gets terribly sick when he’s anxious. I thought I was being merciful when I decided to tell only Zettour that I’d recently flown for Elenium Arms again.

Ah, wait a second. Zettour. He’s been suspiciously silent now, hasn’t he? He hasn’t said anything in a while, so he’s probably just listening to Lergen and Rudersdorf argue. Considering he was just getting reamed out for the whole ‘letting Tanya have wine’ thing, he’s probably enjoying the fact that Lergen’s anger isn’t directed at him anymore. I wonder if it was him…

“Oh, Zettour, you bastard!”

Ah, it seems that Rudersdorf caught on to the same realization I did. Now the two generals are going to argue. What a joy. Lergen at least has the decency to keep his volume at normal conversational levels, even if his tone gets rather accusatory. The generals do not have that decency, so this is going to devolve into a shouting match. I really do not want to, but I’m going to have to go out there and tell them to shut up, aren’t I?

Uger, the only person speaking at a low volume and therefore the only person who I can’t hear well, says something unintelligible. Following that, I just barely hear Lergen’s sigh and the resigned words, “Alright, go ahead…”

In the next few seconds, I hear footsteps and then my door opens. Colonel Uger appears in the doorway.

“Tanya… are you still awake?”

“Yes, sir. Did you need something?”

There’s a loud noise, like someone just slammed a table with their fist, and Uger hurries to step inside the room and shut the door behind him. It does very little to mute the din of the argument.

There is a beat of silence as we both listen. Uger looks like he’s cringing.

“It’s uh… Have you been able to hear this whole time…?”

“Yes, I have.”

“L-Listen, Tanya… you should know that this isn’t your fault. They love you, and want the best for you. It’s only because they care so much that they disagree—”

Knowing where this conversation is headed, I cut off the incoming lecture he’s about to give me, “It’s fine. I know they’re only arguing out of love for me.” A bold-faced lie came out of Tanya’s mouth just now. It’s not something I believe at all, but I also know saying that will end this conversation as quickly as possible.

“Right… so long as you understand—”

“Oh, shut the hell up! What would you know about parenting?!” Uger’s kind words are unfortunately interrupted by one of the Generals yelling.

There is another awkward pause.

After a second, it seems like Uger has come up with a resolution, “Uh… You know, Tanya, my daughter has been wanting to see you again. Did you want to have a sleepover with her tonight?”

Yeah, I’ll take hanging out with a toddler over listening to this go on for who knows how long. You know it speaks to the maturity level of those old men that a little girl is more well-behaved than them.

Mind made up, I give him my assent, “Yes, sir, I think that’d be pleasant.”

“Alright, I’ll give you a second to get your things together while I go talk to them about the new plans.” With that Uger leaves the room, a stormy expression on his face.

Ahh, now they’ve done it. You know it’s bad when even kindhearted Colonel Uger gets irritated. It’s because he’s so compassionate that it’s always the worst getting reprimanded by him. If you can manage to piss him off, it generally means you deserve what’s coming.

I hope he doesn’t take too long guilt-tripping them, I really would like to go to bed soon.

[hd-wireless]

📻🎶 H/D WIRELESS 2023 - Anon Masterlist

It’s time for the list! And for some numbers!

This year’s Wireless has (as always) some impressive numbers for you. Everyone, the Wireless 2023 stats:

41 days of posting

60 works

7 artworks

5 art and fic combos

43 fics

5 podfics

And a total of 839,620 words!

We mods can’t thank each and everyone of you enough! Without every single one of our participants and readers this fest wouldn’t be possible. Thank you for being here and showing support to the amazingly talented people we had participating this year.

You have a week until we reveal the names of all our amazing creators, and what better way to spend it than catching up with the works you might have missed and playing our fun guessing game! Free bragging rights for every correct guess! And this coveted trophy emoji for the winner 🏆

Have another listen to our prompted songs for the works we post before the reveals happen in a week:   Click here for Spotify (many thanks to @evaeleanor for helping us out there) ❤️ And here for the YouTube playlist.

Please enjoy this year’s entries below the cut:

🎶 H/D Wireless Art 🎶

📻   Why don't you like me? [T, digital comic]

����Song Prompt: Grace Kelly by MIKA 🎵Summary Failing to ask Harry out, Draco deals with his feelings in a very dramatic fashion.

📻 Alive [E, Digital comic]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Alive' by 'Sia' 🎵 Summary Harry is lost after the final battle, but he finds comfort from an unexpected source.

📻 Not Your Property [G, Digital Art]

🎵 Song Prompt: ‘Rich Friends’ by Portugal The Man 🎵 Summary: Harry rubs elbows with rich Slytherins and finds himself falling for one Draco Malfoy

📻 Your Heart's a Mess [G, Pencil & Copic markers]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Hearts A Mess' by 'Gotye' 🎵 Summary: Hogwarts eighth year. Malfoy, visibly scarred (from Sectumsempra? from the war? from his treatment by the Ministry?) and visibly heavy-hearted (from regret? from his father's imprisonment? from how the other students torment him?) has driven Harry to distraction. It's 6th year all over again: he was rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy. How he wishes the feeling was mutual.

📻 anywhere with you [Gen, Digital Art]

🎵 Song Prompt: Anywhere With You by Maggie Rogers 🎵 Summary: I'll go anywhere, anywhere with you.

📻 Shivers and Cold Champagne [T, Digital Art]

🎵 Song Prompt: Padam Padam by Kylie Minogue 🎵 Summary: "Padam, padam, I hear it and I know..." Sometimes, you meet someone in the club, and you just know... ...they’re all in.

📻 keep driving [M, Digital Art]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'keep driving' by harry styles 🎵 Summary: cocaine, side boob, choke her with a sea view

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic and Art 🎶

📻  Before the Cold Sets In [T, 9,154, origami art]

🎵 Song Prompt: Cold Tea Blues, by Cowboy Junkies 🎵 Summary But if I measure the sugar To satisfy your expectant tongue Then that is love Sitting untouched and growing cold - Cold Tea Blues, by Cowboy Junkies Sometimes, the person you should be planning your life with is already in it. Or, how Harry realised that true love is at the bottom of a tea cup.

📻 I only want the ones I envy (I envy) [E, 13,333, digital art]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'MONTERO (Call Me By Your Name)' by 'Lil Nas X' 🎵Summary: “Surely there’s someone in our circle who’s not a Saviour-Chaser. Someone single, clever, talented, sexy, and extremely, unapologetically gay.” Harry knows what’s about to happen before Ron’s even done speaking. And he wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. But he can’t, not without outing himself, and in more ways than one. So tomorrow, he’ll do what he always does when he needs a distraction: he’ll corner Draco Malfoy at work, where Malfoy will suck his cock until Harry screams his name. Despite this arrangement he has with Draco, conducted entirely in the privacy of a dusty stationery cabinet, Harry is definitely not gay. But to appease his friends, he agrees to go on one (1) date with a man. Just to be sure.

📻 Waking Up Slow [E, 21,886, Digital Art]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'The Christmas Song' by 'The Raveonettes' 🎵 Summary: 'Twas the night before Christmas, although it’s July, Draco’s a shopkeeper, no-one knows why, There’s hiking and witch caves, freak snowfalls and more, Bad Christmas jumpers, nosy neighbours galore, Narcissa’s here too, but… something’s amiss, And what’s in those chocolates that’s making them kiss?

📻 Sun Thief [E, 28,228]

🎵 Song Prompt: ‘Anti-Hero’ by ‘Taylor Swift’ 🎵 Summary: “You’re stunning,” Harry blurts out, because Draco is pink-cheeked and his mouth is bitten and plump. Gasping beneath Harry, working his cock in his fist. “Say my name when you come?” It’s 2005, and Draco Malfoy says, “Fuck the Ministry,” Harry works as a handyman in muggle London, and Draco should really stop pissing off the Squib gangs. Or: Harry beats up a pimp and isn’t sorry about it, Draco deals black market potions, and they’re shagging. Again.

📻 The Waiting  [E, 43,494, Digital Art]  

🎵 Song Prompt: 'this tornado loves you' by 'neko case' 🎵 Summary: It’s been almost ten years since Draco Malfoy disappeared during a routine Curse Breaker training exercise. Harry, his partner in more ways than one, is determined to figure out why. As the past resurfaces and the present fades into confusion, Harry discovers the only thing more unreliable than memory is love.

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic 🎶

📻 Everybody Hates a Tourist [E, 51,500]

🎵 Song Prompt: Common People by Pulp 🎵 Summary On a stag do in sunny Brighton with the Gryffindor lads, the last person Harry expects to run into is Draco Malfoy. After a glimpse of Malfoy’s Muggle life in Britain’s gay capital, Harry’s curiosity gets the better of him and he finds himself returning to the seaside again and again, drawn to the city, drawn to this new version of Malfoy that Harry barely recognises from school. Meanwhile, Draco’s just trying to live his big and best queer life: working for the weekend, chasing hot men, getting lost in Brighton's nightlife, and making friends with the neighbourhood cats. Why does his former school rival and crush have to show up and spoil everything?

📻 Take You Home [E, 26,333]

🎵 Song Prompt: Fuck the Pain Away by Peaches and Take You Home by Dido 🎵 Summary Everybody’s a little fucked up after the war, Draco especially. What starts as hate sex after a night out, eventually turns into something else, something more like comfort. And even though his friends all tell Harry he’s just being used, all Harry’s doing is making sure Draco gets home in one piece. He’s not falling helplessly in love.

📻 love is just a shout in the void [M, 4,489]

🎵 Song Prompt: i'm in love with u, sorry by j'san 🎵 Summary Draco accidentally texts Potter his biggest secret and he’s pretty sure the Chosen Prat isn’t ready to hear anything close to it. So he pretends he didn’t mean to. But the problem is: Potter is still as infuriating as ever, if not more than he was before.

📻 The Two Of Us In Sympathy [M, 5,782]

🎵 Song Prompt: Rent by Pet Shop Boys. 🎵 Summary Draco Malfoy is a sex worker. Harry Potter is the client who falls in love with him.

📻 Vipera Berus [M, 20,614]

🎵 Song Prompt: Just Pretend by Bad Omens 🎵 Summary Everything was fine. Draco resided at the Manor, made a decent living selling potions and most of his customers actually kept coming back despite his last name. Hence, Draco was fine. He really was. And so what, if he was still waiting.

📻 Don’t hate him when he gets up to leave [M, 2,226]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Two-Headed Boy' by 'Neutral Milk Hotel' 🎵 Summary The linens are white and empty, sunlight slanting through the window illuminating a bed that has been deserted. Draco knew Potter would leave; he’s always gone by morning. Draco doesn’t even remember what he looks like in daylight.

📻 (you) find me when the lights go down [T, 1,839]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'save me from the monster in my head' by 'Welshly Arms' 🎵 Summary Harry can hear footsteps on the stairs behind him but doesn't bother turning to look. There's only one person likely to follow him out here at this time of night. "Potter," comes the crisp voice, easily recognisable as Draco. "You do know that most sane people, especially those who spend every waking moment complaining of being cold, would cast a warming charm. Or at the very least grab a sweater. Not spend every night attempting to turn into an icicle." - What makes someone a ghost? Because if it's dying, Harry's got that covered.

📻 If You Took the Time to Try [T, 18,169]

🎵 Song Prompt: "Go Like" by Fox Stevenson 🎵 Summary Last summer, Draco's impulsive decision to sleep with Harry Potter resulted in a bruised ego and a broken heart. Now he's looking for a fresh start- something that was absolutely not just an excuse for him to run away from his problems. Only it totally was, and while leaving London might have been easy, leaving Potter in the past was not.

📻 Title & Possession [E, 49,063]

🎵 Song Prompt: Misery Loves Company - Asking Alexandria 🎵 Summary Harry Potter’s life is going well in the aftermath of the war. Sure, his house is dark and run-down and might hate him (while his house elf definitely hates him). But other than that, things are good. Except, yeah, okay, Hermione and Ron are no longer on speaking terms. Worse, they keep trying to get Harry to pick sides. But otherwise, Harry couldn’t be happier. Well. Except for the fact that Ginny is being super weird about their relationship and never wants to have sex or talk about the future. But other than that, Harry is perfectly fine, thankyouverymuch. At least, he is until Draco Malfoy threatens to sue him for ownership of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, and winds up moving in until the issue is settled. Then Harry really isn’t fine at all.

📻 Shut Up, This Is Love [M, 33,230]

🎵 Song Prompt: The Chain by Fleetwood Mac 🎵 Summary: A soulmark is never wrong, Draco tells him — as if Harry cares what this damn chain on his arm says. But Harry is nothing if not stubborn, and he’d rather die than let a stupid mark determine whom he can and cannot have.

📻 About This Place [E, 10,317]

🎵 Song Prompt: You and I by Lady Gaga 🎵 Summary: Harry left everything, including Draco. Harry’s returned to everything, including Draco. Things are never quite so simple, though perhaps they could be.

📻 Mirrors inside me [E, 6,423]

🎵 Song Prompt: "Love Language" by SZA 🎵 Summary: Draco’s been in love with Potter forever. And just because they work together, and they fuck, and they text and break up and get back together regularly doesn’t mean Potter needs to know. In fact, it’s a pretty good reason why he shouldn’t.

📻 A Little Bit of You [E, 2,781]

🎵 Song Prompt: Mambo No 5 by Lou Bega 🎵 Summary: When Harry's constant flirting lands him frequent front page slots in the Daily Prophet, Draco resigns himself to never being loved like that by the man he is head over heels with. Turns out, he was right. But that's not necessarily a bad thing.

📻 All the Colors in the World [M, 11,143]

🎵 Song Prompt: Cinnamon Girl by Lana Del Rey 🎵 Summary: Five years into their relationship, Draco is beginning to wonder if his motivations and methods to save Harry are as pure as he’d thought. Everything seems to be going well for them on the surface, with the mostly Muggle life they’ve built together, but beneath roils a sea of half-formed dreams and secrets that threaten to engulf them both. Until, one day in summertime, Harry surprises him.

📻  if i could never give you peace [E, 17,496]

🎵 Song Prompt: peace by Taylor Swift 🎵 Summary: Eleven years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Aurors Harry and Draco are forcibly brought together by a new case that's bound to reopen old wounds. Enter a Firewhisky problem, prejudices that never really go away, and an obsession as old as time.

📻 Burst of Love [E, 3,805]

🎵 Song Prompt: Jealous by Nick Jonas 🎵 Summary: The year after the War is both the worst and best one in Harry and Draco's lives. Draco somehow becomes one of the most requested influencer on Instagram, Harry is finally free and discovers he has quite...a passion inside himself. We all know how this is going to end.

📻 Rich Friend [E,  1,130]

🎵 Song Prompt: Rich Friends by Portugal. The Man 🎵 Summary: As far as Harry can tell, Draco Malfoy is still rich as hell. He’s just not a wizard anymore. Featuring: Draco Malfoy trying to make it as a Muggle pop star, Harry Potter as our confused and horny hero, bad driving, good music, and the mysterious magic of falling for someone.

📻 Seven Days, Seven Memories [E, 25,668]

🎵 Song Prompt: Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want by The Smiths 🎵 Summary: In a universe somewhere, deep down in the Department of Mysteries, behind Door 13, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy, can be usually found. Except Malfoy is nowhere to be found when Harry goes looking for him. What he finds instead is a Pensieve and a box full of memories

📻 so scarlet it was [E, 19,932]

🎵  Song Prompt: Maroon - Taylor Swift   🎵 Summary: Draco’s back for his Eighth Year as part of his parole. He’s doing his best not to annoy any war heroes and avoid Harry Potter as if his life depends on it. Too bad Harry has other ideas.

📻 A Pureblood's Guide to Driving and Apostasy [E, 9,218]

🎵 Song Prompt: I'm On Fire by Bruce Springsteen 🎵 Summary: Draco Malfoy should be happy - he's engaged to a suitable young lady, chosen by his father, and on the way to restoring the family name. Except he isn't happy at all. That is, until Pansy (or is it fate?) brings him to a magical garage where his whole worldview is set on fire.

📻 Snitches & Sitches [T, 4,565]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Once Upon a December' by 'Liz Callaway' 🎵 Summary: After a Quidditch accident, Harry's life turns upside down when he suffers a case of retrograde amnesia. Surrounded by people and places he should remember, Harry must cope with his slow recovery, all the while feeling like there's something very familiar about the blond with gray eyes who keeps wistfully staring at him.

📻 Can't Get You Out of My Head [E, 26,343]

🎵 Song Prompt: Can't Get You Out of My Head by Kylie Minogue 🎵 Summary: Draco was quite fine with his own company, thank you very much. So, when a potions’ accident left him unable to rid his head of Harry Potter’s infernal internal monologue, Draco was less than thrilled. He was, however, an internationally educated Potioneer; he could find an antidote without having to admit to Potter the access he’d had to his thoughts…actions…personal life…personal time…right?

📻 Sod Off Potter [T, 1,787]

🎵 Song Prompt: Sod Off Potter by Rattlebones 🎵 Summary: So sod off Potter Will you say what you want? Sod off Potter Will you say what you want is me? Potter please ↳ Sod Off Potter - Rattlebones Draco regretted the decision to return to Hogwarts after the war. Why couldn't bloody Potter just leave him alone? It wouldn't be so bad if Draco hadn't been harboring a secret crush on Harry for years.

📻 Weapons of Massive Consumption [E, 38,634]

🎵 Song Prompt: The Fear by Lily Allen 🎵 Summary: Eight years after the war, Harry Potter lives a life of hedonism: raging parties, huge impulse purchases, and seemingly no worries. But it's Draco Malfoy—former Death Eater, lover of blueberry muffins, and bane of coffee shop workers—who starts to wonder if it's all a front, if something's actually terribly wrong with him. Why else would Potter ask Draco, of all fucking people, to write his biography?

📻 Bonne Foi, Draco Malfoy [E, 19,390]

🎵 Song Prompt: So Hot You're Hurting My Feelings by Squirrel Flower 🎵 Summary: Sanctimonia Vincet Semper: The Malfoy Legacy Inheritance Ritual must be undertaken by an heir pure of blood and strong of will. He will lend his body, his magic, and his mind to the Estate, and thus control the direction of the next generation of powerful Malfoy magicks. He and the Estate will both be made stronger by the ritual. -from the journals of Septimus Malfoy, 1820 At twenty-five, Draco Malfoy has to return to England to do something about the Manor, and Harry Potter won’t leave him alone. His years-old crush on Potter is reignited over repairs, mermaid lemonades, and pocket owl messages.

📻 The Wedding Shed [E, 2,057]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'I Write Sins Not Tragedies' by Panic! at the Disco 🎵 Summary: One would consider the day his best friend got married to be an occasion where he did not have to show any sort of poise. But apparently, Ronald Weasley thoroughly misjudged the entire situation.

📻 LA, Who Am I To Love You? [E, 42,525]

🎵 Song Prompt: Venice Bitch by Lana del Rey 🎵 Summary: Harry’s summer in LA is not going as expected. Pansy Parkinson keeps inviting him to parties in the Hollywood Hills and harassing him to finally go to the physical therapist, Blaise Zabini keeps slipping new strains of his company’s magical weed into Harry’s pockets in hopes of an endorsement, and Draco Malfoy keeps having sex with everyone but Harry.

📻 All I Think About [T, 4,429]

🎵 Song Prompt: Heat Waves by Glass Animals 🎵 Summary: Sometimes all it takes is one perfect late summer night in June.

📻 Put It On Your Face Boy [E, 3,380]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Daddy AF' by 'Slayyyter' 🎵 Summary: Harry watches as Draco's hips sway to the beat. He sips his muggle bourbon and imagines the noises they would make if Harry had Draco's legs draped over his shoulders. With liquid courage flowing through his veins, Harry slammed the drink down on the bar and wove his way through the crowd towards the northern star that had been calling his name for years.

📻 What We Left Behind [E, 32,815]

🎵 Song Prompt: The Day We Caught The Train by Ocean Colour Scene 🎵 Summary: Harry's recovering from an injury. Malfoy's recovering from heartbreak. Beaten down and bruised, Harry takes up Malfoy's offer to stay at his secluded seaside cottage in Dorset. It'll be good to get away from it all. It's only for a few days, and it's only so he can heal. Nothing else. Digging up past feelings will only make matters worse, and besides, Malfoy doesn't feel the same way. Does he?

📻 Nothing But You On My Mind [M, 29,404]

🎵 Song Prompt: Crazy English Summer by Faithless 🎵 Summary: Potter has been in Australia on an internship for almost a year, and Draco cannot wait for him to get back home. They'll finally have a chance to talk about their feelings for each other. What could possibly go wrong? Loads, as it turns out.

📻 Better not Touch (Don't Touch) [E, 8,945]

🎵 Song Prompt: Poison by Alice Cooper 🎵 Summary: Harry is happy with his life, running a shop in Diagon Alley and spending plenty of time with his husband. When he is cursed, his and Draco’s relationship is put to the test. Can they move forwards together even if they have to put distance between them?

📻 Stars By the Pocketful [T, 2,151]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Snow On the Beach' by Taylor Swift (feat. Lana Del Rey) 🎵 Summary: Draco arrives first, to scope out the place and pick the best bed before Potter can beat him to it.

📻 Lover, Where Do You Live? [E, 38,079]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Lover, Where Do You Live?' by 'Highasakite' 🎵 Summary: Harry Potter has been running away since the War, disappearing into his job as a freelance curse-breaker. Work is his life. Home doesn't exist. He's about to disappear again when he runs into Death Eater-turned-Healer Draco Malfoy. It's supposed to be a one-night-stand. They're not supposed to pine for each other. Harry's not supposed to sleep with Draco a second time. Or a third. Or a fourth. But when a nasty curse sends Harry back into Draco's arms, he might be forced to admit that home's been waiting for him all along…

📻 as it was [M, 6,476]

🎵 Song Prompt: As It Was by Harry Styles 🎵 Summary: 'in this world, it's just us. you know it's not the same as it was.'

📻 What is this feeling? [E, 4,734]

🎵 Song Prompt: What is this feeling? By Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth 🎵 Summary: New auror candidates are required to spend their first six months of training living in ministry dorms. While Draco requested a single dorm he finds himself sharing a room with the savior of the wizarding world. It’s loathing at first sight, or is it?

📻 the eighth sin [E, 16,834]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Seven Devils' by 'Florence and the Machine' 🎵 Summary: When Draco is sentenced to five years of house arrest, without magic, alone, the only person to visit him is Potter. But Draco’s beginning to doubt whether Potter is really there at all.

📻 Wrong in all the Right Ways [E, 3,951]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Raise Your Glass' by 'P!nk' 🎵 Summary: Draco is pretty sure that Potter is trying to kill him. Not in, like a murdery sort of way. There’s been too much atonement and forgiveness and redemption for that. Too many difficult conversations that ended, more than once, with awkward hugs. Maybe even some tears. They’re not friends obviously, but at the very least, they’ve moved past the past. (Mostly.) So no, Potter’s definitely not trying to kill him in a permanent death sort of way, but more like… In a horny sort of way.

📻 Hooked [E, 50,000]

🎵 Song Prompt: Hooked by Why Don’t We 🎵 Summary: It  took him one night, one try, to be hooked to his enemy. Every single  place, every single fight, drove him mad with temptation. Malfoy’s got a  bad reputation but he can’t bring himself to walk away. He knows he  shouldn’t touch but he can’t get enough of him.

📻 Designate / your love as fate [E, 16,609]  

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Need You Tonight' by 'INXS' 🎵 Summary: Malfoy  literally snaps his fingers toward Harry’s face. “Potter. Pay  attention. Gay marriage is now legal in England and Wales, as of last  night, first ceremonies to take place in the New Year. I’m gay, you’re  gay—” “—Bi, actually, thanks,” Harry puts in. “Well, I mean, so  am I, technically, but—” (Harry can’t lie, it’s rather fun to watch  Malfoy lose his cool, put his cool back on, lose it again) “—Funny  enough, bisexual marriage is also now legal in England and Wales. Let’s  get bisexual married, hm?”

📻 All These Little Things [M, 1,795]  

🎵 Song Prompt: Little Things by One Direction 🎵 Summary: Harry loves Draco, and all his little things as well.

📻 If You Were Gay [Gen, 9,645]

🎵 Song Prompt: If You Were Gay - Avenue Q soundtrack 🎵 Summary: Draco was sure he wasn't gay. His friends disagreed. As  if Draco would let the nonsense his friends kept saying move him. Or  the fact that Harry Potter was gay and apparently wanted to ask Draco  out.

📻 The Boys of Summer [E, 19,518]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'The Boys of Summer' by Don Henley 🎵 Summary: It's  summer, and they're spending it at a lake, far away from everything.  There’s swimming and a floating dock, cracked and warm in the sun. Fizzy  drinks and fireflies. Sticky strawberry ice lollies and beach towels  tangled under them. Harry’s golden skin and love of The Grateful Dead and Fleetwood Mac. Draco Malfoy is doomed, but what else is new?

🎶 H/D Wireless Podfic 🎶

📻 Inside These Walls [podfic] [M, 33 minutes]

🖋️ Original author: Jackvbriefs 🎵 Song Prompt: Black Sheep by Metric 🎵 Summary The year before Draco moves to Los Angeles, Harry Potter disappears. Draco doesn't mean to find him. He's just doing his job.

📻 Moldova's Magical Tea by aibidil - a Podfic [E, 2:46:12]

🖋️ Original author: aibidil   🎵 Song Prompt:   Clint Eastwood by Gorrillaz 🎵 Summary Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, and—to everyone’s surprise—Draco Malfoy are opening a magical tea shop to revive wizarding tea culture and, hopefully, to bring the community together after the war. Harry, who is unemployed and trying to find his way in post-war society, wants to help his friends with their new business—but that means spending a lot of time around Malfoy. Featuring Muggle music from summer 2001, trips to the Muggle cinema, herbology and magical herbal infusions, and Draco trying to convince Harry that, while he’s still a snarky git, he’s no longer a bigot.

📻 [Podfic] I dream of you, to wake by harryromper [T, 01:26:02]

🖋️ Original author: harryromper 🎵 Song Prompt: 'Once Upon A Dream - Maleficent' by Lana Del Rey 🎵 Summary: “Typically coma patients are made comfortable and left to regain consciousness in their own time," Draco points out carefully. “Typically, yes. But when has anything about Harry been typical.” Hermione sighs, rubbing at her eye with the heel of her hand. “The Healer-in-Charge has consulted with experts at all the major wizarding hospitals. They all agree. Whatever’s happening inside of Harry’s head right now is killing him.” Draco Malfoy is a world-renowned dream-walker, and he may be Harry Potter’s only hope.

📻 [Podfic] You Are Not Alone [T, 1:49:56]

🖋️ Original author: Juh_Nunes   🎵 Song Prompt: Sorry - Halsey 🎵 Summary: Orginal Summary: Draco dreaded going back to Hogwarts after the war. He was sure this would be his worst year yet: the school hated him, the Slytherins have abandoned him, and his dorm was overrun with Gyffindors. There was no way anything good could come out of this mess, right?

📻 [Podfic] remember me [T, 2:50:44]

🖋️ Original author: hupsoonheng 🎵 Song Prompt: Remember Me from Coco 🎵 Summary: On a chilly day in October, Draco kisses Harry goodbye before he goes on yet another dangerous, undercover mission with the Aurors. And then Harry doesn't come back. Only Draco believes that Harry isn't dead, and pours himself into finding his husband despite his friends' pleas to move on and grieve properly. What he finds at the end of that work, though, is not at all what he wanted.